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else.social
Else
@else.social
1.5K followers 800 following 4.3K posts
sometimes I write. sometimes I stare at birds. photographs/art my own unless otherwise stated. queer. it/its and she/her in unequal measure. 🔞 maybeelse.site
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else.social
Else @else.social · Jan 4
"A prayer, offered in avarice," the cyst-mother murmurs in a voice that is not her own. Her sutured lips are stained by pollen and thin honey; her words emerge from the wasps dancing through her gall-laden hair. "What a delicious thing. I think I will keep you."
1 11 75
else.social
Else @else.social · 2h
A boa constrictor that's smaller than you may treat you rather like a warm tree, climbing your limbs and coiling about your body and even falling asleep on you; cuddling, basically, as long as it doesn't see you as prey.

It's not really constriction, but it's so cute and cozy
1 3 10
Reposted by Else
turtlebrownie.bsky.social
Turtle-Brownie @turtlebrownie.bsky.social · 4h
🤖
4 340 1.5K
Reposted by Else
kallidorarho.bsky.social
Kallidora Rhosferatu 🩸 @kallidorarho.bsky.social · 3h
you ever think about how it must feel good as fuck for a snake to inject venom into prey
19 21 170
Reposted by Else
kallidorarho.bsky.social
Kallidora Rhosferatu 🩸 @kallidorarho.bsky.social · 21h
snake Mouth perfec t size for put wife in! inside very Soft and Comfort wife feel good put wife in Snake Mouth. Put wife In Snake Mouth. no problems ever in snek mouth because good Shape for wife body. Asnake Mouth yes a place for a wife can trust snake for giveing good love to wife. friend snake
19 48 180
else.social
Else @else.social · 15h
you really are!
Reposted by Else
hivemoon.bsky.social
🌟Their Immaculate Majesty, King Hivemoon🌟 @hivemoon.bsky.social · 20h
Ampulex compressa, the emerald cockroach wasp, specifically lobotomises its prey with its stinger and then walks the docile insect back to its nest by grabbing its antennae like a leash.
16 9 50
else.social
Else @else.social · 17h
Mhmm, I remember that one being very fun! And yeah, they've definitely been getting more consistent as time goes on, it's nice to see
else.social
Else @else.social · 17h
V/H/S/Halloween is really fun. Lots of good, gross special effects, and plenty of humor mixed in with the horror. It's a good time if you're into that sort of thing, y'know?

Lots of dead kids, though. I suppose it's just been that sort of year.
1 7
Reposted by Else
rufflejax.bsky.social
Jax o'Lantern, Spooky Pumpkin Doll 🎃 @rufflejax.bsky.social · 19h
holy fuck Else
else.social
Else @else.social · 1d
🩸
Blood is prettier outside the body. I learned that lesson young, when my father, the monster, still stalked the plains in search of fresh prey. His preferences were incorrect, however. He cared about volume—lakes of blood impregnated with the anti-clotting compounds that our family's bodies so copiously produce, blood gushing down altars through carefully carved channels, blood divorced from its source so that he could forget the bodies that produced it. He reveled in the metallic tang of it, the joy of immersing his body in it to feel the ebbing warmth and the tender touch of half-formed clots against his swollen dick, and, yes, the taste of it in on his tongue. My father hated bodies. He hated to be reminded of the source of blood, and this was, I think, the source of much of his cruelty. He needed what his victims gave him, and he hated them for that. He was, as I have said, incorrect, and it was that flaw which led to his downfall. Sometimes I like to take one of my concubines—the ones I don't mind killing, of course—down to the crypt to fuck and bleed her atop his sarcophagus. He hates the scent of it, the squishy sounds bodies make, the moans and whimpers, and, more than any of that, the blood trickling down the slowly warming metal. His lips cannot reach the slightest drop of it, I made sure of that, but the sound of him bucking and struggling against his chains is as potent an aphrodisiac as the sight of those first drops of blood welling up from freshly cut skin, red and fragrant and not yet dripping down to stain the ground below. The sight of it—the thought of it!—is so captivating, so compelling; it fills me with heat, makes me long for the taste of it, the joy of adding fresh cuts, of burying myself in my victim's body, of filling myself with her, devouring her until nothing remains but my pleasure—! But I forget myself. That is not the story I mean to tell you, my dear hunter, though someday I will show you precisely what I mean. I am not the last of my family. I assure you that we can die, though only with great difficulty, and I expect that knowledge will do more to tempt your visit to my lands than anything else I can offer. You could never reject a challenge when I knew you, and I do not expect that the decades have changed that. Perhaps you have grown more cautious, and certainly you have shaped yourself into a more skillful weapon, because you remain alive even as the list of your accomplishments has grown deliciously unwieldy. How many monsters you have triumphed over, my dear hunter? How many beasts and witches have died upon your blades? Where were you in '87, when my agents couldn't find the slightest trace of you upon this earth? I'm sure that you'll tell me when you finally visit. I will *make you* tell me. But in any case—my father still lives, as I said. It pleased him to kill his own father, and I understand that his bones were immersed in molten lead and buried somewhere far from the heat of blood; the habits of a less enlightened age. My solitary brother is a boor, and I hope very much that you will meet and dispatch him before I make you mine, but my sisters are lovely things. I think you will enjoy their company, despite their tastes being far less refined than my own. You may wonder why I am telling you this now, my dear hunter, when I said so little about myself during our time together at university. I remember how you and the rest of our friends used to tease me with increasingly outlandish guesses—the prince of a distant country, a woodcutter's savant daughter, a merchant's orphan heir—what a silly game! Sometimes I was tempted to simply tell you all the truth, though I do not think I would have survived long afterward. I was so careful, my dear hunter. I had to be. I do not any more. I understand that you stayed in contact with many of our old friends. I have read many of the letters you sent them. Do you wonder why fewer and fewer of them are able to reply? I have taken pains to ensure that this letter will find you, whether within weeks or months or years. My agents are loyal and determined, and they know that their own families' fates depend on their success. The bonds of family are such delicious things, and I adore the taste of a daughter's lifeblood pooling between her mother's thighs ... But I won't try to explain that to you. Not yet. Someday I'll make you understand. If all has gone well there is a map attached to this letter; if not you will simply have to work a bit harder to find me. I think I have given you more than enough reason to—you always were such a moral woman, so infatuated with your own idea of what the world should be, and I know that time has only made you more so. I think that knowing what I am, what I have *always* been, will eat away at you like an ulcer until you finally come to visit me, to put an end to me— And then, my dear hunter, I will make you mine. Sincerely yours, Silvana Frost, Duchess of Rimwald
1 1 16
Reposted by Else
kitprincess.bsky.social
Princess Frannie, Fated Daughter @kitprincess.bsky.social · 19h
If you haven't checked out else's writing, you absolutely should!!!!

I really really like this one...
else.social
Else @else.social · 1d
🩸
Blood is prettier outside the body. I learned that lesson young, when my father, the monster, still stalked the plains in search of fresh prey. His preferences were incorrect, however. He cared about volume—lakes of blood impregnated with the anti-clotting compounds that our family's bodies so copiously produce, blood gushing down altars through carefully carved channels, blood divorced from its source so that he could forget the bodies that produced it. He reveled in the metallic tang of it, the joy of immersing his body in it to feel the ebbing warmth and the tender touch of half-formed clots against his swollen dick, and, yes, the taste of it in on his tongue. My father hated bodies. He hated to be reminded of the source of blood, and this was, I think, the source of much of his cruelty. He needed what his victims gave him, and he hated them for that. He was, as I have said, incorrect, and it was that flaw which led to his downfall. Sometimes I like to take one of my concubines—the ones I don't mind killing, of course—down to the crypt to fuck and bleed her atop his sarcophagus. He hates the scent of it, the squishy sounds bodies make, the moans and whimpers, and, more than any of that, the blood trickling down the slowly warming metal. His lips cannot reach the slightest drop of it, I made sure of that, but the sound of him bucking and struggling against his chains is as potent an aphrodisiac as the sight of those first drops of blood welling up from freshly cut skin, red and fragrant and not yet dripping down to stain the ground below. The sight of it—the thought of it!—is so captivating, so compelling; it fills me with heat, makes me long for the taste of it, the joy of adding fresh cuts, of burying myself in my victim's body, of filling myself with her, devouring her until nothing remains but my pleasure—! But I forget myself. That is not the story I mean to tell you, my dear hunter, though someday I will show you precisely what I mean. I am not the last of my family. I assure you that we can die, though only with great difficulty, and I expect that knowledge will do more to tempt your visit to my lands than anything else I can offer. You could never reject a challenge when I knew you, and I do not expect that the decades have changed that. Perhaps you have grown more cautious, and certainly you have shaped yourself into a more skillful weapon, because you remain alive even as the list of your accomplishments has grown deliciously unwieldy. How many monsters you have triumphed over, my dear hunter? How many beasts and witches have died upon your blades? Where were you in '87, when my agents couldn't find the slightest trace of you upon this earth? I'm sure that you'll tell me when you finally visit. I will *make you* tell me. But in any case—my father still lives, as I said. It pleased him to kill his own father, and I understand that his bones were immersed in molten lead and buried somewhere far from the heat of blood; the habits of a less enlightened age. My solitary brother is a boor, and I hope very much that you will meet and dispatch him before I make you mine, but my sisters are lovely things. I think you will enjoy their company, despite their tastes being far less refined than my own. You may wonder why I am telling you this now, my dear hunter, when I said so little about myself during our time together at university. I remember how you and the rest of our friends used to tease me with increasingly outlandish guesses—the prince of a distant country, a woodcutter's savant daughter, a merchant's orphan heir—what a silly game! Sometimes I was tempted to simply tell you all the truth, though I do not think I would have survived long afterward. I was so careful, my dear hunter. I had to be. I do not any more. I understand that you stayed in contact with many of our old friends. I have read many of the letters you sent them. Do you wonder why fewer and fewer of them are able to reply? I have taken pains to ensure that this letter will find you, whether within weeks or months or years. My agents are loyal and determined, and they know that their own families' fates depend on their success. The bonds of family are such delicious things, and I adore the taste of a daughter's lifeblood pooling between her mother's thighs ... But I won't try to explain that to you. Not yet. Someday I'll make you understand. If all has gone well there is a map attached to this letter; if not you will simply have to work a bit harder to find me. I think I have given you more than enough reason to—you always were such a moral woman, so infatuated with your own idea of what the world should be, and I know that time has only made you more so. I think that knowing what I am, what I have *always* been, will eat away at you like an ulcer until you finally come to visit me, to put an end to me— And then, my dear hunter, I will make you mine. Sincerely yours, Silvana Frost, Duchess of Rimwald
2 13
Reposted by Else
else.social
Else @else.social · 1d
🩸
Blood is prettier outside the body. I learned that lesson young, when my father, the monster, still stalked the plains in search of fresh prey. His preferences were incorrect, however. He cared about volume—lakes of blood impregnated with the anti-clotting compounds that our family's bodies so copiously produce, blood gushing down altars through carefully carved channels, blood divorced from its source so that he could forget the bodies that produced it. He reveled in the metallic tang of it, the joy of immersing his body in it to feel the ebbing warmth and the tender touch of half-formed clots against his swollen dick, and, yes, the taste of it in on his tongue. My father hated bodies. He hated to be reminded of the source of blood, and this was, I think, the source of much of his cruelty. He needed what his victims gave him, and he hated them for that. He was, as I have said, incorrect, and it was that flaw which led to his downfall. Sometimes I like to take one of my concubines—the ones I don't mind killing, of course—down to the crypt to fuck and bleed her atop his sarcophagus. He hates the scent of it, the squishy sounds bodies make, the moans and whimpers, and, more than any of that, the blood trickling down the slowly warming metal. His lips cannot reach the slightest drop of it, I made sure of that, but the sound of him bucking and struggling against his chains is as potent an aphrodisiac as the sight of those first drops of blood welling up from freshly cut skin, red and fragrant and not yet dripping down to stain the ground below. The sight of it—the thought of it!—is so captivating, so compelling; it fills me with heat, makes me long for the taste of it, the joy of adding fresh cuts, of burying myself in my victim's body, of filling myself with her, devouring her until nothing remains but my pleasure—! But I forget myself. That is not the story I mean to tell you, my dear hunter, though someday I will show you precisely what I mean. I am not the last of my family. I assure you that we can die, though only with great difficulty, and I expect that knowledge will do more to tempt your visit to my lands than anything else I can offer. You could never reject a challenge when I knew you, and I do not expect that the decades have changed that. Perhaps you have grown more cautious, and certainly you have shaped yourself into a more skillful weapon, because you remain alive even as the list of your accomplishments has grown deliciously unwieldy. How many monsters you have triumphed over, my dear hunter? How many beasts and witches have died upon your blades? Where were you in '87, when my agents couldn't find the slightest trace of you upon this earth? I'm sure that you'll tell me when you finally visit. I will *make you* tell me. But in any case—my father still lives, as I said. It pleased him to kill his own father, and I understand that his bones were immersed in molten lead and buried somewhere far from the heat of blood; the habits of a less enlightened age. My solitary brother is a boor, and I hope very much that you will meet and dispatch him before I make you mine, but my sisters are lovely things. I think you will enjoy their company, despite their tastes being far less refined than my own. You may wonder why I am telling you this now, my dear hunter, when I said so little about myself during our time together at university. I remember how you and the rest of our friends used to tease me with increasingly outlandish guesses—the prince of a distant country, a woodcutter's savant daughter, a merchant's orphan heir—what a silly game! Sometimes I was tempted to simply tell you all the truth, though I do not think I would have survived long afterward. I was so careful, my dear hunter. I had to be. I do not any more. I understand that you stayed in contact with many of our old friends. I have read many of the letters you sent them. Do you wonder why fewer and fewer of them are able to reply? I have taken pains to ensure that this letter will find you, whether within weeks or months or years. My agents are loyal and determined, and they know that their own families' fates depend on their success. The bonds of family are such delicious things, and I adore the taste of a daughter's lifeblood pooling between her mother's thighs ... But I won't try to explain that to you. Not yet. Someday I'll make you understand. If all has gone well there is a map attached to this letter; if not you will simply have to work a bit harder to find me. I think I have given you more than enough reason to—you always were such a moral woman, so infatuated with your own idea of what the world should be, and I know that time has only made you more so. I think that knowing what I am, what I have *always* been, will eat away at you like an ulcer until you finally come to visit me, to put an end to me— And then, my dear hunter, I will make you mine. Sincerely yours, Silvana Frost, Duchess of Rimwald
12 32 110
Reposted by Else
nikonikonek000.bsky.social
niko ☿ niko @nikonikonek000.bsky.social · 3d
my friend begged me to draw a zonked elf. for many hours they said things like "you want to develop a powerful fixation on elfs" and "you want to draw elf smoking 2000 year tolerance mmagic elf weed" and the elfs hypnotic suggestion compelled me
10 160 590
else.social
Else @else.social · 19h
^-^
1
else.social
Else @else.social · 19h
Thank you! Trying my best etc
1
else.social
Else @else.social · 19h
^-^
1
else.social
Else @else.social · 19h
ehehe, thank you! if all goes well I'll write more about these characters soon ...
2
Reposted by Else
neo.yokohama
mirna @neo.yokohama · Aug 6
this manual is weird
3 39 110
Reposted by Else
edmondsscanner.bsky.social
Edmonds Scanner @edmondsscanner.bsky.social · 1d
Don't let your past define you.
Let your future deeds define you, and make sure they include things like "talons," "fangs," and "moss draped horror terrifies townsfolk away from the ragged edge of the forest."
2 23 68
else.social
Else @else.social · 1d
🩸
Blood is prettier outside the body. I learned that lesson young, when my father, the monster, still stalked the plains in search of fresh prey. His preferences were incorrect, however. He cared about volume—lakes of blood impregnated with the anti-clotting compounds that our family's bodies so copiously produce, blood gushing down altars through carefully carved channels, blood divorced from its source so that he could forget the bodies that produced it. He reveled in the metallic tang of it, the joy of immersing his body in it to feel the ebbing warmth and the tender touch of half-formed clots against his swollen dick, and, yes, the taste of it in on his tongue. My father hated bodies. He hated to be reminded of the source of blood, and this was, I think, the source of much of his cruelty. He needed what his victims gave him, and he hated them for that. He was, as I have said, incorrect, and it was that flaw which led to his downfall. Sometimes I like to take one of my concubines—the ones I don't mind killing, of course—down to the crypt to fuck and bleed her atop his sarcophagus. He hates the scent of it, the squishy sounds bodies make, the moans and whimpers, and, more than any of that, the blood trickling down the slowly warming metal. His lips cannot reach the slightest drop of it, I made sure of that, but the sound of him bucking and struggling against his chains is as potent an aphrodisiac as the sight of those first drops of blood welling up from freshly cut skin, red and fragrant and not yet dripping down to stain the ground below. The sight of it—the thought of it!—is so captivating, so compelling; it fills me with heat, makes me long for the taste of it, the joy of adding fresh cuts, of burying myself in my victim's body, of filling myself with her, devouring her until nothing remains but my pleasure—! But I forget myself. That is not the story I mean to tell you, my dear hunter, though someday I will show you precisely what I mean. I am not the last of my family. I assure you that we can die, though only with great difficulty, and I expect that knowledge will do more to tempt your visit to my lands than anything else I can offer. You could never reject a challenge when I knew you, and I do not expect that the decades have changed that. Perhaps you have grown more cautious, and certainly you have shaped yourself into a more skillful weapon, because you remain alive even as the list of your accomplishments has grown deliciously unwieldy. How many monsters you have triumphed over, my dear hunter? How many beasts and witches have died upon your blades? Where were you in '87, when my agents couldn't find the slightest trace of you upon this earth? I'm sure that you'll tell me when you finally visit. I will *make you* tell me. But in any case—my father still lives, as I said. It pleased him to kill his own father, and I understand that his bones were immersed in molten lead and buried somewhere far from the heat of blood; the habits of a less enlightened age. My solitary brother is a boor, and I hope very much that you will meet and dispatch him before I make you mine, but my sisters are lovely things. I think you will enjoy their company, despite their tastes being far less refined than my own. You may wonder why I am telling you this now, my dear hunter, when I said so little about myself during our time together at university. I remember how you and the rest of our friends used to tease me with increasingly outlandish guesses—the prince of a distant country, a woodcutter's savant daughter, a merchant's orphan heir—what a silly game! Sometimes I was tempted to simply tell you all the truth, though I do not think I would have survived long afterward. I was so careful, my dear hunter. I had to be. I do not any more. I understand that you stayed in contact with many of our old friends. I have read many of the letters you sent them. Do you wonder why fewer and fewer of them are able to reply? I have taken pains to ensure that this letter will find you, whether within weeks or months or years. My agents are loyal and determined, and they know that their own families' fates depend on their success. The bonds of family are such delicious things, and I adore the taste of a daughter's lifeblood pooling between her mother's thighs ... But I won't try to explain that to you. Not yet. Someday I'll make you understand. If all has gone well there is a map attached to this letter; if not you will simply have to work a bit harder to find me. I think I have given you more than enough reason to—you always were such a moral woman, so infatuated with your own idea of what the world should be, and I know that time has only made you more so. I think that knowing what I am, what I have *always* been, will eat away at you like an ulcer until you finally come to visit me, to put an end to me— And then, my dear hunter, I will make you mine. Sincerely yours, Silvana Frost, Duchess of Rimwald
12 32 110
Reposted by Else
nikkiophan.bsky.social
Nikki 'Samyazan Scion' Ophan @nikkiophan.bsky.social · 2d
as the world gets worse you need to look at more bugs. it will help, in a cosmic sort of way. there's little animals around you that you can look at as they do little animal things. look a bug as soon as possible. connect with other animal in this way and know
15 120 360
Reposted by Else
banditelli.org
Brett "Solidarity 2025" Banditelli @banditelli.org · 2d
took this one a year ago today. #birds
a hummingbird in flight with angry tail, and its eyelid closed
3 12 110
Reposted by Else
kallidorarho.bsky.social
Kallidora Rhosferatu 🩸 @kallidorarho.bsky.social · 2d
if boots aren't for licking why do girls like the smell of polish so much
20 42 230
Reposted by Else
else.social
Else @else.social · 3d
Anyway. Did you know that I'm hot? And very biteable? And that my words touch pliable minds like honey poured into delicate clockwork?

All of these things are true.
else.social
Else @else.social · 4d
It's really amazing how wearing fishnets just short circuits the part of my brain which is critical of my appearance and lets me feel unequivocally hot. Like, gosh,,,

(I do not have photos but my new fishnet body-stocking shows off my collarbones and shoulders in such a good way, chat)
6 1 49
Reposted by Else
silby.bsky.social
Silby @silby.bsky.social · 3d
knife-hand wavering
glare of unspoken contempt;
don’t have it in you
else.social
Else @else.social · Sep 9
You're not brave enough to kill me, are you? How pathetic.

... no, I don't want you to. Not really. But I care about the reason you don't. Selfishness would be a good one, or cruelty, or even love, if you really must. But fear isn't worth my time.
4 18
Reposted by Else
psudonym.bsky.social
psudonym @psudonym.bsky.social · 3d
Our dark work begins again, Baltimore!
A witch girl and a witch cat raise their arms in unison
21 470 1.8K