#damn nature you weird

[sumi-sprite]

Get threatened, idiot

moth update ! theyre threatening me

[ms-scarletwings]

So it’s like a huge thing in Dredge that sometimes you pull up these lovecraftian type of mutant fish… like, they’re rarer and more valuable, albeit fucked up variants of the normal ones you catch. Kind of like shiny Pokémon if the shinies had many eyes where they shouldn’t or clumps of parasitic, Gigeresque cysts covering their malformed bodies.

Anyway the least disturbing and MOST funny one to me that I’ve encountered so far has to be this aberrant version of blackmouth salmon

Like, I’m sorry, devs?… that’s not some unholy divergence from the course of the natural order that’s just a normal ass chinook in the spawning season. No joke, they just casually rot alive exactly like that every single generation of fish.

Heads up: under this cut gets gross

Photos of real salmon during the spawn season that turn my stomach in a way this video game can only aspire to

In case you ever wondered, this is also the reason people don’t eat post-spawn adults.

Remember kids, as much as any of us try, it’s very hard to top the worldbuilding of the greatest horror author of all- Mother Nature.

[driftingballoons]

Some creatures are more difficult to perceive than others

[sumi-sprite]

@wisp-of-chaos @unaarista Imagine VLassk meeting his cousins lol

GIRLY JUST FOUND OUT ABOUT CYERCE ELEGANS

If Cyerce nigricans is a butterfly, then this is a fairy... Cyerce nigricans for comparison:

[canisvesperus]

“Eridan is an incel” He had two girlfriends at age 13 and you didn’t.

[sumi-sprite]

@prinx-quail Doc figures out how to send images via text and sends this to Dyo...

Gulmp.

[vampstel]

After almost a whole year, I present to you Thomas Huxley; Faewood High’s unwilling potionology teacher who only got the job thanks to his uncle Luis!! He’s a werecat and a fire fairy and he’s a pain in the ass to draw. Love ya, Tommy <3

BTW: His robe is from Luis and he takes it off as soon as his class is done. He prefers to wear a simple t-shirt and some shorts, thank you.

[simptasia]

being in the DS9 fandom, you'll discover there are so many ways for people to be wrong about julian bashir

[dairyfreenugget]

I could count the amount of original stories of mine that don't have horror elements on one hand and idk what that says about me

[lususnatura]

who are you in this haunted house story?

the dark entity.

you’re not from here. you don’t need what they need. their fear is so…. trivial. they are small, so very small compared to you. they eat and walk and cry and laugh. you just watch. it’s fascinating, really, their little rituals and their meaningless concerns. sometimes, you envy their small joys or even their modest pain. they don’t know what it is to wait in the dark, unfeeling, as time passes over you as eternal as the sea. but my, how you are glad to have guests again. you see, over your many years, you've become aware of a secret: fear tastes sweet.

tagged by: @sortilegii (thanks so much for the tag :D)

tagging: @sifonie, @greenleads, @volucerrubidus, @masquenoire, and anyone else who might like to complete this quiz!

[jinxofthedesert]

I recently got out of a toxic and unhealthy friendship on here. I had to be the one to end it; hopefully the other party decides to leave it be and not smear my name due to realizing it wasn't healthy and that I had to end it because of it.

Basically, if someone makes you start feeling like shit, from your life, to your goals, passion, and everything else, then it's not a rewarding friendship. And it's hard to sometimes see it in the moment. Because you want to think the best of peeps, especially ones you care about.

But sometimes the healthiest thing for You is to know when to put your foot down and end it, even if it hurts you and them. At the end of the day, you matter and what you're doing matters and no one has the right to make you feel shit for who you are when you're just living your life. Life is hard enough without adding peeps who make you feel that way or question how you live when, prior to them showing up, you were happy with all of it.

To anyone in a relationship or friendship like that, I hope, like me, you are able to take a stand and realize you deserve better.

I knew I was being manipulated but not how much until I talked to others close to me. I pray you all never have to experience such a thing because damn, you know you did the right thing, but feel so fucking guilty at the same time.

But your happiness matters. You matter. Please remember that.

[depoteka]

i really wish people could tell me in great detail how they perceive me exactly

[sysig]

The most fun you can have, barring the pain and torture (Patreon)

[unproduciblesmackdown]

omgg lol [guy who won't stop going "more like scapeGOATED" voice] now hold! on!! lmao [same guy just saw encanto voice] Hold on!!!

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[ms-scarletwings]

Cephenemyia ulrichii (the moose throat botfly) is the funniest insect alive to me and there is no competition because

This species will have the most innocent adorable kissable marketable appearance of any fly evolved, but then you look them up and they have blood curdling lore able to turn your stomach in a sense rivaling Nick Cutter’s novels. I couldn’t even keep it together trying to read up on their life cycle for the first time because of

1. How convolutely messed up of a parasitism method they chose to thrive by

2. The extremely stupid reason behind why they accidentally end up in humans and the horrific location where

3. The images-information whiplash happening in my head that I hope this editing gets across.