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else.social
Else
@else.social
1.6K followers 800 following 4.4K 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
and then @scolopendravisage.bsky.social made me a delicious skirt steak sandwich!

I am living my best life <3
an extremely photogenic sandwich
November 7, 2025 at 5:26 AM
else.social
I had a thought about using princessification horror and the shapes that bad ends can take ...
Every year, the Revolutionary Congress meets to determine what agenda the New Republic will enact. Before these luminaries turn their minds to the state's needs, they reenact their victory over the old aristocracy. Every play needs actors, and this year you will become the Emerald Princess. You will be pampered and loved, as she was; you will be unthinkingly cruel, as she was; and you will suffer and die so that the New Republic can be born, just as she did. This is not the fate you sought for yourself. Few do, even those who love the New Republic above all else, and heaven knows that you do not—but escape is unthinkable, and as you become more and more like the Emerald Princess so too do the chains wrapped around your mind grow tighter. You will die for the glory of the New Republic. This is inevitable. But so was the rule of kings.
November 3, 2025 at 5:39 PM
else.social
Steppy
a photograph of a pair of Doc Martens 1B60 Bex knee-high boots. They're black and shiny
November 1, 2025 at 11:02 PM
else.social
watching people die in horrifying ways is so much fun
a slightly glitchy selfie of a woman with weird makeup. she's curled up next to a couch
November 1, 2025 at 12:03 AM
else.social
makeup for staying home & watching horror movies
a mirror selfie of a fucked up mime or something. there's black ooze dripping from one of her eyes and tentacles clawing out of the other
October 31, 2025 at 9:54 PM
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Getting ready for the function.
A photograph of a white woman dressed as Doctor Cerulean: weird blue makeup, a hideous sweater worn under a grey cardigan, and an ominous notebook. She looks rather bored.
October 24, 2025 at 7:05 PM
else.social
Smoke.
Fran doesn't want to die, as surprising as that might seem to someone who only knows her well enough to see the death drive endlessly pushing her forward into reckless choices and dangerous situations that never quite seem dangerous enough. It's not about death, for her. Not really. She doesn't care for the grave's silence or the welcoming void, though if she were ever to be truly honest with herself she'd admit that she doesn't really believe in either of them. It's hard to, with a family like hers, knowing that none of them ever really end. Peel back her death drive's shell and you'll find a simple, childish wish. And then she'd kill you, of course, because letting you live would mean admitting the truth to herself and that would break her in a small, important way. Fran doesn't want to die—she just doesn't want to be herself, and, perhaps, someday, something bad enough will happen to her that she won't be any more, and she'll shed everything she was and drift through the world like smoke from a dying flame. But don't tell her that. She isn't ready to know.
October 20, 2025 at 4:52 PM
else.social
look at how pretty she is
a bottle of fancy red perfume in a mirrored box
October 17, 2025 at 2:01 AM
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🩸
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
October 10, 2025 at 7:05 PM
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I am soooo late for the function, oh nooo
a tastefully glitchy selfie of a goth woman. there are a lot of mirrors.
October 4, 2025 at 12:41 AM
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NYC is a pretty cool place 🪶
A photograph of monk parakeets perched on the top of a tree. One of them is caught in the moment of landing, its wings pulled up behind it. A photograph of monk parakeets perched on the outside of a massive communal nest constructed on a gothic spire. One of them is in flight against a bright blue sky. A starling peers around the edge of the nest.
September 23, 2025 at 4:16 PM
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Anyway.
A mirror selfie of a white woman dressed in a deliciously textured black outfit, with lacy sleeves and a waist corset and a ruffled collar. In its hand is a raven-skull mask.
September 13, 2025 at 6:17 PM
else.social
Did you (yes, you!) know that I actually finishing writing stories (*gasp!*) from time to time? Really, it's true!

I remembered this one from last year the other day, as I knelt retching and drooling with fresh tears painting my cheeks, and, well ... enjoy! ^-^

maybeelse.site/words/untitl...
Her stomach clenches and she desperately holds her mouth shut, hands clamped tight over her thin surgical mask. Some of the other passengers glance at her; she’s breaking public transit’s unspoken agreement, drawing attention to herself. It’s fucking embarrassing. It’s really not helping. The vomit, when it finally comes bubbling up, is a thousand gooey pearls. They collect in the space between her lips and the mask, spurting out around its edges each time her throat spasms, thick slime insinuating its way through the mask’s fibers to stain her hands with filth. Her stomach is tight and insistent; her thighs ache. Someone starts to say something as the train screeches into a station—she doesn’t know which one, it doesn’t matter—and disgusted laughter chases her out into the humid summer night. Another spasm hits her before she can get off the platform, and she falls to her knees, her hands braced against the filthy concrete. Her entire body shakes as it rejects its contents; she doesn’t hear the train doors close, but she can feel the remaining passengers’ eyes on her as it departs. She really hopes that they can’t see how hard she is.
September 11, 2025 at 7:17 PM
else.social
A while back I tried writing a noir-ish story about a witch who keeps on getting murdered, as seen from the perspective of her mildly traumatized lover. It didn't quite work; I think my mistake was not making her extremely horny about the idea of being killed and coming back wrong ...
They dumped her corpse down by the lake, like she was nothing but garbage. Didn't even bother shoving her into the water. Traumatic for the kids who stumbled across her, but they shouldn't be down there anyway. Too many kelpies lurking around, not to mention the crows. It's dim and overcast by the time you make it down there, drizzling just hard enough to make your life miserable. Noon in the city, and it might as well be midnight for all the good the dying sun does. Someone's staked out a ring of lanterns around her, their metal rods linked by strangely gooey strands of thick yellow yarn. Not the strangest ward you've seen. The esoteric arts have rapidly proliferated these last few years, sprouting new disciplines and traditions like mushrooms pinning after rain. It manages to keep you out for two minutes. High marks to whoever erected it, though half of its effectiveness is simply because it's *gross*. Your overcoat is probably ruined, anyway, unless the drycleaner can work a few miracles. He might be able to. You've seen the halo hidden under his hat. You click off your flashlight as you step inside, and there she is. Seeing her like this is always hard, though not for the reasons people assume. You don't mind corpses, of course; you got more than enough experience with them back when you were an assistant coroner, before you found out what else you were and everything went to shit. It's the "always" that makes it hard. Maybe if she had the decency to stay dead you could grieve, get some therapy, unpack all your feelings and learn to do better, but this isn't the first time and it won't be the last and it hurts just as much as it did the first time you found her corpse. This is a bad death, even for her. They must have known it wouldn't stick. There's not much to do while you wait, except for looking at her. Evaluating the injuries. Guessing which ones were fatal, which were posthumous, and which were merely punctuation. There's a lot of punctuation, this time. More than usual. And—a business card, clutched between broken fingers. Odd. It takes long enough that you start to wonder whether she's actually dead this time. It takes long enough for the tears to burn your eyes. Then, only then, does life slink back into her body like a jilted lover creeping back, ready to wreck some arcane vengeance upon the architects of its displeasure. She sits up, milky lumps dribbling from the crack in her skull, steaming blood gushing from the gash in her throat. Her surviving eye is cloudy, pupil jittering uncontrollably. Resurrection is a messy business for people like her, mortal bodies infested with eternity's curse, but that's why you're here. In theory. You keep on having second thoughts; someday they'll win. The noise she makes is more gurgle than word, a whimper struggling to crawl out of her ruined throat. A pathetic sound. She'll bleed out again, soon, if she doesn't drown on her own blood first. You could let her. It doesn't matter, she'll just come back to life again. The second time in a row is faster than the first; the third is even faster. More painful, too. Either the curse gets testy or the body gets overwhelmed. But you're not really going to leave her like this, right? Dragging your feet a bit is fine, but ... you have to. Probably. Your prosthetics shudder as you make the decision, their engines beating against the fabric of the Real, warm as a sinner's touch. Eager. So eager. Machinery longs to fulfill its purpose. Not you, though. You're *conflicted.* Your hand hesitates, bleeding sharp false-color afterimages, thrumming with heat, and she stares sightlessly up at you, feeling salvation's warm promise held just out of reach, helpless to reach out and take it. All she can do is whimper and start to die. How many times have you dreamed about this? About how it would feel? Not as many as the nightmares. The memories. They're all the same and they're all different and you're always helpless to do anything but watch as she dies, again and again, screaming, her body tearing itself apart ... You always wake up sweating and panting. Nightmares lie. They're not how it really happened. The ambulance arrived right before her third resurrection, and then it was all over, except for the mess. You can't do that again. Not—not when there's a choice. You already made your decision, after all. Her head is feverishly hot. You can feel it inches before your hand touches her slick, sweaty skin. Your fingertips brush her hair, thick with muddy blood, and she cringes away. What did they do to her, this time? There's no safety to click off, just potential slowly building, momentarily-real shapes clawing their way out of your skin. The bone cartridge crackling with frost, ready to absorb her injuries. The trigger. It's always over so fast.
September 4, 2025 at 5:34 PM
else.social
I fear that I've finally gone too far, dear reader—but my mind burns with the imagined joys that might await!
A glitchy selfie, showcasing a moth's bizarre makeup.
August 28, 2025 at 12:02 AM
else.social
Looking through some of my old unfinished writing, and damn, I should really pick this thread up again ...
"Where did the Liberation get mechs, anyway?" "An alien god gave them to us." You stare at the mechanic. "What? It did," that doesn't sound right, "well, okay, it gave us seeds that grow into mechs—" "Aliens are real!?" "Well, just the one, we think. It's really cagey about the details, honestly, but—" "Waitwaitwait, gods are real!? That can't be right!" "Yeah, I mean, it's a simplification," the mechanic prevaricates, "but it *does* have a halo—" "WHAT" "Would you please stop interrupting me? I'm trying to explain!"
August 26, 2025 at 10:32 PM
else.social
I should call her
a photograph of cut shallots dribbling a milky white liquid
August 20, 2025 at 11:45 PM
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📝
Hold requested on Tender Is the Flesh. You are number 2 in line.
August 18, 2025 at 2:46 PM
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moth behavior
a slightly glitchy mirror selfie of a goth moth in chains
August 16, 2025 at 5:36 AM
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thighs can be edible too, but I'm not sure where this one came from (being intoxicated is really cool and fun, chat)
a bruise on a cute thigh
August 12, 2025 at 2:18 PM
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meat update w/ bonus arm
a photograph of a beautiful bruise a photograph of a slightly less gorgeous bruise
August 12, 2025 at 2:14 PM
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meat
a photograph of a heavily bruised arm.
August 9, 2025 at 9:03 PM
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🤭
a hot goth moth, sshhhh
August 9, 2025 at 1:04 AM
else.social
There. Perfect.
A screenshot of fallen london, showing the result of cheating death with all menaces already at 7, a deeply unwise action undertaken to raise "running from death" high enough to unlock a vanity quality.
August 4, 2025 at 9:53 PM
else.social
I love watching a bunch of losers make horrible choices and ruin their lives (photo unrelated)
a slightly stylized mirror selfie, showing off a lot of skin
August 4, 2025 at 3:35 AM