#need to get doodling. or writing idk

[blueberry-ink-93]

so sorry (only a little bit sorry) to be back so soon with more chappell “bone” brainrot but. here i am. im just picturing a moment after she was born (i have no idea how that happened. maybe they did a favour for hera or artemis or some other god who’s associated with childbirth and were gifted with a baby who was a mix of their genetic material as a reward) where will saw her bright red floofy hair (let’s say she was a baby with a full or mostly-full head of hair) and was like “omg we should name her chappell” and nico, having been raised catholic, was like “where people get married????”

DONT BE SORRY 🔫 ILYSM THIS IS ONE OF THE BEST THINGS EVER CREATED IM SORRY I PASSED OUT BEFORE SEEING SKSBDJSNNDSKKS

dying dead decreased oh nico. imagine shes like born on their anniversary and nico puts 2 and 2 together and is like will i get it its sweet but also ur *not* naming our baby church.

and then will talks her through lol and they settle for middle name :3 god im going to cry theyre so cute.

naomi 284728% approves lol (her own baby name suggestion was dolly lmao. we love iconic southern singin badass ladies in this household)

[wardingshout]

Zelda goes mushroom girl

[hmsdoodlin]

One of my favorite headcanons is that Heart is often violent during his crying fits, especially if someone is trying to comfort him.

Soul struggles to keep him still as he sobs and squirms, beating desperate fists into Souls chest because it’s all too much and he has so much pent up energy. Tightening his grasp on Souls shoulders until bruises form and Soul has to practically man handle him to get him to calm down.

Soul wakes up sore and covered in bruises in the morning, trying his hardest not to hiss in pain as he goes about his daily activities. Heart struggles to fully remember, but he knows it’s because of him, the guilt eats him alive.

[disposal-blueeee]

VARGASTOBER - day 1 : memories

[ganondoodle]

(Original art) Xaror, any pronouns, species (?), age (?)

short summary about them; they act as both an antagonist and an ally since they are only really interested in what they want or whats fun to them, they are immortal and call themselves 'death itself' since they have a special connection to souls (being the only one able to communicate with them) and the ability to seperate souls from their bodies in such a way that nothing can harm the soul afterwards their main goal is to .. bother and disturb the 'celestials'*, which they hate, as much as they can, breaking into their palace, freeing prisoners, destroying research, destroying the place, and most importantly, making as many souls unusable to them as possible-

they dont want to destroy the celestials though, they cant fight them anyway and this game of doing 'good' only with the goal of annoying them is their most treasured activity, so Xaror doesnt intend to stop them from killing or hurting anyone, only from harvesting what they are actually after (though Xaror doesnt actually care as little as they think they do about people, and has a soft spot for demons)

most of their appearance is later into the story; Zaphira (the empress) had been in coma and the medical facility she was treated in was destroyed by Shargon (orange eyed demon who acts as her bodyguard for the first part) in an attempt to save her from her estranged relatives taking over her country after they heard of her decline in health, she is believed dead but washes up on the shore of the mountain Xaror resides at years later (it has a reason, too much to write here) and they slowly nurse her back to health, the reason they give for it is that they found their first encounter very fun, thats all (is it?)

(more lore under the cut bc this is already so long .. im trying to keep it short q-q ......... this is stuff i have been working on since i was a kid so uh, some things might be cheesy but i cant change them anymore ..)

just to get some basics out of the way; theres three worlds, the celestials palace, human world and demon world, each are their own planet connected via different gateways

*celestials (possibly not final name, loosely based on angels) are the last remaining "survivors" of their planets demise, when their world died the most powerful among them cannibalized the weaker to sustain themselves until there were only less than 10 left, who each turned into different beings from it and dont resemble their own people much anymore, they built a palace from what was left on their world that protects them from space as its atmosphere collapsed shortly after- however they still needed something to live off; they discover the human world and are delighted to find rather short lived people with powerful souls, the best kind of sustenance for them (now), they aim to herd them like cattle, but a problem arose when it turned out another world has long been in contact with the human world; demons

demons are semi immortal creatures that act as protectors for their world, protection they extended, more or less secretely, to the human world ensuring them a long and secure life- the celestials need them to die at their whim though (demons are few in numbers, hard to kill and rarely have offspring, not an ideal target); as they worked out a plan on how to get rid of demons one of the celestials, Xanthriel (time) grew somewhat fond of people as they spent alot of time in the human world to observe and research them; in the end turning on their own completely, but losing the fight against Uriel (knowledge)

Xanthriel was supposed to be executed for their betrayal, but it doesnt work, instead they are splintered into many parts after a lot of struggle, most body, memory and most strength is one part (ending up as motionless forever bleeding corpse kept locked up in the palace), the rest is some time later gathered together and reforms as a seperate, weak mockery of them, they embody Xanthriels emotion- Xaror, without memory, strangely cut to pieces (hence all the missing limbs and broken halo) but driven by an unstoppable desire to disturb the celestials (they live seperate long enough to each become their own person, at some point Xaror discovers Xanthriels body after all and they merge back together, though as they are now two, Xanthriel only takes over once directly after merging, stays silent for a long time and lets Xaror be themselves, only later revealing that they are there at all .. hiding perhaps- i rarely have specific ideas for voices, but Xanthriels is like, like coarse rocks being violently rubbed against each other, less voice more noise)

(also, the celestials use Xanthriels blood from the day of their execution to create a plague that nearly wipes out all demons, only the youngest of them survived, effectively robbing them of everything, culture, history, knowledge etc- as demons rarely have children, like a complete restart of their society, they disappeared from the human world, and over time being largely forgotten as actually existing- the celestials wanted them all gone however, so they kept kidnapping them to try and find somethign that would work similarly against the young ones too (and then in general, bc the only usable blood of Xanthriel was from the day of their fall, and that has long since been used up) one of the young ones was Shargon, he was the only one still alive from his group

(also, the celestials use Xanthriels blood from the day of their execution to create a plague that nearly wipes out all demons, only the youngest of them survived, effectively robbing them of everything, culture, history, knowledge etc- as demons rarely have children, like a complete restart of their society, they disappeared from the human world, and over time being largely forgotten as actually existing- the celestials wanted them all gone however, so they kept kidnapping them to try and find somethign that would work similarly against the young ones too (and then in general, bc the only usable blood of Xanthriel was from the day of their fall, and that has long since been used up) one of the young ones was Shargon, he was the only one still alive from his group (he wasnt the strongest or special, he was jsut the last in the row and always got the lowest dosage) when Xaror found them in yet another break in into the palace and got him back to the demon world .. where he was promptly blamed for the others that were taken and treated like a pretender/fake/spy bc what he got put through changed his eye color (something that demons cannot change in any form) to one that does not exist among 'real' demons (orange ... notice the inner color of Xarors broken halo? :) ), some even suggesting killing him, but none of them were brave enough to do it (they were all kids still) .. except Eadrya (the big blue-ish one, largely regarded as the strongest demon alive) but Shargon managed to escape, and since then lived largely in isolation- this is part of why he is so hated, and why he starts to spend so much time in the human world after rediscovering the pathway there)

[byanyan]

thinking about how i wanna make my comeback (other than dumping doodles on yall outta nowhere lmajkfh)..... and i think...... like, i say this every time, but i'm gonna dump all my drafts except some v selective few (+ maybe some starters i started replying to before i disappeared). for real this time!!!! i wanna start fresh, only holding on to things that are v significant OR that i'm enjoying too much to let go.

i just!!! i think i've finally properly realized that i just have to be v selective with the threads that i take up. i have to take my limited energy into account (as well as how stressed having too many drafts makes me) and respect my own boundaries in that sense bc i know that i get overwhelmed and then proceed to get nothing done if i step past it. 2025 is my year of being more private, more selective, and taking care of me!!!! i'm sure y'all understand and i appreciate sm that you've stuck around through all this off and on bs i've had going on for... fuck, way too long now. like over a year atp for sure ;~;

[dawnthefluffyduck]

Sunday doodle, will likely clean this up later :3

[neurotonic]

Ouh. I really like how out of all the antagonists in the series, Prism's motivations (and her turning to Zoraxis) are directly influenced by Phoenix's track record. She has the most personal beef with the agent, though it's a little ironic that her TK implant helped the agent's success. If it weren't for Prism, Phoenix wouldn't be the legend that they are known for.

...Except...That's minimizing Phoenix's own ingenuity and skill with the implant, isn't it? It's a useful tool, yes! But in the end, it's just a tool. Phoenix was able to use it in unique ways, and that's not counting whatever else Phoenix has to do in the moment without TK. If it weren't for Phoenix's own efforts (and their strange ability to not Die), Prism wouldn't be forced to take revenge.

They're their own self-made people, but inevitably they left such a huge impact on each other before the third game...and if Prism wasn't the one who personally added the implant in Phoenix's head, then they haven't even interacted in person!

It could be seen as a little tragic, and it sorta is--Prism's desire for revenge is a little misplaced (and, yes, it is bolstered by Zor when she switches to their side). For all we know, Phoenix never intended to be the villain in Prism's story. But Prism's frustrated and angry and devastated about being reduced to the One Project she made. She just wanted to make something bigger than herself.

And it's really nice to see Phoenix help her once she recognizes that Zor's been using her all this time...even if it takes some time for Prism to really let them help her.

It takes the combination of their unique skills, brainpower, and their eventual trust in one another to destroy Zor's volcano kinesium base. Prism gets saved by the person she thought made her dreams impossible, and in return, Phoenix gets saved in the one IEYTD ending where they're not declared legally dead. I feel like that's something interesting? Because this is also the one finale where Phoenix has an active ally working with them close to their side (...as close as Prism and Phoenix could get, anyway).

Well. Anyway. What was I talking about? Enemies who are closely intertwined with one another's journeys end up becoming each other's most important allies? Okay, yeah. Let's go with that.

[meowrimo]

happy timezone my friendz !! whether you are just starting the day (like meee) or it is coming to a close, i hope you are doing well :3 sending you lots of the bestest energy to power through ଘ(๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و ❤︎ !!

[vypridae]

me hit with the absolute utter urge to draw sun x moon vs my shift at work tonight FIGHT

[quibble-auk]

Nah I really gotta get a name for this. But I suck at them. So part… I actually don’t know… like six I think? Maybe it’s five?

Yeah, more of that one thing where Jeopardy and Dropmix are being dysfunctional little guys.

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

—

It had been six days.

Six long, dragging, excruciatingly polite days, and he was not any closer to figuring out how much Jeopardy knew. Dropmix was still grasping at strings, trying to piece together what the medic had figured out.

Each interaction was tense, too professional, and suffocating. Each attempt Dropmix made to connect, to bridge the gap, was turned down with a calculated and cool response. The dark mech was never ignored, shunned perhaps, but always acknowledged to some extent.

He was turned down, locked out, and rejected. He had gained no ground with Jeopardy, but he hadn’t lost any, not exactly—the void between them got deeper instead of getting wider.

Dropmix had finally been deemed well enough to work again, his imprisonment in the private room was finally over. It gave him more opportunities to reach out, Jeopardy couldn’t avoid him as easily. They had to interact, had to speak and be around each other. It should have given Dropmix an advantage, he should have been repairing the damage and effortlessly slipping back into the normal routine. They should have talked about the incident and given Dropmix the opportunity to clear any suspicions.

Jeopardy never brought up the mission or the gas. Not even once. But he hadn’t really spoken, either. Not to Dropmix, not in the way he used to.

The large mech was starting to feel like he was bleeding out in silence.

Not literally—his systems were fine. No leaks. No critical errors. His ventilation systems were almost as good as new. But there was something in his chest that felt cracked open, raw and exposed, like every time Jeopardy passed him in the corridor without really looking, it carved a little deeper.

Dropmix felt like he was shouting across a canyon that swallowed up his attempts to reach out rather than echoing and amplifying them.

It stung, each failed attempt tore at something deep in his core, it buried its teeth deeper than humiliation or shame ever did. Every excuse and polite decline made a primal desperation rise in him, it clawed up his throat and tore into the seams of his mind. His mask slipped and cracked, and he was left fumbling for rehearsed lines, reading over the script he knew so well.

Dropmix was caught trying to dance with a partner who refused to move. Each attempt to dip or spin was met with resistance, so Dropmix improvised. He did what he must to keep the show going, he performed. He played his part, put extra effort into each smile and friendly chuff, forced tame works in hopes that something would spark and they could continue as a duet.

Nothing was working.

They still shared space—barely. Handovers, medbay tasks, and reports, each interaction swamped in a tension so thick it buzzed under Dropmix’s plating like faulty wiring. Jeopardy hadn’t been cold. Not exactly. Just... formal. Efficient. Controlled.

Distant.

Dropmix hated it more than shouting. At least yelling meant fire. Fire meant fuel.

With Theremin it had always been like that, things bubbling up under the surface until one of them snapped. They yelled, told the other what was wrong through harsh words and bitter feelings. Then they would split, dwell, simmer in the aftermath as they processed and eventually come together again.

They would talk, sort things out, explain. Apologize. But they would move on, try to do better, have the weight off their chest. Maybe not the healthiest, but it worked. They communicated, told the other what they did wrong or how they made them feel instead of leaving the other to guess.

This was not that, there was no fire.

This?

This was a vacuum.

Now, the medbay was quiet again—late shift, lights dimmed to that same tired, blue-toned glow. The music hadn’t been on in days. Jeopardy had shut it off and Dropmix had resorted to his internal comms to play it. The few attempts he made to turn the music back on the speakers were efficiently shut down. Jeopardy was never rude or crass, suggesting rather than demanding.

Dropmix almost didn’t listen, he wanted the music to be on, he didn’t want to deal with the additional effort it took to keep it running on his comms. This was his medbay, he was in charge, he would not be ordered around by Jeopardy. But he didn’t want to strain whatever was left with the other medic, so he listened.

The music was shut off without any further questions. Neither of them said anything about it, but Dropmix noticed the silence like a missing tooth. He saw the refusal for what it was, an act of defiance, a constant reminder that everything wasn’t alright.

The quiet was screaming at him in Jeopardy’s place.

Tonight was no exception, it seemed. The silence gnawed at Dropmix’s thoughts, picking apart the last threadbare hopes he hadn’t quite admitted he was clinging to.

He’d finished the inventory cycles two hours ago. All the supplies were aligned. All the data was clean. There wasn’t a single damn thing left to fix, except the one thing he couldn’t touch. The one thing that was most important.

Dropmix sat alone on the edge of a diagnostics berth, flexing a rag through his fingers. He mindlessly wiped down the surface in front of him, trying to keep himself busy. It was already clean. Everything in the medbay was clean. Immaculate, actually. Jeopardy had gone through earlier and done a full sweep, his movements efficient, surgical.

He hadn’t said a word the entire time.

Now, Jeopardy was gone again. Off shift. Probably in his quarters, or perhaps socializing with the other mechs on base. He once may have lingered with Dropmix, accompanying him even though he was free to go. Not anymore. Jeopardy only lingered as long as he had to.

The dark mech huffed, eye narrowing at the berth before him like he could somehow intimidate it into spilling all of the answers he needed. The music in his comms swelled, sweet strings echoing the melody with dainty steps as the woodwinds fluttered along. A gentle song, hailing from a distant organic planet. This one had been a part of Theremin’s personal collection that was left in the ruins of the Pits.

It was one of Jeopardy’s favorites.

Dropmix didn’t hear the door until it hissed open and boots stepped inside. He looked up too quickly. Some part of him still stupidly hoping—

But it wasn’t Jeopardy.

Rumbleclutch.

Massive, dented, always smelling faintly of ozone and engine grease. He ducked through the door like the frame was too narrow for him, his plates slightly flared with practiced discipline—they always were, it was a show of rank. It was not an angry display, but a confident one, it demanded respect. By all means, the hulking frame of the outposts Commanding Officer was an intimidating sight for most.

Not Dropmix. He could pinpoint each weakness within seconds of seeing the other, he saw the slight limp, the exposed seams, the restrictive armor. Rumbleclutch was a force to be recorded with—any military frame of his stature was—but so was Dropmix.

There always seemed to be a mutual understanding of that between them.

The mottled gray and navy mech was holding something in one large hand, a datapad, military-standard. His expression was unreadable, not warm but not unfriendly either. His amber eyes swept the medical bay once before lingering on Dropmix.

The dark mech straightened, reflexively. Quelling down any natural desire to challenge or defend what was his. The display was not meant to provoke or challenge, simply enforce—it made his plating itch regardless, the numb static of his mind buzzing obnoxiously in his skull.

“Sir,” Dropmix didn’t smile, but he carefully crafted his expression to be warm, welcoming and respectful. Rumbleclutch wasn’t one to drop by unannounced, and he wasn’t due for any maintenance either, “Is there anything I can help you with today?”

Rumbleclutch didn’t answer immediately. He glanced around the medbay like he didn’t quite recognize it, then gave a grunt, half-thoughtful. “No music?”

The darker bot shrugged, ignoring the way his plates flared under his armor. “Wasn’t in the mood.”

Rumbleclutch grunted again, noncommittal. His optics slid to the speakers overhead, then back to Dropmix, expression still unreadable. His steady voice was as emotionless as ever, “Hm. I’ll have to inform Saberfire to update her betting pools.”

Dropmix blinked, single eye widening. “I’m sorry?”

The mottled mech’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile—he didn’t do those unless someone was dying or just got promoted, sometimes both—but the lines of his jaw eased. “She had money on you playing music until the war ended or you were physically incapable of doing so.”

“I’ll be sure to send my condolences.” Dropmix’s voice was flat, but he let a sliver of warmth seep in. A blanket of familiarity and fondness wrapped around each word as he continued, “You didn’t come down here for banter, I assume?”

“No,” Rumbleclutch agreed, stepping closer, datapad still in one thick hand. “I didn’t.”

The medic’s fingers twitched around the rag. He set it down slowly.

A beat passed. Two.

He extended the datapad, holding it out the same way one might offer a weapon mid-duel—neutral, cautious, with the understanding it could change everything depending on how it was received.

Dropmix took it.

He scanned the screen, expecting… something routine. A roster change. A new supply intake. A requisition order, maybe, or disciplinary notice for one of the rowdier interns who’d knocked over the coolant monitors again.

He didn’t expect the header—his vents hitched.

The slightly larger mech straightened—if at all possible—as his amber eyes looked over Dropmix. His plates flared more, just enough to almost be unnoticeable, the only tell the CO had. “With the reason specified it’s customary for me to analyze the subordinate’s officer and ensure that they are still fit for their role.”

Dropmix nodded mindlessly, the datapad oddly heavy in his hand. His armor pressed into him more, suffocating, making his straining vents hiss with effort to suck in air. His jaw tightened, dull teeth grating together as he stared down at the offending screen.

—

TRANSFER REQUEST: JEOPARDY.

Outpost: 06—Aubris Ridge.

Junior Medical Officer.

Requested Reason: Personnel Conflict (unspecified).

Status: PENDING CO APPROVAL.

—

Dropmix’s thumb hovered over the screen, the pad of his finger resting just above the edge of Jeopardy’s signature. Two days ago.

He’d submitted it two fragging days ago.

Dropmix’s spark gave a stuttering twist behind his plating. The silence of the medbay roared in his audials again, louder this time, more personal—hollow and accusatory. The music in his comms reared, amplifying and squandering any rising emotion. It stung, a migraine blossoming across Dropmix’s processor. His jaw tightened further, blunt fingertips gripping the datapad harder in an attempt to stabilize himself.

The betrayal twisted deep, hollowing out his compressing chest. His spark thrummed loudly, twisting into something cruel. That primal desperation and need roared, beating painfully against the armor that encased it, like a beast in a cage. An overwhelming possessive anger rooted in his frame, recoiling against the music. It spread like an infection, burning and unforgiving.

He looked up slowly, eye locking with Rumbleclutch’s. Somehow, he managed to keep himself composed. The CO didn’t look away. He never did. His gaze was a solid wall—one Dropmix had crashed into more than once, but tonight it was different. Not hostile. Just... braced. The way a structure braces before a blast.

"He's serious?" Dropmix asked, though his voice barely passed as a question. It was too even. Too calm.

Rumbleclutch didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the datapad still clenched in Dropmix’s hand, then slowly brought his gaze back up. “I was rather surprised, you both always seemed close.”

Dropmix’s hand twitched. He didn’t flinch. Didn't crumble. His entire frame was too practiced, too well-trained for that. But his plating shifted under the surface like a storm was building inside him, and only a brittle shell was keeping it contained. The music pressed against his helm, drowning out the rising unwanted emotions.

There was anger, hurt, betrayal, and fear—Dropmix hated it, the relentless terror that gripped his spark at the idea of Jeopardy leaving. It hid among the rising rage, seeping through the cracks of his anger.

It hurt, electricity running through his frame as programs fought to keep him compliant. His internal temperature rose as his vents struggled and the electrical current strengthened. He let himself lean against the berth in front of him, acting as if he was just shifting his weight.

"Two days," Dropmix murmured, the words bitter in his mouth, fingers flexing. “He couldn’t even—”

He cut himself off. His vents hitched again, his entire torso stuttering with the effort of breathing through it. Rumbleclutch watched him in silence.

“I’m assuming you came to assess if I’m the problem,” Dropmix said eventually, voice sharp around the edges now. Still not angry. Just dangerously close.

“You’ve never given me a reason to doubt your work, and I respect your privacy,” The CO’s tone remained level, voice sturdy and unwavering, “The evaluation has already been run, you have a perfect record, Dropmix, where he does not. There is no reason for me to inspect further, I’m simply here to inform you of the pending decision.”

Dropmix didn’t move.

He felt like if he did—if he shifted so much as a fraction of an inch—something inside him would break loose and start to burn. Like letting himself speak too much, move too fast, would mean the entire dam would give way and drag everything down with it. All his pride. All his restraint. Everything he'd spent cycles building just to stay functional.

He stared at the datapad again.

TRANSFER REQUEST: JEOPARDY.

He knew the phrasing. He’d read and signed enough of them over the years—transfers, resignations, post-battle reallocations. He knew what it meant when someone didn’t list a specific conflict. It meant there was one. And that the person on the receiving end of it would never be told the full reason why.

The dark mech would never get to know what pushed him away, just that something did. Some unraveling of the truth that he failed to mend would cost him Jeopardy—Dropmix would lose everything.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Dropmix’s voice, when it came again, was low. Flat. “What happens if I reject it?”

Rumbleclutch didn’t answer right away. Not because he didn’t know, Dropmix was sure—but because he knew exactly what that question meant, and what it didn’t.

He crossed his arms over his broad chest, hydraulics whining faintly with the motion. “If you reject it, the request goes up the chain. I will have to do a more thorough evaluation of the situation and your suitability for your current position.”

The mottled mech’s voice wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t a threat. It was fact—solid and irrefutable, like the weight of a locked door. The implication settled between them like a thick, choking fog.

Dropmix knew what it meant.

He knew how thin the wire was. How close everything had been to unraveling since the mission. Since the gas. From the moment Jeopardy started looking at him like he was a stranger.

It didn’t matter how hard he worked or how perfectly he performed—if it came down to a thorough search, revealing his secrets… he’d lose.

He’d lose Jeopardy anyway.

The datapad still trembled faintly in his grip, the flicker of his internal stabilizers barely compensating. His thumb dragged just above Jeopardy’s signature, not quite touching it, but tracing the shape like it would offer answers. It didn’t. It never did.

Dropmix inhaled, a deep, calculated vent. His optics dimmed briefly, a false calm washing over him like a shutter between stormfronts. When he spoke, it was quieter than before, but no less steady. “Let me talk to him.”

Rumbleclutch was quiet again. Not in hesitation—he didn’t do hesitation—but in consideration. Watching. Calculating.

And Dropmix could feel it.

That measured, tactical silence, the kind that could either open a door or seal it shut. It slid under his plating and curled around the back of his neck like ice. If Rumbleclutch said no, that would be it. No more careful silences. No more eye contact in the halls. No more Jeopardy in his medbay. Just a blank space where something vital used to live. Something fragile and strange and important.

Jeopardy would be gone forever.

The thought alone made his engine stall and his spark stutter.

After a few long seconds, the CO inclined his head, just barely.

“I’ll give you until tomorrow,” Rumbleclutch said. “You have one conversation. You don’t change his mind, I process the request.”

The words weren’t sharp, but they were heavy. Steel-clad and absolute.

Dropmix nodded once. He didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just accepted the terms with a quiet dignity, like a soldier handed a weapon too old and worn for a clean shot.

Rumbleclutch didn’t linger. He turned with military efficiency, boots echoing once on the polished floor, before the door hissed shut behind him.

Then the silence returned.

It felt different now. Heavier. More final. Like a looming threat, the silence that would consume his life if Jeopardy did leave.

Dropmix stared at the datapad for a long time before he finally set it down on the berth beside him. He exhaled, long and trembling, and let his frame slump forward just a little, shoulders bowing like the weight had finally sunk claws into his joints.

One conversation.

One shot.

He couldn’t screw this up.

[thunderin-brainstorm]

anyone who knows me at all knows i'm legitimately obsessed with the concept of isekai/portal fantasy, and whenever i get into a piece of media i can't help but spin up a new OC exploring that concept. so uh, introducing RB Heather, the protagonist i mentally spun up as i played P:LA!

she falls from the real world into Hisui with no knowledge of Pokemon save for pop culture osmosis and spends the first week or so just absolutely gobsmacked. she's being made to risk her life doing environmental science for a group of settlers and also there's a made-up magic critter hanging out with her now? wth?? at least she's got a proper backpack and good shoes with her

i've got her story outlined almost completely, as i've simply recorded my own experience playing P:LA and fleshed it out for her. she's got the team i played with, and i took a lot of the mishaps of my playthrough to add to her story, for better or worse. sorry for forcing you to be a video game protagonist RB, i promise things will get better soon

[axonthegoat]

Come's dancing into the room

Yo, Guess what I Finally got chapter six of 3 billion scars done hehehe, a fluffier one but man, i need to get into better writing habits (╯▽╰ )

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58567369/chapters/167983492

[wifeiy]

[shooks-stupid-stuff]

sometimes my sketches are better than the finished drawings lmao

[doodlingwren]

Hiatus

I am going on hiatus for a bit more. I really really hoped the stuff that have been going on lately were already "sorted out" but, uhm... they aren't. I need to take a bit more time offline once again, and try to work things out.

Thank you for your patience ❤

Wren