#Written sketches

[queercode-my-minecraft]

Gem didn’t remember much from her time before arriving at Dawn, or how she arrived there in the first place.

She remembered friendly faces and a majestic palace. The memory of soft chirps, the fur of the sweetest animals that would wander in her halls and the feeling of the warm sun on her face as she built used to haunt her with nostalgia the first couple of years when she had first arrived.

Thankfully, it had dulled since then.

Being replaced with the sound of bees buzzing joyfully, and the waves lapping against the rocky shore. The sun, though, remained warm on her skin, welcoming her most mornings and washing away the night.

So, for the most part, Princess Gem spent her days surrounded by her people, planning construction and discussing trade politics, becoming the Princess she always lied about being. Her past becoming long forgotten as the years went by.

The one thing she still hadn’t been able to shake was the fear that rose in her with dusk, the terror and trepidation as the moon took the sky.

She must’ve repressed the memory that caused this type of reaction, she had tried reasoning one night, as she shivered in the Sun’s Church, the howl of the phantoms outside digging into her mind like the sound of nails on a chalkboard.

But, she could’ve sworn the moon had appeared bigger that night. And, wasn’t that cause for concern?

Probably, definitely. But, it wasn’t meant to send her into a terror induced panic, as if some ghost of her past had taken over her body and mind.

Her heart hammered painfully against her chest, the feeling of betrayal sticking to her like honey and she feared, truly and honestly feared, that the world was going to end.

Which was ridicolous.

Because she might not have been a scientist in her past life, but, in this one, Princess Gem had made sure to fund the arts and sciences in her kingdom. And with it her fascination for astronomy and the celestial sky had captured her entirely, beginning her own work on the subject.

So, truly she knew better than to believe the moon could crash on them, or that some demonic creature could come and haunt her or anything of the same outlandish and magical nature. Magic didn’t exist in Dawn, so she was fine!

That didn’t stop her from feeling as if she was clinging onto a desperate lie.

[lilybug-02]

New friend acquired!

Bug Fact: Colombian Lesserblack Tarantulas have pet frogs! The frog protects the spider's eggs from ants and in return, the frog is kept safe by the spider.

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Masterpost

[raphaerolo]

Cody is very particular about his drive-through order and who is Obi-Wan to complain

(This was my warmup originally and it got away from me)

[tiffanyachings]

it would have been very beautiful. camilla would have had to cook (horrible bone soup)

[infamouslydorky]

Ngl, I just like the muck monster design, so I wanted to doodle it

[daysneezes]

Help me please help me help help plea

[menelaus-blue]

as promised tumblr, the drawing has been done

[alazic02]

I drew this last year when their episodes were coming out but just recently dug its sketchbook out. Emotional sequel to this comic :)

Artwork ©: alazic02 | buy me a ko-fi

Do not repost.

[bionicboxes]

Dead By Daylight x Team Fortress 2 ( ^∇^)╯Part 1!

rest assure, I have more planned including ones with the mercenaries not featured in this post!

[makedamnsvre]

[I D: A semi-realistic digital drawing of Hollyleaf, a black cat with green eyes, from the shoulders up. She has a distressed expression as she looks up to a red glowing shattered star floating in front of her face, casting her in red light. There is green bounce lighting illuminating her from behind. The background is a black and green gradient. end I D]

a messy drawing i made that i then added to much detail to !!

[anonymouscheeses]

Old sketch I decided to give line art and color. Will definitely NOT finish this but if I do thennnn iunno congrats on me finally finishing an abandoned sketch 😭

[queercode-my-minecraft]

ao3 | grains of sand and memories lost

Memories were fickle things. And, Pixlriffs knew it well.

Perhaps spending years doting after forgotten civilisations had made him forget his own past, or maybe bringing back to life long extinct creatures had sucked a bit of his own life and humanity into something more abstract. A memory of something that had stopped dreaming years ago.

So, each memory he’s able to grasp in his fingers he holds onto tightly, hoping it wouldn’t slip away from it like grains of sand.

i. 

The first memory he was able to conjure, the one farthest from the present, was his mother.

Her warm and callous hands holding his face, his hands, hugging him tightly, and her dark brown eyes he had inherited, that wrinkled slightly when both of them smiled. She had silky black hair she held in a braid as she worked, and he remembered revelling in the feeling of passing his hands through it as he helped her twist it, more than he was able to conjure the sensation.

She loved honey, always having a jar in their kitchen and drizzling it on her food as a treat, and he still stored it in the same place as she did, in the right most cupboard wherever he went. 

He didn’t remember her death and perhaps he should be thankful for that. The sparse memories scattered but engulfed in bittersweet longing, rather than grief, were sweeter that way. 

Grief had always tasted of lemons, he’d hate for the honeyed memories to be tainted by its tangy bitterness.

ii.

Home had always been a nebulous concept for him. Or, as far as he remembered.

He didn’t recall his childhood home, if not for the half remembered dreams or impressions of what it might’ve been.

Perhaps he and his family had been nomads, travelling through the dunes and through the bustling cities, always warm, even during the night when it so often went below zero. 

Or maybe he grew up in a small fishing town at the outskirts of a desert or savannah, playing with other children around the dusty streets and learning the ways of the currents and their unrooted magic.

Perhaps they’d both been his home, or perhaps neither had been. Shrouded in darkness it was hard to be certain about anything. Well, anything except one thing:

They were all dead.

All the people he faintly remembered were dead and had been dead for a very long time. 

Sometimes he thought he remembered the double deaths that some of them went through. The first was always sudden, and no matter what Pixlriffs felt or did, the second death would soon follow. This time truly eternal. 

Perhaps that was why he always had a hard time remembering, he had always felt like he was living two lives: the past and the near future. Always condemned to live between those two distinct tenses, getting caught and destroyed by the whirlwind of human tragedy.

And, perhaps that had been why he had never felt at home anywhere, even as he tried to recover the remains of an ancient civilisation, there was always the reminder that everything would inevitably die.

-

The closest memory to home was honey and sand.

Thinking back however, despite the dunes feeling comforting, with its familiar hum that welcomed him, he couldn’t remember, in his life, actually existing in between them. He knew how it felt to live through a sand storm or the dizzying heat, but the memory of having lived through the experiences seemed to slip through his fingers and mind like poetry. 

The thought of the desert brought him a familiar desperation, the impulse to claw at his own heart in anguish at the sight of rolling waves, or whenever he saw the depiction of flying dragons and the pit in his stomach became a starving crevice of guilt.

When he tried to remember all that he found were snippets, single notes of a forgotten melody:

Waves crashing against rocks below them, the taste of seaweed and salt on his tongue. 

Flames from candles licking up into the night sky, joining the stars in their eternal dance. 

Sipping thick, warm soup as the rain outside patterned against the glass incessantly. 

Afternoon spent through friendly duels, with tridents instead of swords, and then resting in the shadow of a mother tree.

Learning, or rather, being forced to learn how to sculpt. 

A shimmering statue under the sunlight, a gift and a prank as its red scales glittered mockingly.

Gunpowder and callous hands as they passed each other flint and steel, a flash of a grin, high on adrenaline.

The Anthill, tall and majestic, rising in the sky, inside a safe haven that saved his people when he lost everything.

He stopped in his tracks, the silence of the ruins deafening.

-

Home is never a place. It’s the feelings, and food and most importantly the people that make it so.

And, Pixlriffs knew two things:

All the people he could’ve considered as an integral part of his home were dead. And had been dead for so long he didn’t even remember where he’d buried them.

And, the second thing he knew was that he didn’t remember them. 

He couldn’t recall their voices or faces, and was barely able to remember their favourite food, their personality, their love. Nevermind their names.

How could he consider those people his home when he couldn’t bring himself to even try and remember? How could he try and relearn about his own past when the grief became so overbearing?

His home had been lost to the winds of time and memory, and perhaps it had been his own fault.

iii.

There was something familiar of the desolate and forgotten city he had found, a sensation that only grew as he worked to reinstate its past vibrancy.

The Great Bridge felt nearly foreign, though, so absent from human life. 

Every time he made his way towards the other cities and kingdoms on the other side, he nearly expected to see with the corner of his eye stands selling everything, travellers finally arriving and kids racing each other.

He could so easily imagine the construction of the bridges and infrastructures, the sleepless nights spent designing and the days spent overseeing from afar the slow progress. Sometimes, as he returned the stones to their original splendour he had the impression this was the second time he worked on them. 

Walking down the catacombs was refreshing in that regard, the only ghosts present there were buried, and to be amongst the dead, able to remember their name and preserve even a little bit of their life in him, felt right. 

He was honouring them, somehow, as he walked amongst them, tending to the candles next to their caskets as if tending lovingly to an offer.

It was above the catacomb, at the faceless statue that stood proud against the sky in defiance, when his skin itched. The prickling sensation at the back of his neck as if he was being observed, judged, as he stood in the statue’s shadows, a natural continuation of the catacombs darkness.

Sometimes, when he fell asleep the statue appeared in his dreams. 

Glowing and radiant one moment, basking in the sun’s warm light, and the next she would turn into stone, crumbling beneath his eyes, the glint of her familiar smile haunting him until he woke up. As soon as he did, he would clean the sweat from his forehead and make his way back outside, into the night, where her statue could protect him even through the veil of death.

But, that wasn’t enough.

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

to prove i have, in fact, been thinking abt (it was, in reality, not fine), here's a doodle abt Reader experiencing a real, actual Thought for the first time in like five years

(no this isnt the canon version of what happens im sorry y'all still gotta wait for that to happen in th fic lol)

(also their brain is the dvd logo hitting the corner of th screen in the first doodles. its hard to tell ik im sorry sdkjfhsjdfhs)

[t00thpasteface]

i only have eyes for Only One Bed

[izel-scribbles]

Arthur eating a meal because he deserves it

i have to sprinkle in my hc that john would love cooking (specifically for arthur)

jesus christ orthur how are you still so skinny. where does all my food go.

[solfinite]

hello finally putting my au stuff down on paper after several months.. also finally chose a name for it !! it's called Sonic Aeroventure :)

(+xtra traditional sketches below)