#empty stretch

[thatmightyheart]

developed a sudden and urgent fancy for royhavocai

[raqi-marr]

autismffini who's got that echolalia, but because they're an affini even their verbal stims have devastating hypnotic potential. she's hanging out with all the doll florts and they're just stood there going "wawa!" "awawawa!" "ababababa!" at each other. she decides to join in, but when she does it, because of the way affini talk it's suddenly like everyone is in this echo chamber with ten different voices saying "wawa" at slightly or entirely different pitches, tones, and maybe even lengths

the repetitive and slightly rhythmic nature of the wawa'ing in particular has a way of getting stuck inside of one's head, regardless of how goofy it is, and the affini in question is somewhat perplexed when all the dolls start going glassy-eyed and their own wawas gradually slow down and become more and more slurred as she keeps going

[suntails]

🐍⚔️

[monstersdownthepath]

Fun Pathfinder lore, presented succinctly as possible:

[call-me-pup2]

Knotted and ready to sleep. Already so needy even though I've just cum, I'm going to be a mess when I wake up I just know it 😳😣😣

[hzdtrees]

red light

[giraffeshavefourstomachs]

morning tummy 🥱

sounds like my tummy had a good night’s sleep, it’s stretching as it wakes up, working out all the little kinks in its system and groaning in relief when a stretch hits just right…

that’s exactly what i do when i wake up, plus the grumbling noises my tummy’s now making are kinda cute… 🤭

[samuelroukin]

guys i really, really hate to ask again but i have 13 euros and a week before i get paid, if there's anyone who could spare a few bucks i'd be incredibly grateful 😭

p*ypal

k*fi

[revive-the-fandom]

Love the maps! I am curious as to why you've put the northern markets where you did though. The show isn't always great with its cartography but at one point Snotlout did say the northern markets were in the opposite direction to Berk (from Dragon's Edge)

I would love to talk about the maps!!

but chief, i gotta say... you make a good point on this one.

I think there's so many inaccuracies within the shows geography (within how they describe directions, esp things like Outcast Island) that I dismissed Snotlout's tidbit as just, one of those things.

but actually, I don't really see any reason why I couldn't move it more North, so it's just South of Caldera Cay?? It wouldn't make it "the opposite direction" so much as like.. west instead of south. but still, it would put the point across that there's a visible difference in direction

- and it would also make sense as to how the Defenders of the Wing would be able to get there and trade with people

- and it would explain the heightened Hunter prescene since it'd be deeper into Hunter territory.

- and it would explain why it's the Northern markets to people outside of Berk...

I may have to do some fiddling, hmm.

but mostly I was concerned that the official map seems to put the Northern Markets further away from the Edge than Berk? Like if Berk is easier to get to, then go to Berk?? Not the Hunter infested, expensive, probably illegal trade centre?

but I would be against putting it any further west, since it's supposed to be close to the Edge than Berk. putting it further east would push it out of Hunter territory, which doesn't work for the vibes (and Hunter presence). it's already as South as I dare put it. too far North and it interrupts the Eruptodon's migration to Vanaheim, which, a market is gonna attract ships from all directions so Caldera -> Vanaheim has to stay pretty clear. plus too close to Caldera Cay and the Riders would have found it before Viggo pointed it out.

so.. I'd probably nudge it to just above Gustav's Treasure Island, but not much more than that? idk, thoughts?

[the-game-spirit]

feeling the overwhelming urge to replay isat for like the 5th time lads

[fancifulflora]

(SFW) been wanting to cry for some angsty stuff for ATOC, can I request a hc list of how would X, D, R and A react when the Crown is fatally injured, possibly shot by an arrow or stabbed?

Maybe an extra rrq that the Crown is a gentle, cinnamon roll type, that overly kind soul you'd want the least to get hurt but yeah now they're dying

The editor for this tumblr ask literally crashed when i was almost done with X's entry and I've never felt more devastated in my entire life ksahkj. There is also something very similar to this prompt though, it's more about the Crown sacrificing themselves for the ROs. If you're interested in that I'll link it here

I apologize if this isn't the best but I'll try to redo what I can

Azad/Ashti

You were absolutely foolish to get yourself hurt. No matter how kind-hearted you may have been, the Imperial Guard was made to lay down their lives for you. Any injuries you sustained was a stain upon their honor, their own failure to complete their duties.

The Royal Protector fights the icy cold waves of guilt washing over them. They save the lectures and punishments for another time because all that matters in that moment is you.

Their first priority is to get you to safety, the only sign you may see of their inner turmoil not found in their words, but their actions.

The protector's hands shake ever so slightly as they apply pressure to your wounds, hoping to staunch that they can before the healers arrive. A cold sweat chills them down to their very core as they listen for your pulse- only to find it fading away by the second.

They try to reassure you, but it doesn't work. In desperation, they find themselves practically ordering you to keep your eyes open, to not leave them while they're trying to save your life- tightening your bandages up. The unspoken words of concern and love dying in their throat when they look up to see just why you haven't responded.

By the time the healers do arrive, it takes their combined effort to finally pry the Royal Protector from your side.

Dara/Delal

Having served in the military for so long, the General was used to the bloodshed and horror of it all. Gore, suffering, and pain were things they could stomach. Or a least, the ability to do so was required of them.

It's when they see the arrow impaled in your skin, smell the metallic scent of red staining their cloak that the General realizes they may have been wrong. A complex bundle of emotions stirs under those layers of armor, but they have the strength to push through and remain vigilant.

If not for you, then for their own sanity.

Without a second thought, they tear their cloak, torn strips used to either secure the arrow in place and prevent it from moving. If not that, then to help stop the bleeding of any wounds.

They hold their Crown close, all propriety forgotten as the only thing on their mind is you. You need them in this moment and the last thing they'd ever do is fail you. Even if it's killing them on the inside.

What you need in these moments is strength, a shoulder or person to lean on. Which is why they allow you to squeeze the life from their hands. They listen to your weakened voice, giving you the same, almost practiced, words of reassurance they've given countless others.

Yet something about the words this time shakes the General to their core. This time, it feels entirely too raw, like a hundred old wounds made fresh again. The feeling paralyzes them, the unadulterated fear deep in their hardened expression.

As the situation worsens and all seems lost, the General straightens themselves, remaining by your side and keeping a steadfast vigil by your side. Never once do they stray from you. Even as crowds of healers all frantically apply aid to no avail. They remain by your side even as the anguished cries from loyal allies and friends alike sound throughout the halls at news of the inevitable.

And there they remain, even when the last wisps of golden sunlight in those eyes of yours wither away.

Rozerîn/Rêzan

To say that you were everything to the Sorcerer would be an understatement. They had found themselves and their entire life turned upside down by your very being, your warmth and kindness endearing you to the Sorcerer.

You were their purpose, and their friend.

So it's surprise that when they rush to your side, panic and fear overtakes them. The tension is almost palpable in the air as they order, practically beg for others to secure your safety- to fetch the healers- to do something.

It's also in this very moment that they curse their own abilities, or lack thereof. Healing magic simply wasn't a big priority, especially when there were so many others who could look after your health and safety.

If only they had studied more - practiced more- perhaps paid more attention to their surroundings or kept a better eye over the many enemies of Arsur.

A gentle hand, your hand, frees them from the mental prison they were trapped in, lifting the weight of guilt and shame enough for them to focus on pouring every once of themselves to saving you.

You had saved them, been there by their side from the very start.

They had to return the favor, to repay you for all your trust.

Those sentiments ring through their head, repeated over and over again like a mantra as they feel a sharp pain in their skull. Hands trembling from the sheer amount of magic they were using.

The darkness, a very similar one you once saved them from sets its familiar claws into them, the Sorcerer collapsing besides you- their fists bunching up the fabric of your clothing. With what little strength they can muster, the Sorcerer pulls you to their chest, cradling their dying star to their chest.

Xelara/Xelef

The mercenary was a mess. Clever words had long left them by the time they reached your side. Instead there were only frantic, broken phrases of concern and orders to remain still less your wounds worsen.

It almost feels out of character for them, at least, for those who only knew the mercenary by reputation. Having lived the life they did and taking on a profession that exposes them to danger so very often; the Pale Sword had a relationship with death that bordered on being blasé. Even when other Crescent Blades fell in battle, their leader could keep a rational mind about it. For many, this helped to cement the band of mercenaries as relentless, a force to be reckoned with.

If only the gossip mongers and general public could see them now, form hunched over your own. The corner of their vision blurred from the stinging of tears threatening to spill.

They had expected an end like this for them, perhaps even desiring it over the withering they'd have to endure from aging, but for you? Nothing like this was supposed to happen to you. You were the Crown of Arsur. The leader of millions that all relied on you being safe and well. And, perhaps more importantly to the mercenary, you were also the keeper of their heart.

Were? No, you are the Crown of Arsur. And you will live through this. You have to. Otherwise...

The Pale Sword ends the notion right then and there, focusing on the present and being by your side. By now, they've done what they can for you, whether through what general first aid they know or through the healing magics of one of their Blades.

Moving you was out of the question, the very attempt to do so drawing a loud cry of pain from your lips. A wince of guilt burns in the mercenary as they pull back, trying to keep your focus on them instead of the carnage of battle.

The feeling of helplessness isn't an unfamiliar one to the mercenary, however, it's one that the Pale Sword despises to their very core. But what could they do for you that hasn't already been done? What could they do to ease your undeserved suffering?

What they do best.

Lie.

It only takes a moment for mercenary to pull their act together, a practiced, albeit softer smile, gracing their features. What would have been smoothed, honeyed lies of your condition fall flatter than they'd like. Your weak smile tells them as such, a weakened, forced laugh humoring the mercenary and giving them one last act of kindness they know deep down they do not deserve. Nevertheless, they embrace the comfort wholeheartedly, bringing the back of your chilled hands to their lips, their touch- their kiss, returning your gift with one last hug of warmth before the light in you fades away.

[ruvikdraws]

and finally the art summary of 2024!!

[once-and-future-alaskan]

The air is heavy with exhaust trails crisscrossing and dissipating in every direction. Streaks of light scatter in wide spreading arcs. Missiles, both surface to air and air to air, and the tracers of anti air guns far below. I think I even see the odd burst of flack, but i have to be imagining that.

Been in this fight too long, minds playing tricks.

It's getting harder to see my allies in the thick of all this, I check the radar. Their IFFs keep getting fewer and farther apart. I hear a screaming tone and a womans voice, I reflexively shove the stick as far to the left as it'll go and send the fighter rolling wing over wing. The missile streaks past and the warning system goes quiet again, leaving me with my thoughts and the groaning of the airframe.

The National Armory has taken the MiG-29M far beyond it's limits, no airframe, no matter how old, can be wasted in this war. The Super Fulcrum flies higher, faster, runs better and can take twice the beating she could take when she first rolled off the assembly line in 2005. She's even achieved the rare distinction of so called "Hyper-Maneuverability." The aces in their modern 7th gen fighters may look down their noses at us second liners in our "salvage jobs," but i know i can take a sort of pride in knowing I'm twice the pilot they'll ever be.

Shame how little that means now.

Raw skill and technical capability fails in the face of an enemy with technological and economic superiority. What good is dog fighting against a swarm of fighter sized drones that has you outnumbered 10:1 with the ability to kill you before you even see them on radar?

The sound of the burning metal of my flight leads plane falling over me is your answer. Sounds like the rain. I pull out of the roll and enter a dive, radars a mess with blinking red IFF signatures all over me. I have to keep maneuvering for now, look for an opening.

Getting hard to think. The comms are a mess. AWACs is gone, not sure when that happened. Chain of command has collapsed, everyone's talking over each other. Brass won't give the order to withdraw and stopped answering our calls. Blues theory we were just a diversion for commands golden boy's mission is looking more and more right by the minute. I wonder-

A burst of gunfire streaks past my cockpit. I ease the stick up out of the dive, aiming for a sheer cliff face, the drones haven't let up. The afterburner is on full and the cliff is filling my view screen. I wait until it's all i can see before rapidly decelerating and angle the nose for another climb, at least four fighters overshoot me and slam into the cliff face. Six are still on me, I kick the afterburner to maximum again.

Chaos still reigns on comms. I check the IFF, Blues signature is gone. I think about retreating. I'd have to go AWOL, retreating without authorization would be desertion and desertion is treason and traitors are shot. I keep climbing, I can't do anything with these things on me.

There's a grinding noise, sheering metal, and I begin spinning out uncontrollably. I look to my left and see my wing is gone. The old girl finally gave out after all this time.

I key my comms, "There's a hole in my left wing." I report and turn off the radio, the drones peel off in my peripheral vision. The cockpits rattling, airframe failing, and warnings blaring create the chorus to my last minutes. I fight with the stick to keep us pushing upwards into the heavens through the death spin, the canards and vertical stabilizers are forced to fight beyond their limits in support of my lost cause.

The altimeter clicks higher in my HUD and I can see the sky begin to shift from cloudless blue to twilight purple. The automated system begs me to eject eject eject ej-

I disable the warning system. At last, i reach my zenith. The purple twilight is stretching into the beginnings of stars. I let go of the stick.

I unlatch the breathing mask, like taking a muzzle off my snout.

I open my jaws, and breathe my last.

[thewhimsyturtle]

Tall Tuesday climbing up and over my hidey hut to get to . . . my completely empty plate!? MOM!!

[saetiate]

WAIT MEETING RIN AT YOGA CLASS