#havent posted a dream in a while

[synthsays]

And if a double-decker bus, crashes into us~

[semiotomatics]

i have a ~dream question~

[bfdifan26]

autism finally caught my ass

[frogintheair]

🍞🐉 sketch dump

extras v

[anxiously-sidequesting]

SPEAKING OF WHICH are there like any chill wizard101 discord servers or group chats that I could join. Or if anyone just wanna add me on discord shoot me a tumblr DM because I'm lonely and I like you guys :)

[valeriianz]

proof that i have finally started working on @watercubebee's Charro Dream AU. im having way too much fun imagining Hob as a cowboy with a thick accent, but that's for another story... here's a little something to tide you over until I get my thoughts reigned in properly (also thanks to @fractalspaces for helping me with the research!):

Hob sighs, ducking down just as a glass flies through the air and smashes against the wall behind him, reaching for his rifle hidden behind the bar.

Everyone’s guns remained on the table tops, for now. But Hob could feel the tension in the dry air, swelling like a barrel of whiskey until the room stank with it. Hob felt a bead of sweat trail down the back of his neck as he reamerged from the dusty shelves and witnessed the first punch thrown among the shouting; the crack of knuckles connecting with bone enough to get any man sitting to stand, and the women to shriek, running to the walls.

Hob raised his rifle high in the air, bringing the butt of the gun down on his thigh while grabbing the end of the barrel, cocking it loudly while shouting to be heard over the noise of drunken patrons.

“Alright chuckleheads,” Hob drawled, one finger curled around the trigger. “Y’all best wise up before I start aiming.”

“Ah, whaddya know about shootin’, bar dog?” 

“I know you aint got nothin’ under that hat but hair,” Hob proclaimed, swinging the rifle forward and getting both hands on it properly. “Shall we find out?”

Before Hob had mind enough to worry, the swinging doors of the canteen squeak loudly with the arrival of someone new. Hob looked over as everyone else did, finding a man dressed in all black standing at the threshold. 

A silence falls over the dusty room and the stranger lifts his head, eyes scanning the tables and the men, who are frozen in place, breathing heavily from the brawl that had unexpectedly simmered down. His skin is pale, almost unnaturally white against the black on black ensemble, from his wide brimmed hat, studded jacket, form fitting pants, and boots. 

The man’s trailing gaze finds Hob, forcing him to swallow as he slowly puts one foot in front of the other, the floorboards creaking under his weight and the spurs of his boots clinking with every step. His eyes flit to the side as he advances, blue as the sky and twice as bright, silently taking in the scene before him: men openly staring, their mustaches wet with spit and whiskey, begin to whisper among themselves. Hob can hear it, over the prominent buzzing of a fly above him. 

The dark clad man raises one eyebrow before looking at Hob again, clearing a space at the bar with his mere presence. Hob sets his gun down, too wary to put it away just yet, and eyes the stranger up and down. He’s built like a snake on stilts; tall and thin, his suit seemingly tailored to his body. Up close now, Hob can see silver embroidery on his black bolero jacket, depicting something like Aztec. He wears a silk tie that looks as if it’s never seen daylight, dark red, like bruised rose petals, creamy smooth against shiny buttons.

“What are they saying?” 

“Hm?” Hob intones, taken aback by the man’s deep voice and accent. Though he recognizes it now, along with the man’s clothes. Then he listens to the murmuring around them and has to laugh softly. “El Charro Negro,” Hob proclaims, relaxing his stance and leaning against the bar. “A legend around these parts, and not the good kind, mind you.”

The man is indeed dressed in all black, even his dress shirt and buttons, but his eyes are not menacing, like the myth suggests. Quite the contrary, Hob thinks, as he studies him. He is handsome, and not in the roguish way a cowboy is, but upstanding and bizarre, clean cut and pressed. Hob has a brief thought of roughing him up, in more ways than one, but imagines under those clean clothes and curious gaze lies a quiet power, buzzing just under the surface.

It’s enough to make Hob’s mouth water.

[lovely-v]

last night i had a dream that i randomly had to perform the role of Rosencrantz and/or Guildenstern in Hamlet (<- not a theatre kid, has never been in a play, has never actually read Hamlet) and this morning i woke up to see a post on my tumblr dash about Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. what does it all mean

[mellohirust]

im sooooo normal about c!ranboo im so so normal im sooooo sane and neurotypical about him.

[acaesic]

man. i wanna get back into multifandom stuff but at the same time i cannot feel anything for things that arent idkhow anymore :,)

[klesek]

novem-bur day 9: dsmpbur! 1st is my design dead ghostbur, but specifically spirit from fwiatc :3 (a few details abt him under the cut for funsies) 2nd. lovejoy lyric. cwilbur. throws him at a wall. u get me 3rd i Think this i drew that w the intention of him being lmanburg or early pogtopia cwilbur ? not sure but i like it and drew it for this so. u get him

prompt list

(fwiatc link) so. spirit. dead ghostbur. his whole thing in fwiatc is 1. he got run over by a train dw abt it and 2. hes aware that hes a character in a story (as in the dsmp story not the fic story that level of 4th wall breaking still isnt for a good while lmao) and so therefore, that, of course, creates conflict in cc!wgpitftf(x)wiatcetothatcaus ! theres a damn reason why its called cc!wilbur gets punched in the face. because he does. by spirit. i would talk more abt him here but it is late and im going to sleep!

[yourgaydads]

[lordsardine]

.

[ruerock]

🧸 !

[theftshrubbery]

long hair

[leehaechan]

💖💛💙

[wingsandpetals]

f/o i haven't thought about in a while shows up in my dreams. you want me so bad it makes you look stupid