stringgoblin

[stringgoblin]

Oh my god, this is amazing!

Seriously today has been a Day and this has been such a fantastic pick me up, I've been spinning it in my head all day waiting for a chance to reblog. The them! The teeth and the eyes and all the little details - the Braille on the nameplate! I'm so taken with your Tony, especially next to John: that sure is an annoying little squirt of a bartender and the Wall Of Man who was hired to keep an eye on him and ah damn he's gotten fond of the kid hasn't he.

Arthur might at some point have a minor crisis when he realises that technically both he and John('s body) are old enough to have been Tony's dad.

Also, it continues to be the absolute best thing to hear when people enjoy the approach I took to Arthur's disabilities in this thing. A lot of thought went into it and it means so much to know that it paid off.

Thank you so, so much!

[ID in ALT.]

All that is mine to me, all that is yours to you.

i read the greatest "john gets his own body" fic of all time and i have found myself physically unable to read other fics until i drew something for this one because fuuuuuuuuck. @stringgoblin your portrayal of these characters means everything to me im handing you these like an excited toddler

more sketches plus a small comic of my favorite monsterfucker awakening moment under the cut bc its wayyyy more tongue than i usually draw lol

my first sketches of these two's designs in this fic!! and then, the comic:

[ID in ALT.] I'm so fucking gay dude.

bonus other thoughts on this fic!

genuinely i was blown away by the care this fic took to portray arthur as a disabled man. the premise of this fic (a slow, unsteady recovering of the pieces of himself lost to john) could have sooo easily played into a million ableist stereotypes but at every turn i was so delighted by the presentation, from arthur's lovely knife cane to his nerve trauma to his dead arm being used as leverage in their first kiss to the omnipresence of braille in their detective work as a translation and a secret from prying eyes. this fic was phenomenal in so many ways, but that one meant the most to me. i initially started this podcast hoping to find writing from disabled folks making it their own, and this scratched that itch ive had for a whole year. genuinely lovely work.

also the rich lives built up here around landlords and friends and clients and coworkers just feels so authentic and interesting 😭i loooved seeing john connect with being human through. having a mundane job and making friends with his rowdy young coworker. that shit is so golden

and dont even get me STARTED on the ghosts man hoooly shit. read this

[stringgoblin]

sure yeah the vampire can come. Inside

[stringgoblin]

I honestly love the versatility of sire-childe relationships. Like they could literally have any dynamic. That’s my mom or dad. That’s my lover. That’s my roommate. That’s my best friend. We’re like siblings. We’re mortal enemies. That’s some guy that stops by for a beer sometimes. That’s my mentor that keeps checking in on my progress every night. They saved me. They ruined me. I hate them. I love them. I know nothing about that man. We know everything about each other. See what I mean

[stringgoblin]

Dubious Consentacles: A Compleat History

This story begins with an eminently respectable tag on AO3, the consentacles tag, a tag for consenting sex involving tentacles, which was noticed by prestidigital one sunny, innocent day.

The consentacles tag is one of beauty, canonized by erindizmo, patron saint of tentacle fanfiction (uh, sorry about what you are patron saint of, but we don’t choose the tentacles, the tentacles choose us). 

The idea of a consentacles tag was commented upon by many, and then I happened to notice that it had a sister tag: dubious consentacles. 

It was miss-ingno who pointed out that dubious consentacles had merely been rolled into the dubious consent tag, and it was erindizmo, our patron, who explained to us that tags without at least five uses cannot be canonized, but it was scifigrl47 who suggested that this means dubious consentacles could manifest through faith.

And it was knottahooker who discovered all this while on Main Street USA at Disney World. 

Which, through the divine inspiration of thedarkbunny, drove mooseman13579, aka Ishmael, first of the Chosen, to write the Mickey Mouse/Ursula epic: Poor Unfortunate Hole. 

(Technically I think Ishmael is third of the Chosen, because there were a few dubious consentacles fics on AO3 already, including one by @sigmundite, but details, details.)

It was determined that we should rescue the dubious consentacles tag and cause it to be canonized in the name of ArisTGD, who appears to have coined the term (I’m sure they’d be uh, excited if they knew). And thus the Dubious Consentacles Throwdown was created. 

Updated: the Dubious Consentacles tag has been canonized, and all shall find it good.

[stringgoblin]

starting a campaign called Put Fingers In His Bullet Wound Wednesday where every wednesday we celebrate medical accuracy by leaving the bullet in whatever fictional pookie you shot real good and Packing His Hole with gauze. by fingering that bullet wound real good. With gauze. this campaign will increase medical accuracy in fics and also make bullet wounds hornier.

[stringgoblin]

If I got turned into a slime girl and I still had bones inside the slime I would walk into heaven and stab God in the face

[stringgoblin]

I just imagined a creature that would scare you soooo bad dude

[stringgoblin]

I guess the biggest problem with tentacle porn is that it seldom has a positive message

[stringgoblin]

mutual_01 liked your post!

mutual_01_but_horny reblogged your post!

Me: a shame my beloved mutual did not reblog my post, though I am placated by the favor of this sexual stranger

[stringgoblin]

Monstrous May 2025 roundup

I made this blog after attending a monsterfucker convention (it was great) and feeling inspired enough to Be Weird And Make Stuff that I felt the need to make a dedicated space for that. And then Monstrous May happened, and I got some original writing down for the first time in uuuh about a decade? So even though I didn't get as much written as I'd hoped, that feels pretty great.

The Benefits of being a Marine Xenobiologist

Prompt: Tentacles. 2k, F/?, rated M. Leah learns some interesting new things about Verne, her research base's resident mysterious giant tentacle.

A Perfect Specimen

Prompt: Pinned Down. 1k, F/M, rated E. Sasha's moults are a lot more enjoyable with some help from Ellie and her knives.

Cyanosis

Prompt: The Vampire. 1.8k, F/F, rated M. Lady Lucinda and her companion share the burden of planning and hosting their annual midsummer ball.

There's also 1.6k of WIP for the Minotaur prompt which I didn't quite finish, because uuh I think that's about a third done so far? Oops. But that's just over 6000 words in a month, which is better than I've managed for a while! Thanks to @johannestevans for a great prompt list (and also happy belated birthday)!

[stringgoblin]

i couldn't have a guardian angel because i'd be too tempted to corrupt it at the ultimate cost to us both

[stringgoblin]

talking to people who have never even heard of anything close to monsterfucking always requires some adjusting on my part. and yeah I know I am the weird one here but in my defense, I completely forgot that most people would not fuck a mimic.

[stringgoblin]

Cyanosis

1.8k, F/F, Mature, vampirism, blood, butch/femme, switch/switch, power play

Vivian practically danced through the house, flinging curtains wide as she passed, beaming giddily at the new shafts of sunlight. She hadn't bothered taking off her hobnails and was tracking mud all over the floors, but that was fine: they needed scrubbing anyway, so of course she'd started with the gardening before tackling that job. Sure, she could have hired in more help ahead of the party, but she'd been up since dawn, doing things, and the satisfaction of the work just gave her more energy to keep going. There was a pleasant ache of exertion in her limbs and dirt smudged across her forehead where she'd wiped sweat from her brow, and it all filled her with a simple joy that made the whole world glow gold. Why let the staff have all the fun?

She opened the final window on the upper landing, letting in a flood of sunlight, breeze and birdsong, and manfully resisted the urge to burst into song herself. She'd gotten most of that out of her system out in the grounds, where nobody had to hear it. Instead she took a deep, calming breath, still grinning like a fool, opened the door to the master bedroom just the tiniest crack, and slipped inside.

This room was exempt from the airing and cleaning that was currently consuming the rest of the house, the beating of rugs and scrubbing of floors, the rearranging of furniture and rotation of art and ornament. The windows were guarded by thick velvet curtains within and heavy wooden shutters without; the rings and hinges had rusted in place. Dust hung in the fine slice of air lit by the open door. All of the furniture was dark wood, heavily carved, at least a hundred years out of fashion. All of the draperies were variations on midnight blue, cobwebs smudged across them like the smoke of distant fires.

Opposite the neutered windows stood a vast four-poster bed, curtains tightly closed. Despite being positioned so that light from the doorway couldn't possibly reach it, curtains or no, Vivian's entrance was met by a rustle of bedclothes and a weak groan from something lying within. She parted the bed-curtains to climb in, admitting just enough indirect light to see by and a negligent scattering of mud. This drew a wriggle of protest from the bed's occupant, but there was nothing she could do about it.

"Hello, lovely."

The woman in the bed was not lovely. Her face could have been described as delicate; more accurately, it was a minor imposition on a finely-featured skull. Translucent skin followed the outlines of the bone, fading out into colourless hair spread limply across the pillows. She lay on her back, arms laid out straight on top of layers of quilts, even on such a summery day. Only the slight shift of her dull, half-closed eyes betrayed any indication of life.

"Everything's well on schedule. The weather's absolutely gorgeous, I think we're going to have a perfect day for it tomorrow." Vivian stroked the woman's hair as she spoke, an absent-minded, proprietary motion. "Sorry for waking you so early this morning, but I just had to be out in it, you know?"

Something flickered in the fleshless face that Vivian took for a response. She laughed, a terrible loud, brassy sound, and reached for one of the buckles on her overalls.

"Look - the lilac's almost done, but I brought you the last of it. It's all been dead-headed, don't worry, the gardens are going to look spectacular."

She laid the spray of lilac next to one of the woman's hands; it was the same colour as her fingernails, her lips, her eyelids. Its scent filled the air, sweet and thick, too big for the space. One finger twitched towards the flowers. The bedclothes rose and fell on a slow, shuddery breath, and the corners of the mouth ticked up in an attempt at a smile. Vivian smiled back, still petting her hair.

"Now then. You know I didn't come all the way up here just to bother you. Though I do love bothering you."

A tiny flash of alarm in those tired, dull eyes. Vivian's hand drifted down through the hair and along the arms, which were shrouded in long, shapeless sleeves edged with lace.

"All this effort I go to for these parties of yours. It's thirsty work."

Fine tremors took hold of the woman's fingers as Vivian eased the sleeve up her arm, revealing an elaborate wrapping of bandages in the same worn old ivory colour as her nightdress and her skin. Her shivering made its way into the lilac at her fingertips; a couple of petals fell from the tip of the spray, where the flowers were just beginning to brown.

Vivian picked out the end of the bandage and began to slowly unwrap it, winding it neatly around her fingers as she went. Underneath lay a thick, unpleasant-looking scab, right along the vein on the inside of the wrist. The skin around it was an angry red, hot to the touch, a whole body's worth of colour and warmth concentrated into one spot.

Vivian lifted it from the bed, shushing the woman's vague attempts at protest. One hand returned to stroking her hair; the other, cupping her wrist, broke the scab away with a couple of firm swipes from a strong, calloused thumb. Fresh blood welled up immediately from the reopened wound. It was a wonder that she still had so much in her.

"So damn thirsty, my love, and you're so damn delicious."

She dipped her head to lick a slow trail up the wrist where the blood had begun to run, reached the wound itself, and latched on with a little hum of pleasure.

Shivers overtook the entire body lying in the bed; the fingers held near Vivian's face twitched like a dying spider. The flat lilac eyes rolled up under their translucent lids. Whatever muscles remained in the jaw gave up, fell slack. Vivian drank, and drank, and drank. Between the working of her mouth, her quiet noises of enjoyment, and the half-vocalised breaths of the woman beneath her, a passerby with keen ears might have mistaken the bed's occupants for any other pair of lovers.

Eventually, even the tremors and the attempts at speech faded. She was fully limp, unable to summon up a single movement. Vivian surfaced with a contented sigh, blood on her chin and the tip of her nose. She rewound the bandage, humming pleasantly, and tidied the woman's arms and hair neatly back into place. As she resettled her head in the centre of the pillow, the lightest of creases managed to form between the barely-visible eyebrows.

Vivian smoothed it out with her thumb, leaving a smudge of blood.

"Now don't be like that, sweetheart. You know I'll give it back by the time you need it."

There was no particular sign that she had heard, or was in any state to hear anything. Vivian planted a kiss on her forehead, and licked it clean of blood. After a moment's contemplation, she tucked the spray of lilac into the neckline of the nightdress.

"Pretty as a picture. Love you, Lucy. I'll see you later."

Vivian closed the bed curtains and the bedroom door behind her and strolled back down the corridor, whistling an idle tune with thumbs hooked into her pockets, heedless of the blood on her face. It gleamed in the sunlight, like the lively sparkle in her eyes, like the ruddy, healthy glow of her skin and the curls of her coppery hair.

Lady Lucinda Willoughby's midsummer ball was one of the highlights of the season. Anyone who claimed to be anyone simply had to make an appearance, and year after year Lady Lucinda managed the rare feat of hosting an event that was not only a social must, but a genuinely enjoyable affair for all comers. Whether one put the most value on good company, food and drink, music, amusements, or simply the beauty of one's surroundings, Lady Lucinda's parties were incomparable.

The hostess herself was in especially good form this year, never once seen alone and very rarely without a drink in hand. She flitted from room to room like a gigantic tropical bird, making introductions and sparking conversations, ensuring that every single guest was welcomed like an old friend. At no moment was there ever a need to wonder where she was. She drew the eye in any crowd, all golden curls and pink silk, and her laughter was ever-present, bright and infectious.

A few of the season's new guests took particular note of a quiet figure who seemed to spend most of the night hovering on the edges, watching the festivities appreciatively but with no apparent inclination to join in: a tall, slender youth in a neat, powder-blue suit, with skin that could use more sun and hair that owed a lot of its colour to the darkening effect of its pomade. Some wondered if they ought to be concerned: whoever this was appeared content, true, but not at all well.

That, they were quietly informed by more established household acquaintances, was Lady Lucinda's companion, Miss Vivian Parsons. Yes, she did always dress like that, and that was the way she always wore her hair. There had been all the obvious rumours, of course, but ultimately it seemed best to let the poor girl have her fun. She always made a showing at these things, but she had always been delicate, and her health never seemed to improve. She had a spray of dead lilac flowers in her lapel, curled and coppery; a strikingly modern choice, and a startling burst of colour against the rest of her.

Miss Parsons drifted through the party, pausing frequently to sit or lean against a wall, making impeccably polite replies to anyone who happened to speak to her but never quite finding the energy to keep the conversation going. Young men and ladies alike asked her to dance, in various spirits of sincerity and jest, and she declined them all with equal dignity. She ate in delicate little mouthfuls, and drank perhaps the least of anyone present: a single glass of champagne dangled half-empty from one gloved hand all night.

Eventually she finished it, and reached for another from a nearby tray. Lady Lucinda appeared out of nowhere to deftly exchange her empty glass for Miss Parsons' new, full one.

"I think you've had quite enough already, my dear, don't you?"

Lady Lucinda's eyes were as stunning as the rest of her: a lovely violet blue, glittering like sapphires with a secret joke. Miss Parsons' flat brown gaze met them without challenge as Lady Lucinda drained her glass and patted her fondly on the cheek.

"Best not to overindulge. You know how you are when you drink."

[stringgoblin]

A half formed ramble about monstrosity, gender, and queerness.

So ovipositors, right?

You stick one on an otherwise human body and okay, that's pretty phallic. It's longer than it's wide, it can be used for penetration, its sexual function involves expelling reproductive matter. From a starting point of human sex, there's a pretty obvious mapping here.

But ovipositors are the female genitalia of creatures that actually have them.

So there's a whole side-conversation there about what male and female even mean when applied to very non-human reproductive anatomy and how bees have three genders really and don't even ask about mushrooms and so on and so forth, but what's been spinning in my brain is more like, okay.

Sasha is a Harkness-test-passing, human-sized, fully insectoid... person. He uses he/him pronouns. He has an ovipositor.

Is he trans?

He's my weird lil guy, and I have no idea? I think the answer might be "depends on the species of the person asking". Does gender even exist for him outside of the context of communicating with humans? All signs point to him not giving a shit either way, but that might just be because I wrote him.

There's something nebulous and interesting here about monstrous or alien characters and what their perspectives do to ideas of sex and gender and queerness, none of which is new but it's all spinning in my head in an interesting way at the moment.

This kind of thing is why I have chronic worldbuilding disease with my original writing.

[stringgoblin]

hear me out…

[stringgoblin]

[stringgoblin]

OC commission for EvilLampPost