#kinda again. for tagging purposes

[fairysylveon]

[codecicle]

Heard this guy made A Tribute to Minecraft (and loves cod, tekkit, and dayz. those are lamer though)

[shepscapades]

Could not be happier that people are starting to get Reaaally Normal /pos about doc. Finally you see my vision. He’s kinda…

[charlotte-family-apologist]

Firstly, your art slaps, especially Suchin and the lore you've created for her; secondly, I love the lore you've created for Outworld races and I am so curious about the multiple types of Vaterians? Do you have any specific thoughts? Hope you're doing well!

(Combining as to not make two posts of the same thing @running-with-the-feels also thank you both for the compliments it means so much 😭 sorry for the wait)

The many types of Vaeternians stem from how just about every culture has its own version of a vampire. Granted the definition of vampire is stretched here.

Vaeternus is very diverse despite its small size with each sub race having their own niche. Nitara would fit the more "classic" Eastern European vampire type which is the most populous.

Certain vampires are exclusive to certain areas/cultures because they either fit the environment well or like the locals' taste, making it their preferred hunting ground.

I do think some would feed off animals but the majority feed off people.

Also staying true to giving each realm its own type of ears, Vaeternians have bat-like ears that vary in size depending on the type.

[starishsky]

love grows where my rosemary goes

[sydneys-adamu]

I’ve seen some say that carmen was trying to use the thought of claire to calm down which obviously didn’t work so he thought of sydney, but I’ve also seen the scene read in the color of claire causing his stress in the first place, again ending in sydney quieting everything down. when you consider how disconnected he was during his night with claire, I’m more with the second choice, but both ultimately lead to syd being the answer all along.

[miutonium]

Its 4 am, I should be sleeping but why is it that I just have the urge to draw and ship her with a pathetic nerd gf??

[system-architect]

my controversial gw2 opinion of the day is that i actually like isgarren. dont get me wrong. i think he's objectively wrong about everything and also kind of a brat. that's the thing and the problem though. i like isgarren because he's kind of a massive whiny tantrum baby fussy drama queen.. he took brat summer and turned it into brat epoch !

[gods-favorite-autistic]

Good evening if you are spoiling the Percy Jackson series for people who haven’t read the books on purpose you’re an asshole

[jrueships]

Ure art is so gorgeous. How come u don't post more?

bcs i may not be well

[anastacialy]

y'know, i keep making a habit of swinging my bat at hornets nests, but i have to say i'm getting so, so tired of people complaining about shows not making perfect sense when they aren't even close to done. we're four episodes into this season of doctor who. we're four episodes into this season of bridgerton. and yet in both fandoms i keep seeing people whine that such and such didn't make sense or it wasn't explained all the way and by god you guys i think maybe explanations might come later in the season. this is something most viewers will recognize as being called a 'plot.'

[loki-ioki]

quick drawing of a custom i got earlier on twitter from ughg0blin. Clockwork Rewind (or simply just "Magie") is the oopsie mystery egg baby of Trixie & Discord (the first of 3 separate times this happens to him.) Their magic is time based tho it tends to simply use this magic to help it's mother fix stage show fuck ups.

[chromaclopse]

[Image Description: Digital fan art of Prince Sidon from Legend of Zelda. His eyes are locked with the viewer's, and he's grinning widely with excitement and determination. He's nude, and flexing his muscular left arm over his chest, cutting off the rest of his body so that only his arm, chest, and face are visible. A tiny set of sparkles radiate off his face. He's illuminated from above and to the right by off-screen sunlight, and set against a splotchy, sparkly blue and yellow background. The artist's signature, CLOPSE in all caps, is printed above his head. / end Image Description]

so im back on my zelda bullshit and uhh sorry everyone this is a sidon fanblog now

also im very new at writing image descriptions so please feel free to critique, im not sure what the right balance is between straightforward description and artistic flair

i tend towards over-indulgence when it comes to writing so let me know if thats whats happening or if i was too restrained or any other issue please and thank u <3

[moe-broey]

Like how are you gonna be romance-repulsed while essentially functionally being a self-shipper. This IS a trick question but also it is undeniably an unfathomably stupid position to be in. And Yet

[hauntingblue]

Inept 8 year old boy dragon tries to save floating island is such a concept

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

[THURSDAY]

Buried Alive - Outlived Family - "Not growing old was fun at first, but then everyone around me started dying."

Hi! Hello! We're here, Late To The Event. Technically, we have plans for all these days! We only remembered this event was ongoing halfway through the week, and by then... well, you know how it is. Technically, this isn't fully compliant with the prompt, but it's close enough that we figure it counts, since outliving his entire family was actually slightly less impactful than outliving his husband for our boy.

Fic below the cut, and @species-whump-weekly we sincerely hope this isn't too late to count.

You have been asleep for long enough that you aren't even sure if he'll still be alive.

His swarm finds you before you find them.

Marina gasps when she sees you. She's years older, now - wings worn at the edges, shell thin and flimsy, aged far beyond the young butterfly you saw her as last.

She looks older than you ever have been. She looks older than you suspect you ever will be.

Her father, your friend – your paramour, your years-long companion – isn’t with her. You fear, for a moment, you’ve stumbled upon them too late. You nearly cringe away from the migration them and there, fearful of discovering yet another thing that’s slipped away while you hibernated.

But you don’t have the heart to walk away.

He’s been waiting for you.

He is old, and frail, and dying. You can taste the creeping end in his veins from the moment you step foot into the tent. His shell is pitted with age, now, cracked and chinked in places, brittle enough that you fear taking his hand will hurt him. Time has weathered him, his wings transparent and paper-thin around him, and you… you stay the same, looking just as young as the day you first met him on the stolen life of those who unearthed your grave.

“I knew you’d come back,” he tells you. “You wouldn’t die that easily.”

You hold his frail, trembling claw in both of yours. You aren’t sure how he can say that so confidently. He has always had more faith in you than you have in yourself.

He invites you to drain him.

You hesitate, at first. Every instinct you have picked up over your long, long life is screaming for you to run. To survive, to keep your secret- he knows, and it's against everything you've ever learned to remain, to let him speak, to not preserve your life-

He knows. But maybe he's known for a long, long time.

You take his offer. You take his life.

You know what it is that killed him the moment you bite. The magic of the wastes, the low hum that seeps into your bones, the constant background noise that sometimes threatens to tear you apart - it gathers within him, down to the deepest parts of his shell. There are lumps of flesh in his heart, his lungs, full of the same mind-jarring, skull-shattering buzz.

He has the wasteland sickness.

You think that, perhaps, he has had the wasteland sickness for a long time.

You drain him until he is dry, until every last flicker of the wasteland sickness is gone from his body, until he is stiff and his flesh holds the texture of jerky, and you let your fangs linger on his shrivelled veins until you can't bear to remain anymore.

You are sick, the next day.

And the day after that, and the day after that.

The buzz is in your bones, now - too close, too loud, rattling through your shell like a twisted beast. You have the wasteland sickness, stolen from his dying body, and it is trying to take you the way it took him.

You do not die.

You don't know if it's a blessing or a curse, anymore.

It is energy. It is vitality, the buzzing, throbbing pulse beyond the heart of a beast on a scale you cannot comprehend.

It is life force, and you can stomach it just the same.

A week passes. Two weeks. The symptoms slow, as you digest it. It becomes your life, your energy, it bends to keep you alive, it becomes you, while you lie weak and dizzy and throwing up blood.

It becomes you. You become it, in turn.

It is the last pulse of your husband, and you refuse to waste it.

You stumble out of the tent two weeks later, exhausted and bearing injuries you cannot see with your naked eyes. You are tired, and hurt, and you have burnt through most of the life you had, but you are alive.

His body is still waiting for you.