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suffering--ghost · 2 years
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🎃🎃 october means it’s monster fucking season !!!! coffin sex with a vampire !!!! knotted by a werewolf !!!! rawed by an orc !!!! eaten out by a fork tongued demon !!!! sex with tentacle creatures !!!!!! 🎃🎃
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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Month of Monstergirls day 6: lamia
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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TECHTHULHU 
by Pascal Blanché
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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1513. Monster
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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last of the animal terrarium series~ I had to take a long break due to being super sick for a while but I’m so glad have to finished the 6 part series~ Thank you all who suggested which animals I should draw :D
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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a bunch of mushrooms
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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Characters I designed that have already been adopted (or are in the process)!
See the still available adopts at @adopts-by-luff c: (ilu if you buy one!)
Reblogs always appreciated btw! :3
Also, please check out our City and the Beast novel at sharadrass.com! (thank you SO much if you do! <3)
Tumblr story blog; @cityandthebeast
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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Big merdad and tiny merson
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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Loputyn
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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Abduction, by Maria Panfilova
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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Vengeance. - - - late night doodles
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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Endtime by Alessandro Amoruso
This artist on Instagram
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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can yall watch him while i go smoke 
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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the nature of the werewolf has been spoken of time and again, but--and this is key--the werewolf is redeemed, always, by those it leaves behind. the werewolf is more than its animal parts because of the mother who wraps her wolf in a shawl to bring her child back. it is the true love, stalwart and unyielding, who hears the beast's mournsome howls and reaches his hand out to grasp the other's. it is the feast of the sheep and the goat and the cow--and not the child, shuddering with terror.
we are drawn to identifying with the werewolf because we have always been called monstrous, consumed by our animal urges, no better than beasts, something to be put down like rabid dogs. but isn't it more meaningful that we make ourselves the monsters which are saved not by themselves but by those that love them? that the tragic mooncursed blood that howls its way through the veins is moved by the heart which beats for someone else? maybe you are the monster and the monster is you. but there was always someone who did not care, because they did not see a monster, they saw a person whom they loved.
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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Soft marble sculptures.
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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I like Dune
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suffering--ghost · 3 years
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you have invited strangers into your home, helen pevensie, mother of four.
without the blurred sight of joy and relief, it has become impossible to ignore. all the love inside you cannot keep you from seeing the truth. your children are strangers to you. the country has seen them grow taller, your youngest daughter’s hair much longer than you would have it all years past. their hands have more strength in them, their voices ring with an odd lilt and their eyes—it has become hard to look at them straight on, hasn’t it? your children have changed, helen, and as much as you knew they would grow a little in the time away from you, your children have become strangers.
your youngest sings songs you do not know in a language that makes your chest twist in odd ways. you watch her dance in floating steps, bare feet barely touching the dewy grass. when you try and make her wear her sister’s old shoes—growing out of her own faster than you think she ought to—, she looks at you as though you are the child instead of her. her fingers brush leaves with tenderness, and you swear your daughter’s gentle hum makes the drooping plant stand taller than before. you follow her eager leaps to her siblings, her enthusiasm the only thing you still recognise from before the country. yet, she laughs strangely, no longer the giggling girl she used to be but free in a way you have never seen. her smile can drop so fast now, her now-old eyes can turn distant and glassy, and her tears, now rarer, are always silent. it scares you to wonder what robbed her of the heaving sobs a child ought to make use of in the face of upset.
your other daughter—older than your youngest yet still at an age that she cannot be anything but a child—smiles with all the knowledge in the world sitting in the corner of her mouth. her voice is even, without all traces of the desperate importance her peers carry still, that she used to fill her siblings’ ears with at all hours of the day. she folds her hands in her lap with patience and soothes the ache of war in your mind before you even realise she has started speaking. you watch her curl her hair with careful, steady fingers and a straight back, her words a melody as she tells your eldest which move to make without so much a glance at the board off to her right. she reads still, and what a relief you find this sliver of normalcy, even if she’s started taking notes in a shorthand you couldn’t even think to decipher. even if you feel her slipping away, now more like one of the young, confident women in town than a child desperately wishing for a mother’s approval.
your younger son reads plenty as well these days, and it fills you with pride. he is quiet now, sitting still when you find him bent over a book in the armchair of his father. he looks at you with eyes too knowing for a petulant child on the cusp of puberty, and no longer beats his fists against the furniture when one of his siblings dares approach him. he has settled, you realise one evening when you walk into the living room and find him writing in a looping script you don’t recognise, so different from the scratched signature he carved into the doors of your pantry barely a year ago. he speaks sense to your youngest and eldest, respects their contributions without jest. you watch your two middle children pass a book back and forth, each a pen in hand and sheets of paper bridging the gap between them, his face opening up with a smile rather than a scowl. it freezes you mid-step to find such simple joy in him. remember when you sent them away, helen, and how long it had been since he allowed you to see a smile then?
your eldest doesn’t sleep anymore. none of your children care much for bedtimes these days, but at least sleep still finds them. it’s not restful, you know it from the startled yelps that fill the house each night, but they sleep. your eldest makes sure of it. you have not slept through a night since the war began, so it’s easy to discover the way he wanders the halls like a ghost, silent and persistent in a duty he carries with pride. each door is opened, your children soothed before you can even think to make your own way to their beds. his voice sounds deeper than it used to, deeper still than you think possible for a child his age and size. then again, you are never sure if the notches on his door frame are an accurate way to measure whatever it is that makes you feel like your eldest has grown beyond your reach. you watch him open doors, soothe your children, spend his nights in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea with a weariness not even the war should bring to him, not after all the effort you put into keeping him safe.
your children mostly talk to each other now, in a whispered privacy you cannot hope to be a part of. their arms no longer fit around your waist. your daughters are wilder—even your older one, as she carries herself like royalty, has grown teeth too sharp for polite society— and they no longer lean into your hands. your sons are broad-shouldered even before their shirts start being too small again, filling up space you never thought was up for taking. your eldest doesn’t sleep, your middle children take notes when politicians speak on the wireless and shake their heads as though they know better, and your youngest sings for hours in your garden.
who are your children now, helen pevensie, and who pried their childhood out of your shaking hands?
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