#hope everyone is doing well tonight

[reallybadblackoutpoems]

traits and stories of the welsh peasantry (1849) - anne beale

"all hallows' een"

[masquenoire]

Teeny tiny snupdate regarding the new ball python! He's settled in so well and has become a lovely, cuddly - even kissy snake. He was really quite shy to start off with, even handling was scary for him as even though he didn't ball up, he would flinch a lot at unexpected movements. Two months down the line, he seems to really enjoy coming out, nice long tongue flickers and wanting to check everything out. ❤️

[avasefullofnations]

An election night like tonight honestly freaks me out so bad in part because of how many stories I heard years later from people who almost gave up in 2016 after hearing the results. No matter the outcome I'm sure that there will be people in tough situations due to this election.

I know it's tough but please don't give up hope and if needed, please reach out to personal, community, or national resources for help should you need it.

Here are a few resources in case you need it:

Suicide hotline: 988

Domestic abuse hotline: 800-799-7233 or text "BEGIN" to 88788

An explanation of suicide safety plans if you have a history of suicidal thoughts and want to have a safety plan in place in case you experience such thoughts tonight/this week

One example of a grounding/safety box for those who want to make one in preparation with things on hand

[ihamtmus]

.

[hwanwooyoung]

been a bad day I'm sorry for not going through my tag today 😔

[byanyan]

spent most of my day just completely zoned out negl

[svgurugeto]

[good-beans]

I love my online names and stuff but what if I want everyone ever to call me my real name ;-;

[your-local-uwu-artist]

sleepover~

had a lot of fun with this, I wanted to practice poses, character interaction, and composition: + I wanted to try out a softer color scheme ...well as soft as my endless love for super saturated colors allows

[readymades2002]

oughhhhhhh i have no idea how im going to be able to start packing my things TT_______TT

[that-was-anticlimactic]

i'm rereading the httyd books bc i convinced one of the book club groups in my second period to use the first one as their book club book... anyways, i'm fifty pages into the seventh one, which is the book where my memory starts getting the most foggy (the last time i reread the series, it was like... 2021? 2022? i think spring 2021 maybe? anyways, i got like a third of the way through the seventh before finals and such and then worked a rigorous job over the summer and then had my class schedule from hell, so while i remember the general premise of the seventh-the end, i don't remember it like i remember books one-six and i am. i know this is where it starts to get ANGSTY beyond belief and i am SO EXCITED

[thylionheart]

The Homer literalists are coming for my blood in the notes

Jorge save me

[dwarf-vader-of-middle-earth]

I... I'm crying. People are so nice. So fucking nice and kind and lovely. Someone sent me money just now with the message "Get yourself a pizza." I'm literally in tears rn. Thank you, whoever you are. I love you, I love you, I love you. I've barely been out of bed, let alone eating right.

[0rchidm4ntis]

FREEDOM AT LAST

[littledreamling]

∇ - old age/aging headcanon (for dream and hob if they were human rather than immortal, i suppose)

Oh my friend, you have just unlocked a side of my mind that's rarely seen but so so feral!

From this headcanon meme!

I absolutely adore aging Hob and Dream. Even outside of a human au, I love the thought of them growing old together. Age continues to exist, even if the physical evidence of it (and indeed, the end result of it) does not. Hob still ages; each year that passes is another year since he last saw his mother, another year since he last rode a horse (he really wants to get back into that and keeps telling himself that this year will be the year, but it never is), another year since he heard his oldest friends' laughter. He feels the weight of his immortality every single day, and it's not an unbearable weight, but it hangs off of his shoulders nonetheless. Dream, too, ages. Perhaps not in the same way; his life is not measured in the same way as human lives are, he does not count each passing second as an added second to his never-ending, eternal clock, nor does he measure the length of the road behind him (or the road ahead of him) in human years. Yet he ages. If learning and growing and changing are all marks of growing up and growing old, then he is doing both. He was not always; for a long time, he had been stuck in time, neither adapting nor maturing in any conceivable way, but recent events (and a certain immortal mortal) have dragged him firmly into the realm of the aging.

And it's a good thing! Hob had learned the old aphorism long ago: change or die, and he had chosen to live. Living means changing; changing with the times, changing outlooks, changing opinions, changing biases. He is a master of change, moving from one life to the next with all the fluidity of a rushing river. His ability to do so is his aging. Likewise, Dream's willingness to, if nothing else, at least see Hob's point of view about change, shows his own aging.

But you didn't send this ask to hear me wax poetic about the philosophy of aging or changing, so here are my thoughts on old, human Dreamling.

Dream is a grumpy old man. He's the old man who worked every day of his life, without break or vacation, and his body is punishing him for it. He was definitely an artist of some kind, maybe a sculptor, maybe something else. It doesn't matter; at the end of his day, his knees click and his knuckles are swollen with arthritis and all of the muscles that had built up in his shoulders have languished in his old age. He can't hold a paintbrush or spin a pottery wheel anymore and it eats him alive with every sunrise. Hob, on the other hand, is the singular spot of warmth and light in Dream's life. Hob, a retired soldier, or maybe a life-long construction worker, has kept his sunny disposition (and, infuriatingly, his fit frame) into his older years. They're the quintessential grumpy one/sunshine one, though anyone who knows them personally knows that Dream has a soft spot for children, and for birds, and for anyone who has a story to tell, while Hob has a mean streak a mile wide if you get on his bad side. They spend their days sitting at the kitchen table, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea, or sitting on their front porch, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea, or sitting on a bench in their local park, cradling warm cups of coffee or tea. They always have warm cups of coffee or tea. They're well-known at the coffee shop, and Hob will recount the story of how they met in that very same shop loudly and at length to anyone who asks (and sometimes to people who don't).

On days when Dream feels as though he can't get out of bed, like his body is too heavy for the world, like his mind has fallen into such disrepair as to be unusable, Hob is the one who sits next to him, a warm hand on his shoulder, and affectionately calls him a drama queen. He'll roll his eyes at his husband's antics, but he'll bring him breakfast in bed anyway. And when Hob is haunted by old nightmares of a long life, not always well-lived, Dream will hold one of their countless books in long, shaking fingers, and he will read to his husband, poems and epic tales, and Dream won't tell Hob that he's not reading, he's reciting, because his quiver and eyesight have gotten so bad that he can't see the words clearly, but he knows them in his heart. And Hob won't tell Dream that he doesn't need to go through the trouble, that it's his presence that's grounding, not the words he's speaking; he'll sit in his presence and let the wash of words roll over him like a comforting tide, drowning his bone-deep anxieties. He'd listen to his husband read the phone book and still find enjoyment in that deep voice and the cadence of his tone.

And when they die, because they do die, they die together. Not in time, mind you, but in company. Surrounded by friends and family, the younger siblings of the Endless family, the children they adopted and the grandchildren, both blood-related and not. Morpheus dies first, his body breaking at the seams. He dies in his sleep, napping on the couch while Hob cooks dinner, and his last words are breathed into the quiet room, asking Hob for a blanket. The funeral is a somber affair, a solemn celebration of everything Morpheus had been; an artist, a husband, a father, a flawed man. The entire town attends, even those who had gotten yelled at from across the lawn or across the park (Dream had taken grave offense to anyone disrupting the local bird population, a story that gets told at the reception with teary eyes and wobbly smiles). When Hob gets home, their entire family is there, warm and laughing and joyful and he can feel his husband in the room, in the people they both had dedicated their lives to.

When Hob dies a week later, no one is surprised. It's his daughter who finds him, curled up on the very same couch, wrapped in the very same blanket, tucked lovingly around him, as if someone else had draped the quilt over his shoulders. She cries, because he was her father, and she loved him, and a part of her had hoped that he would be around forever. But there is a larger part, a much larger part, that finds comfort in the sight. Hob and Dream were never meant to be separated. Wherever they are, she reasons (because they were never a religious family), they are together. For now and forever. As they always should be.

[byanyan]

so i got distracted trying out marvel rivals— more writing tomorrow (hopefully 🤞)