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scientists have made a breakthrough in the cultivation of christobacteria from samples left on the holy grail, bringing us one step closer to a vaccine against divinity
@anthropologist-on-the-loose get peer-reviewed because your shared experience with the subject of the painting really heightened the emotional impact of this artwork for me ( An impact which was already high tbh. The idea that Pompeii was built by generations, buried by generations, uncovered by generations. What if I just started screaming and never stopped. )
He didn't steal 10 million dollars. They made that number up as a loss, they never fucking had it. Rockstar has spent more than a billion fucking dollars on GTA VI and will likely make billions more when it gets released.
Uber is a fucking shell game of a company designed to leech investor capital and output bootleg cabs.
Nvidia posted a profit in 2023 of $4.37 billion. This is like someone stealing less than a penny from me.
And they lock this kid in a prison hospital for LIFE?
What with GTA VI going up for pre-order i'd just like to remind everyone that rockstar conspired with the UK government to lock an 18-year-old away for life for hacking them.
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people foolishly dismiss desserts and treats as having no nutritional value when they actually are necessary for refilling your sanity stat. to prove my point please observe the emotional stability of the next person you meet who doesnt let themselves ever eat any form of dessert
Thank goodness that justice is being served, and the companies that stole from every American family to the tune of tens or hundreds of dollars are being forced to pay less than one cent per person they affected!
it is kind of surreal to watch someone who is not transfem be like “well because they were raised as men, trans women did get the chance to learn to take up space and the like” and then every trans woman you talk to is a broken beaten shell of a thing who’s too traumatized to raise her voice or sit with her legs apart, i will say
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Binding your swornsister's soul to your blade, that she may stay with you even after her death to revel in your joint battles, is all fine and good until it's been a decade since your last good fight—longer still since any real battle—and she's still in there, and you can hear her crying every night, longing for the grip of your palm and the guts of your enemies. And of course she won't let you be, even in your dreams, appearing there too. Whole and young as the day she died, while you've gotten older and timeworn. Gripping her pretty head by the hair and driving her skull through the chest of some faceless foe, the air is sparkling like diamonds. The blood's all over her and she's smiling at you, fucking blissed-out and naked, because of course she's naked, she's only doing this to fuck with you.
So you take her down off the mantel, and before the sun's really up, just blue-gray on the horizon— reflecting off her, the blade you've never had to clean or sharpen—you stumble from your home. And with your bare feet in the early spring dirt and your bare hand on the leather wrap of her grip, she talks to you again. Denies the dream. Won't admit she's doing it on purpose. Pretending like she isn't the one doing this to you. Playing coy.
Someone sees you, and you see him back. You know him. You always know them. You actually live here, in this shithole town where no one asks that many questions. He nods at you, the gesture of something small and dumb and dead. He hasn't seen your state, not yet. Half dressed and wild eyed with sleep deprivation. Naked sword in your practiced hand.
Haven't had a good fight in a decade. Still true, this guy isn't fighting you. Slip her into him, feel the POP of the skin and fat, the slick glide of the intestines, the clattering of bone and it's already over.
Wrench her up! Tear him open! She's happy. She's there with you.
"Good girl."
You say it into her pommel, which happens to be next to the guy's ear. If he was listening, he dies very confused, but it was just a little dirty talk.
They'll find him in the morning and say he got robbed. Or a scuffle gone wrong. One of his buddies, probably. Or some drifter from somewhere else. Always goes that way. The men who don't know their jobs are to clean up your messes will nod at you in the morning as you pass by on your walk to the docks. Just like he did.
She's back on your mantel for not quite a week before it all starts up again. Not dreams this time, but hauntings. Things thrown and dropped. Odd noises in the dark. Fucking brat.
Good's never good enough for her, is it? She always wants more. Fine. You can give her a little more. Start wearing her around. Show off your jewelry. Invite someone to really try you. And they do. They always do. Can't throw a rock in this world without hitting someone looking to prove anyone can best a swordswoman.
You're at the bar when the rock hits home. He's drunker than you are, face red with it, and his buddies are all behind him jeering while he prods at you. Like you need the provocation. You've been shivering with glee since you saw him stand up. Next time he touches you, you bite him. He's a bleeder, barely nipped at the skin and you're covered in the stuff.
"Jealous?" you ask her, tucked neatly in her scabbard. Now that the idea's struck you, the whole thing lays itself out so neatly in your mind. You throw a punch. She doesn't feel anything. You knock one of his teeth out. She's biting at the leather you've got her in. You break his arm and claw at his eyes and she stays exactly where you have her. She gets to play the cuckold and it's delicious to deny her.
Until one of his dumbshit friends grabs her right from under your nose. Too busy chewing your food? He's a scrawny kid but he's got a good few scars to show for himself, and he's holding her not without any skill.
And-
This is so much better. God she's so fucking hot like that. You can take care of him easily enough, but halfway through dodging and weaving around his swings, you realize what's happening. She's fucking helping him. You're fighting her.
Its good, it's so good. Like having the bitch back from the dead, she can turn even this pimplefaced idiot into her avatar. You shoot the cartilage of his nose up into his skull and he falls into a heap. Didn't even know that could really happen, but it does and you can feel her squirming when you do it.
She got you, once. A little line of pink flesh is poking out from under your eye. It's going to scar nasty. You'll have to get her back for it. Soon enough, you do. Same routine, new bar. Pick a fight with the biggest group of men you see, wait for one of them to take her and then make sure you're the only two people left standing.
She plays dirty. Knows all your tics. It's heaven. She's alive every time you fight her. You're young as long as she's facing you down.
Until you're not. Someone gets you with a chair to the shoulders. Shouldn't faze you, and it's not like he didn't get what he had coming, but… but it takes you months to recover enough to go back out. Then someone hits it again, a year later. Same spot. With a metal pipe. Reopens all the old wounds, and doubles the old pain. She has to intervene, and the guy holding her slips suddenly, impaling himself and his pipe wielding friend in the fall.
You both reach the same conclusion on the limping walk home. This can't go on any longer. You're not keeping up with her. She visits you in your dreams again, this time to soothe you. It breaks something deep in your guts, this kindness from her. Feels to final. Shatters itself and tears you open. The fear you hadn't felt since you were a teenager. Death. Looming over you. Can't bear to lose this. Lose your nights together.
She's got an idea. Just have to find the right instrument.
"And you'll inset the hilt with this." You hand the blacksmith a jewel. "Doesn't even have to be visible, just has to be in there."
"Looks all scratched up," he squints at the near imperceptible script you've carved into the surface of the jewel. That's half the work done, there. The easy half, she reminds you from your hip. You tell her that she had you to do the hard part for her, the little princess.
"Just do it. I'm sure paying you more than enough. Then once it's ready, I want you to wrap it in this," you hand him the cloth. It's stained deep brown with your dried blood. The blacksmith's face pales. "And burn it. while it's still over the blade."
He looks at the money you're paying him, in advance, and then back to you. Wonder if he knows what you're planning?
Two weeks and three days later, it's ready. You watch him burn the wrap. Has his assistant do it. No one talks. There's nothing left to say. You pull the sword out of the ashes—still hot, it burns the skin off your hand, not that that matters anymore—and give the blacksmith a tip. It's more than what you paid in the first place.
"Well then." You were never good with words. "Got a will in my pocket."
Awkward angle, but it'll work.
Trachea to Tits to Navel to Crotch. It's a wonderful sword. Practically cut yourself in two with one swing. Then you're dying. Real fast, the world's spinning around you. Around and around. She's there with you, arm in arm, you're both young again and everything's so beautiful.
Now you've a metal body, rigid and sharp and drinking up the last of your own blood. The swap is instant. You're like her now. And she's there with you. You laugh, but only she hears you. The blacksmith's screaming.
They find your will right where you said it'd be. Pretty simple stuff, you think.
"Give one of my swords to the strongest person left in town. Give the other to the second strongest." Everyone's hesitant, but you're the real deal, a legend by this point, so they do it. Now all that's left is a little nudging from her and you, and soon you'll get to fight again.
The first time your steel meets hers it's better than any kiss. Hotter than any sex you'd ever had, and more intense than any previous fight. Neither of you has to hold back anymore. It doesn't matter if you kill the other, because that wasn't really you at all. Someone else will come along and pick you up and then you'll start again. Across back alleys, dueling halls, and battlefields, you fight her over and over. There are near misses where you kill a thousand men in search of the one wielding her, too much chaos to find each other. You laugh about it between swings when next you meet. There might be decades where you can't make it happen, years sitting in a chest or armory, but you both know that it's only a matter of time. The mountain of corpses you leave behind will grow higher and higher, until it eclipses the sun. Even then you'll still fight her in the dark. 'Til no hand is left to hold you. On a dead world, you'd spark and scrape against each other long into the eternal night.
Basically, increased co2 concentration in the air makes plants make more carbohydrates, but not take in more nutrients from the soil, so they grow faster but have a lower density of vitamins and minerals. Plus, they're "breathing" more efficiently and actually using slightly less water, so they're taking in even fewer nutrients. And the faster growth can't make up for the rates of damage due to climate instability (droughts, floods, extreme heat etc).
The research shows approximately a 3% drop in nutrient density since the 1980s, particularly in carbohydrate heavy crops (like most starchy staple foods), but so many people around the globe depend on those crops for over half their diet that it's very easy for them to fall into malnutrition without access to more expensive shit like enriched products, supplements, and even just fruits and vegetables. Like all the effects of the climate crisis, this impacts those least responsible first.
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Maybe this is an unpopular hot take, but I think a good monster girl design should struggle with day-to-day life in a human world. If your monster girl can live a normal human life where her greatest inconvenience is wet dog smell or people assuming her tail is fake, you need to mix more monster in your girl.
Harpies who can't write or type or open most containers with their wings. Werewolves who worry about hurting someone if they get overstimulated at the wrong time. Minotaurs with digestive systems and metabolisms which require grazing throughout the day, not the three big meals humans are used to.
Lamias who have to stay home in the evenings and during cold months to stay warm, otherwise their muscles stop working right and they get stranded.
And they're sick of their human friends suggesting they get some kind of tail sweater. It wouldn't help, the problem is that their body doesn't produce enough heat to begin with, and anyways a tail garment would get in the way of their rectilinear locomotion, and there's no way a sweater would survive being walked on in the first place. It feels like they don't actually care about you being stuck at home whenever they go out, they just want to feel like it's not their fault they never see you.
If your monster girl can't be read as some kind of disability allegory, you're doing something wrong.
Often I think about the questions of how lamias would negotiate a grocery store or how to design a car for a centaur to use, and I try to share these thoughts with other monster fuckers, and they just ask me why I'm bothering thinking about this at all because creature hot in abstract fuck you.
Realized part of the difference is that when I grew up, one of my caregivers was in a wheelchair and still basically ran the household himself. Nobody ever thinks about holding a door open and not standing in the way, or mall outlet aisles getting tighter and tighter to accomodate More Products instead of more people and just bottoming out their clearance for anyone disabled. They don't think about hand controls in cars for creatures without legs, and not only were they not curious about these ideas when I shared them but actively asked me to stop proposing thinking about things. Shit kinda sucks.
ppl on ao3 should use the "this work was inspired by" option more. so many fics out there that put links to other fics in the a/n but theres a better option.....
important addition i forgot that not everyone might know. similar to how ao3 bookmarks work, you can also link to non-ao3 fanworks using this format. so, for instance, if theres some fanart on tumblr that inspired you to write the fic? you can link that fanart to your fic!
coaxing my brain out from under the bed @howdydoodydodis - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
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