#good to rb

[spacemancharisma]

a fox finds a rabbit in a snare and they call it love

[feargender]

I’m trying to gauge interest for a server idea I’ve been kicking around in my head for a while! It would be for disabled artists, mainly a place to discuss and show off art of any kind you create and how disability impacts your art, positive or negative.

I sort of came up with the idea in November because nanowrimo always makes me a little grumpy bc it’s something I could never accomplish due to my chronic fatigue etc. So I wanted a space where I could talk about my art and not feel bad that I haven’t produced anything for weeks/months.

Pls rb for exposure

[transgamerism]

The Great Bear Incident of 9:41 Dragon

Links in reblog

[its-arson-time]

this post is meant for mobile users

[zytes]

this manatee looks like it’s in a skyrim loading screen

[puirell]

feels like a good time to bring this back

[pommegrantaire]

Au lit, le baiser by Henri de Toulous Lautrec but make it Aziracrow

[letmebegaytodd]

fuck you *unreliables your narrator*

[eskildit]

In a better kinder world. Gideon nav would have been at the club.

[chroniccoolness]

genuinely a lot of you need to sit the fuck down and think about whether you actually support transfeminine people or you're just chasers. cause a lot of this site's support seems to be "uwu fuck me big strong dommy mommy" "I want a sexy trans goth gf so bad" etc etc and it's so gross. like i dont think attraction the inherent problem here or anything but when every single post asking "do you actually support trans women/transfeminine ppl?" has some chucklefuck in the notes going "haha yeah, I support her ON TOP OF ME!" it gets really obvious that you do not actually know how to support them without sexualizing them. and that's. really incredibly not okay.

[virtualplushy]

oh btw just in case nobody ever told you. just because your life looks different than you thought it would doesn't mean that your life is bad or wrong or disappointing or less than. sometimes things aren't good or bad. sometimes they're just different

[feargender]

reblog and tell me in the tags about the first oc you had/original writing idea you put any effort into

i’ll start: when i was 6 i wrote a decent chunk of a book about a princess that was in love with a guy who had an evil twin, and the evil twin impersonated the lover in order to kidnap the princess and take her to a cave, pretending to be the lover the entire time so that she wouldn’t want to be with him anymore. i can’t remember how it was going to end but i was very proud of it.

[transgamerism]

blood and foam

rating: T

characters: The Dark Urge, Lae’zel, Shadowheart

summary: “The Dark Urge is birthed from its prosthetic womb, carrying a new parasite and a gaping void in its brain. A Nautiloid falls from the sky.

Destiny awaits.”

ao3 link (follow for content warnings and description tags) or read below

(many thanks and especially manly kisses to @necro-hamster for giving this a look and making sure it is fit for the public eye)

The Dark Urge tumbles out of its chitinous egg, the bone and sinew womb that kept it contained. The floor rumbles beneath its cheek, the smell of acid and burning filling its nose. Everything aches and burns, this body that trembles like a sickly foal as it shuffles to its feet, unfamiliar in movement and surrounding. Its head throbs horribly, the vile grub digging around in its brain an uncomfortable sensation that makes its eyes water.

It stands in the destroyed hatchery for a moment, reacquainting itself with breath and life. The presence of limbs it can control and a head that can think, though the thoughts are troubling and jumbled. Every twitch of its eye brings fragments, a wood and stone city, a river of blood, dark tunnels. One thought bullies forward into the front of its mind: escape. Rip and tear through the fleshy membrane of this vessel, gnaw its way out, be free.

The slick corridors may have once been twisting, but now fire and the great claws of red dragons have given the Dark Urge only one way out, and they take it, moving at a swift crouch. This is familiar, the stalking, the creeping, the keen ear listening for movement. So too is the way its heart races at the sound of a voice, a tinkling whisper, brushing against its flesh. A rush of excitement spills down its spine, the promise of prey. The cooing little brain speaks to it from inside the elf’s skull, defenseless and in need of help. It’s sticky soft in the Dark Urge’s hands as it pulls the creature out of the skull, and it yields easily to its claws.

The Dark Urge thinks of its own brain, full of holes and gaps, and the pictures become reality, ripping and tearing the mind meat of the intellect devourer in its clutches. It shreds with claws and then teeth, playing more than eating, though it does indulge in swallowing a few precious morsels as it does its work. The taste is foul but the feeling is elation, and it drops the dead thing to the ground, a pile of trembling pink viscera.

The next living creature the Dark Urge encounters seems less edible, a yellow thing protected by a shining silver carapace, perfect at deflecting the Dark Urge’s claws and teeth. It is also armed with a long, wicked talon of its own, aiming it at the Dark Urge as it hisses curses. The Dark Urge hunches into a defensive position, mind racing as it considers points of escape and how to pry the edible fleshy bits from the silver shell, when a new attack leaves it prone, clutching its poor shattered skull.

Images accost it, sights and smells: a star streaked black sky, the smell of blood, others with yellow faces, the flash of silver swords, the arched back of a red dragon. A curious creature, pink fleshed and topped with fluffy white hair nearly obscuring small horns, utterly naked and scored with scars, flaming eyes peering out of a snarling face.

The Dark Urge flinches away from recognition, understanding that pink beast to be itself, perceived by another. It blinks up with new understanding at this Githyanki, the title pulled from its connection with the other. She no longer has her blade leveled toward its throat, but sneers down at it all the same. “You are no thrall,” she says, though her tone is uncertain. The Dark Urge, too, is uncertain, but rises to its feet. She’s a small warrior, but it can feel the controlled power coming off of her. This Githyanki would have made a very poor meal.

She further demonstrates this barely a moment later, when they are beset by small fiends, imps that flutter on naked batwings and throw fire with their hands. The Githyanki uses her sword well, and appraises the Dark Urge as it descends on an imp with clawed hands, ripping a wing off and flinging it over the side of the Nautiloid (another word lifted from the Githyanki’s mind). The remaining imps fall easily, leaving the Dark Urge coated in stinking sulfurous blood.

The Githyanki drops to her knees a few paces away, stripping the clothes from a corpse and holding the fabric pile out to the Dark Urge. At its questioning look, she clicks her tongue and says, “Reaching the helm will be easier if you are less exposed. Quickly!”

The Dark Urge takes the clothing and puts it on, muscle memory having it tie the boot laces before its mind catches up, same with the shirt buttons. It feels odd, fabric separating it from its bloody work. Was it like this before? Was it used to cotton and wool softening its body against slaughter?

The Dark Urge is familiar with this, tethered to the leash of the Githyanki’s command, ripping through a few more intellect devourers (armed now with twin daggers found on another corpse, and small handheld crossbow), but seeing another trapped within her own nautiloid womb gives it pause. Behind each blink are images, blood blurred and aching, of entrapment within the mindflayer mother’s cradle. Each time the half-elf pummels the glass with her fists, the Dark Urge feels a sympathetic pain in its own hands.

It defies the Githyanki’s demands, releasing the half-elf from her prison, reveling in the rush of disobedience, of choice, even as it makes the Dark Urge’s guts heave with uncertainty.

The half-elf rises, her long dark braid swinging, and for a moment the Dark Urge expects the smell of coppersweet rot and roses, sees a long blonde plait in its mind’s eye, but then the feeling is gone and this Shadowheart is thanking it. The Githyanki scowls.

“What is your name?” Shadowheart asks, and the Dark Urge blinks. There is only flesh, and broken brain matter, and the urge to rip and tear. Aside from that, and the flickering tingles of memory that tease at the corners of its mind, there is darkness. And yet, on instinct, the Dark Urge’s mouth forms an answer.

“Étaín,” it says, a hundred times, a thousand, the name it has always had. Easy and natural on the tongue, and yet it bids forth no association. Just a bit of flotsam bobbing back and forth on the cool dark waters of its destroyed memory.

“We’ve wasted enough time,” the Githyanki snaps, stalking away toward where she’s certain the helm lies. Étaín and Shadowheart fall in behind her, Étaín’s mind a lapping tide of foaming secrets still.

[filibusterfrog]

im certain someone else has asked this but i am Curious

[auden-dahn]

"D-Don't worry about me! Focus on helping the little one, okay?" 🌠 panel redraw of @laikascomet

[foolsocracy]

paradise island hang out