I'm taking fanart requests!
Finished one, and am working on another atm, hopefully will be done in a week !
Fandoms/pairings I'll draw (added a few!) :
Supernatural : Destiel (Dean x Castiel)
The Sandman : Dreamling (Hob x Morpheus)
Good Omens : Aziracrow (Aziraphale x Crowley)
Our Flag Means Death : Gentlebeard (Stede x Ed)
Resident Evil 4 : Serennedy (Leon x Luis)
Hannibal : Hannigram (Hannibal x Will)
For the sake of this sfw blog, I'll ask for sfw suggestions. Kisses aren't off limit, but nothing too graphic, please. (I know it's a bit vague, sorry, I think I'll figure out more specific boundaries as the asks come in)
(PS: If you're looking for nsfw and furry things, I guess I can do something for you against monetary remuneration)
Disclaimer: I reserve myself the right to not do them, either because of a lack of time/energy, or an abudance or IRL STUFF. This is all in good fun and will remain this way !
Feel free to send in your asks!
Looking forward to your suggestions ;)
I need a polite and effective way to say "hey your heart is truly in the right place and your anger is often righteous but I think sometimes you’re getting recreationally mad about things that are frankly not worth the amount of energy you’re spending on them, and every time you do this you're driving yourself slightly more insane with nothing to show for it," and then I need a way to broadcast that message through a loudspeaker to roughly 30,000 people at once, and THEN I need a time machine to send that message to my past self lol. and maybe a second time machine in case past me tries to be clever and sabotage the version of me who comes through the first time machine
While I understand the desire to make Big Art entirely and viscerally I think it's worth considering that small art often leaves an outsized impact on its audience. Short stories, teensy indie games, short films, sketches on scrap paper, carved or sculpted figures that would fit in the palm of your hand, etc. etc. are all things that, when they hit your psyche at just the right angle, can stay lodged in there forever specifically because they are small. It is not necessary for a thing to be sprawling for it to have impact.
Cartes de Communication Visuelle – 108 cartes à imprimer Ce pack numérique de 108 cartes de communication a été pensé par une personne qui e
Salut Tumblr français neuroa !
J'ai passé de nombreuses heures à me faire des cartes de communication pour mon usage personnel... Je voulais faire un design très sobre pour que ça soit le mieux reçu possible au boulot.
Il y a plusieurs catégories, Transports, Civilités, Urgence, Besoins, Ressentis, Temps, Travail... et des cartes à compléter soi même si on veut ! Je les ai ajoutées sur mon Etsy, si vous êtes intéressés!
Et n'hésitez pas à me suggérer des cartes en plus si vous ne trouvez pas votre bonheur parmi la petite centaine proposée!
Le lien : https://milunevox.etsy.com/listing/4333843564
(I'd like to create a version in english, if anyone's interested ;) )
I live in complete poverty and disability. Trying to make art to sell as prints as I am not getting commissions the way I used to. I am disabled and diabetic, immunocompromised from recent surgery, and I live in a traditional filipino house partially destroyed by storms and termites. I work 3 jobs, but they are all very unstable. Please please please, if you've ever derived joy from my art or insight from my posts or book recs, if you could pick up a print, send a tip, or subscribe to my patreon where I have 400+ exclusive drawings / early access, it would help keep me alive, in the most literal sense. I have been given a second chance at life, and I would like to keep living. Thank you so much
Inprnt / patreon / ko-fi tipping jar / paypaI tipping jar
In case anyone's looking for smoll, proud fox pins... ;)
https://milunevox.etsy.com
I'll make a bunch other animals, colours and flags, so feel free to suggest some in the comments!
(oh, and, to the French neurodivergents out there, I also sell downloadable/printable Communication Cards ;) They're meant to be as neutral looking as possible to be used at work (unless your work place is super whimsical in which case I'm so happy for you where do I apply)
(and to my fellow Dreamling addicts, I also sell pins with my original Sandman and Dreamling fanart)
(planning on doing more in the future if this works out!)
Personal note:
(would be nice if this worked even a little because I'm broke and the department in charge of disability pension is taking its sweet time, like, gotta wait for another 4 to 5 months and it's not even sure I'll get it on the first attempt) (and basically the other aids I'm eligible for have also been frozen because they must process my change in status (I'm officially in a relationship yai), which could take months, and I can't find a job, and aaaaaaaaa, I'm tired.)
Y’ever read something and have understanding that has eluded you interminably suddenly stop, curl up, and snuggle neatly into a fold in your brain because a new way way opened to it?
Somebody help me. I'm drowning. I don't expect 1 person to single handedly rescue me but out 50,000 statistically 15-20 people could buy enough art so I can cobble the money together over the next few days to save my housing, business, life and livelihood. Im at zero.
“TO BE HOPEFUL in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places—and there are so many—where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction. And if we do act, in however small a way, we don’t have to wait for some grand utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.”
[ID: The Destiel meme, edited to say, in the first panel, "I love you", and in the second, "Today Germany passed a law that allows everyone to change their gender by simply going to the registry and telling them to change it." End ID]
legit the best advice i can give you: feed your friends
any time someone is in any kind of crisis or upheaval, offer to feed them. tell them they don't have to choose what it is if they can't make decisions, just ask about allergies and preferences and tell them you're just gonna make food happen at their house.
friend having a baby? delivery gift certificate to order food to the hospital after the kid shows up.
someone's relative passes away? offer to make them dinner.
buddy gets laid off? ask if you can order them lunch.
pal stuck in a depressive episode? offer to drive them to fucking mcdonalds, if that's what they want.
people in crisis are tired and sad and angry and the last thing most of them are doing is thinking about feeding themselves. so if you have the ability or time or money, providing that is always, always a good move.
legit i do this all the time, and it is 100% always appreciated. i have taught all my friends that when something happens, we feed each other. it makes people feel extremely cared for, and I cannot recommend it enough.
I've learned to say "Can I feed you?" to friends, rather than something like "Want to get lunch with me?", because they understand without further clarification that I'm not expecting them to pay.
It has been a hard couple of weeks. In his long life, he's faced more than his fair share of hardships. Yet, he has always found a way to savour life’s pleasures and appreciate every little thing: a nice meal, a warm fire, the first rays of the sun after a long, dreadful night.
Over time, one becomes convinced, rightfully, that they can survive anything. He could simply wait out any storm, knowing he has infinite time. He’d always outlive his sorrows.
Despite this knowledge, the rational part of his brain having taken a hiatus, he finds his heart screaming in his chest with such strength and constancy that it drowns out everything else. Truly, he can’t find a reason to carry on anymore, can he? He has experienced so much, loved so many, and yet this—this is what has driven him all this time, isn’t it? The sight of his Stranger, the sound of his voice, the delight in meeting him century after century. His one and only constant. His truest friend, the one who remains, the one his heart keeps yearning for. Among all the lovers he has taken over the years, this one shadow always lingers in the back of his mind, calling his truest name in a mellifluous voice, “Hob Gadling.”
When he finally saw an opportunity to see his dreams come true, when his friend let himself get closer, let himself feel and partake in more meetings with him… he ruined it all. He can't fix it, can't simply ring him up and ask, “Hello, old friend, love of my life, how did I offend you this time? Are you aware of my feelings for you?” He feels bitter and desperate, ever so tempted to drink himself stupid, to forget about it all and drunkenly cry and shout into the night. But he doesn’t, not yet, because he has a life carefully crafted here, a facade to maintain. If a few students, colleagues, or regulars at the New Inn notice something is off and ask about it, he easily placates them with a shrug and a “Nothing much, just a bit tired is all.”
He would have kept going. He is resilient, stubbornly so. It is his pride and the core of his identity. What else is there to derive pride from when everything is made of ache?
He would have been fine, eventually. He would have made it to the other side, like an athlete or a trapeze artist, a circus performer laughing and smiling while putting his body through absolute torture to please the crowd. He would have been okay.
But one sleepless night too many, and one rude customer, and suddenly the dam breaks.
It has been a long day. Exam week seems never-ending. He is a heartless robot, fueled by coffee instead of gasoline. Upon returning home, the New Inn has been filled to the brim with people. His staff is panicked and breaking down. Nearby, an event has been organized. They haven’t been warned. This rush is unexpected, unforgiving. Collection cars and motorbikes parade the surrounding streets. The sound of motors sputtering tries its hardest to make him jump out of his skin. Once again, he clenches his teeth, smiles, and runs around helping his staff by dispatching orders from one side of the room to the other, his gestures certain, precise, and quick.
They are almost done with the fifth wave of people when the man he has just served stops him.
“Oy mate, I’d like some fries with my salad.”
“Sure. With the fries, it’ll be—”
“Nah man, every time I come, they give them fries for free!”
“Well, the rule is the rule, mate. I’ll—”
“I know the boss! He’s a friend of mine. He gives me two servings of those whenever I come around!”
“I mean, you can try asking him, if you want.”
He waits with an eyebrow raised. He knows the man is lying—he is the boss, after all. Even if the man is referring to Jenny, well, she is a she, not a he.
The sheer nerve of it all would have amused him, were he not exhausted out of his mind and strictly functioning on caffeine and adrenaline.
The guy keeps spewing a string of lies, so he nods, bolts away, and brings him the salad.
“What about the fries?” comes the offended response.
Hob’s voice is short, and his smile is tense as he answers, “Once again, it is not free, but you can order it.”
The man fumbles in his pockets, muttering, increasingly red in the face. He takes his wallet out and grumbles, “Sure, just take my money, you dunce.”
He throws coins on the ground and shouts, “PICK IT UP THEN.”
He stops in his tracks. At first, he feels nothing but a sort of wild electricity, a confused sensation. Then, a righteous, all-encompassing anger floods his veins, setting his nerves on fire.
In an instant, he remembers all the ways he can kill a man.
There are several ways to react to bad situations. The three Fs are a fairly accurate theory, he always thought from the first time he heard of it: Fight, flight, freeze.
For now, he is frozen. He can fight. He knows how to. He just stares at the man in silence. Then, “Fuck this shit, I’m out,” he thinks, and also says, and walks away.
“We’re closing for tonight, Jen. Say there’s an electric problem or something. We’re not taking any more orders.”
She nods, relieved, and starts spreading his words to the staff.
He goes out.
He could have gone upstairs.
He should have gone upstairs. Locked himself in his bedroom and yelled into a pillow.
His hands are shaking.
He hates that man. He hates the university and its intricacies, its shortcomings, and the sheer trauma it inflicts on teachers and students. Where there should be knowledge and growth, there are only overworked individuals trying not to off themselves by going on sick leave as often as they can, and students rioting every other day.
He hates Dream.
He hates Dream so much. He hates how Dream has ripped out his heart and probably doesn’t even care. Probably doesn’t even realise. He hates how much he loves him, how much it hurts to love him, how stupid it is to feel this way for a being older than gods, and frankly, everything about this is ridiculous. He is ridiculous. Maybe he should have picked up the damn coins. Why would he get anything from Dream? He is nothing. He has everything already—immortality is enough. This should be enough. He shouldn’t yearn for things out of his grasp, but he is human. He is human and he wants, he wants, he wants so much that it hurts. And fuck Dream and his stupid beautiful face, his wits, his cluelessness in social settings, the ever-so-endearing way he—oh, shut the fuck up.
Like a worm, a thought he’s been trying to suppress crawls to the top.
What if Dream isn’t brooding? What if he is in trouble? What if he is locked up somewhere again?
He can’t do anything then, and he can’t do anything now. He is out of his depth. He is useless.
He finds himself in a park and punches a tree to try and make his thoughts stop.
There is a crack. Pain flares up along his nerves and he bites down a choking noise.
He definitely broke something in there.
Laughter bubbles in his chest.
He feels his bones pop back into place, so he kicks again, and again, and again, until he doesn’t feel it anymore. Just the pain, searing white, clarifying.
He is fine now.
He looks at the bark, covered in blood, glistening with the orange light of the streetlamps. He looks at the grass, midnight dew sparkling. The rocks under his feet, wet, cold, dirty. Cigarette butts, plastic litter. Insects crawling through the mud.
He sighs deeply, his breath escaping in wisps and rising to the opaque night sky. He breathes in and flexes his fingers. His bones click into place. He breathes out.
He rises slowly, careful not to keel over.
A figure stands in the shadows, among the trees, unmoving, watching. He doesn’t pay attention to it. He just wants to go home.
So he does. Walking back to his place, he takes his time to enjoy every single detail of the night: the way the moon plays on the shimmering flows of the Thames, the caress of the swirling wind on his damp cheeks, the constant hum and grate of the cars driving through the city. He doesn’t cross many people’s paths. They escape his gaze. He’ll never know them. As he hasn’t known many before, and won’t know many after. So many intricate threads, never touching. So many worlds, whole universes, up and out like small embers on a cold winter night. There are footsteps near him. He ends up throwing a glance behind him, curious, if a little weary—he’s had enough emotions for the day, and many after that.
The street is empty. He shrugs to himself and keeps walking at a faster pace. When he makes it home, he quickly rinses his bloody hands, then helps close up. Finally, when he gets back to his apartment, he doesn’t bother eating or showering and just collapses into bed, out like a light.
He doesn’t dream. He hasn’t for a while.
The next day, he is staring at the leaves above, cutting patterns into a perfectly blue sky. The trees on campus, much like every other in the city, are surrounded by cement, kept in place in solitary squares, straight and arranged in the most boring, geometric topiary art possible.
He tries very hard not to weep as visions of the wild forests of days past fill his mind with the smell of fresh, humid soil and decaying leaves. This is one of those days. One of those days when his impeccable balance tilts too much on the emotional side. Such is life. Waking up not fully rested, breaking two glasses, losing time looking for a hairband, burning himself on a cup of coffee, arriving late despite his best efforts, getting drenched in a cold shower of rain with no umbrella or appropriate clothing. Silly, insignificant things creep up on his mood. His mood creeps up on his memories. His memories creep up on him.
It suddenly dawns on him what he must do:
He has to leave.
He has to start over somewhere else. This life he has built, the New Inn: it is all for Dream. And Dream—he is always going to leave.
Perhaps, for once, he ought not to be the one waiting.
Perhaps, for once, he ought not to be the one seeking, reaching out.
And maybe he will come to regret this decision.
But this is like in 1889, isn’t it? Not in so many words, but.
It is still Dream leaving, and him challenging Dream.
So, yes.
He has decided now.
He is going to put his affairs in order. He is going to pick someplace on the planet where he can still see the stars, have a bit of greenery, and fresh, breathable air, with the minimum number of people.
He is going to change his name, change his ways. If Dream comes back, it will be because his friend decides to find him, not because he has erected a building and drawn arrows leading to it, spending every other afternoon waiting patiently for thirty-three years.
Yes.
He is not waiting anymore. He is moving forward—he is running from here. If Dream ever comes after him, then good. If not, well.
A group of students crosses a path nearby. Some recognize him and nod. He waves at them enthusiastically.
He will be gone soon.
Better enjoy things while they last.
Everything goes splendidly, oddly enough.
Perhaps it has been going too splendidly. Perhaps it has been a clue that something is afoot. Perhaps he should have paid more attention. Attention to the sound of footsteps at night. Attention to the car that’s been parked down the street for a while now. He has been distracted recently. Christmas has passed, then New Year’s Eve, on his own. The rest of the year steadily progresses. June arrives quickly. He has made his peace with his decision to leave—it always breaks his heart, but he keeps mementos where they matter and leaves the rest to be carried away by the winds of time.
He bids adieu to all that matters. A quiet adieu, one that he can’t make honestly, one he has to keep silent, close to his heart. The students, the colleagues, the friends. The streets, as they are, for the next time he is here, they will have changed, without a doubt. Goodbye to the trees, as they are. Goodbye to the birds, and their so fleeting lifetimes. Goodbye to the smells and the sounds and the way the light brushes against the surfaces with a glint of life ephemeral.
With a set and heavy heart, he finalises the steps. He only needs to fake his death, and then he shall be free. Free from the grasp this place has on him, from the identity he has built here, from the goddamn “temple” he has built.
Finally, he needs papers to back up his new identity.
The bloke handling it, he has found through the various contacts he has kept an eye on over the years. There is scarcely anything money can’t buy.
He is confident when he goes to conclude the transaction, meeting with his contact.
It’s a frankly inhospitable part of town, reeking of mildew and kerosene.
The man he is facing looks like any mid-fifties clerk; only details betray his way of life: luxury watch, real gold necklace, real gold teeth, limited edition sneakers. He’s a bit of a stereotype in that way. It makes him smile a bit. He feels at ease. This part of his long existence is coming to an end tonight.
He doesn’t expect, once he hands over the money, for the guy to give it back with a pained wince on his face.
“No thanks, mate,” he says, and Hob knows in that precise moment something is going wrong, terribly wrong. “See, this is pocket change compared to what this other guy offered me to, well, hand you over. No hard feelings, business as usual, eh?”
His own startled question never leaves his lips. He is struck by an electric shock and immediately loses consciousness.
When his brain starts working again, his first thought, accompanied by a lingering smell of burnt flesh and hair, is that the voltage used must have been off the charts.
He doesn’t recall anything else until he wakes on a cold, metallic table in a sterile room, an indistinguishable amount of time later.
Just beyond his sight, a man is appraising him. He’s wearing gloves. He’s got a gun on his hip.
Further away still, somewhere in a shady downtown bureau, a balding man counts bills from an envelope. “Well, he doesn't need those anymore, so might as well,” he snorts self-satisfiedly.
In a dark corner of the room, two points of golden light shine brightly. Lips red as blood forms into these words: “Why, good job there darling! I shall leave you to it now.”
“No—come back!”
The man looks at his riches, emptied of any desire to spend them. Desire itself is gone, leaving him hollow. He starts walking, empty-eyed. He goes up, up.
A few hours later, a panicked passerby calls emergency services, and soon, paramedics surround the broken corpse of a man in his mid-fifties, unidentified, with golden teeth, brand new sneakers, and a bunch of cash flying around him.
“Whatever do I owe this gift to, my dear twin?” asks Despair in her realm, looking at the scene through one of her mirrors.
“Just a bit of fun getting rid of witnesses. You’ll see. You’ll feel it. He’s already close to yours now, isn’t he? Our dearest Dream. He’ll only get closer.”
Despair starts smiling, and her expression morphs into deranged, ecstatic pain as she stabs at her cheek with a hook and pulls, and pulls.
“I’ll be looking forward to it,” she says in an amorphous tone of voice.
Desire’s laugh rings and ripples across the mirrors.
Their cold surface shivers.
As does Hob, strapped to a freezing steel tray, skin prickling with goosebumps.
“... Fuck.”
