new sketchbook who this
what it says in the tin, got a new sketchbook today :) it's thicker and rougher paper than what i usually use which is slightly annoying because it tends to smudge a lot more and has a rougher look, but it's still good paper and i find it nice to draw on!!
every so often i fall back into my DDLC phase and start rewatching a bunch of analysis videos on the characters. they're like my comfort background noise to listen to. Monika's one of my favourite characters and i find her fun to draw!!
(ignore the sudden lighting change idk why that happened)
Splatoon was, like, a childhood hyperfixation of mine, mainly because the character designs and the music go hard. like, they literally please the autism so much, it's like a stim just looking at the characters and listening to the soundtrack!!! the design of the Inkling girl was always my favourite as a kid because look at her! she's so cool looking!! i love all the colours and i love the texture of the characters' hair and their ears literally make me so happy and they are SO fun to draw. i would chew on an octoling's hair like a dog toy if i could it looks so chewable
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─♣️─ Lackadaisy : Melancholy Hours
⸝⸝ tl;dr : a sleepless night turns into a trip down memory lane for mordecai heller, who usually prefers to keep his memories buried deep deep down.
⸝⸝ note : this is purely self-indulgent ! so expect an unedited work, a very ooc mordecai, and a ton of headcanons that i shoehorned into the oneshot. this was made with the intention of contributing something to the lackadaisy fandom, so i do hope it's still enjoyable regardless of the shenanigans i put in . (also, to everyone in the discord that sees this, im so sorry)
It was on one of these nights when Mordecai Heller would find himself tossing and turning in bed, rustling the sheets he normally kept so pristine. Nights where his alcohol pick-ups with the Savoys lead to bone-crushing exhaustion. Nights where time seemed to slow down after fights with rival speakeasies, emphasizing the way his muscles tense and his wounds throb. Nights where the lull of cicadas and frogs outside his bedroom window gave way to thoughts and memories he normally kept under lock and key.
Memories - something that Mordecai preferred to stay away from, something that he keeps buried under layers of tough, unbreakable soil. And yet, in this warm summer night, with the moonlight filtering through the windows and the crickets chirping their trance-inducing song, Mordecai finds himself taking a reluctant walk down memory lane, lured in by some unknown entity who takes his hand in wisps of silver and gold. Who opens each door in his house of memories and grins with delight when the can of worms come crawling out from the front porch. Who reminds him, like a breeze of wind rustling his ear, that days have been better. That they have been more joyful, more vibrant than whatever he's experiencing right now.
And it was on one of these nights that ruthless gunman and rumrunner Mordecai Heller would succumb to his feelings. He'd let them flow, like salty silk ribbons, down his cheeks, his chin, releasing all that he's been bottling up in one fell swoop of tears and sobs. He'd sit up in bed and hug himself like how he used to when he was a child, and let his cries wash over him as he grieves for everything he's lost.
Viktor. Rose. Esther. Atlas, Rose, Esther, Viktor. Viktor.
Viktor, the closest thing he's had to family since he left his ; who tolerates his ramblings and rants about asymmetry and germs ; who's been a pillar Mordecai can hang on to in times where everything's too much. On nights like this, Mordecai finds himself longing for Viktor's presence. Anything could do - his gruff voice, his one-eyed glare, just ... anything to make him feel like he's back at Lackadaisy again.
Mordecai hugs himself tighter, rocking back and forth on the mattress. He shuts his eyes amidst the tears flowing from closed lids, and out from his mouth comes a thin keening. A shaky breath, a gasp for air, and then a whispered, "I want to go home."
Home, with its worn couch with the coffee stains and water rings. Home, with the clotheslines stringing from pillar to pillar, laden with drying coats and scarves. Home, with the sounds of laughter and high-pitched shrieks and sibling arguments. Rose and Esther. Rose and Esther. One shining from the inside with bubbly smiles, the other almost a carbon copy of himself with those moody eyes and those moody glasses.
"I want to go home, I want to go home," he says, over and over again, like a wish that would come true if he just said it enough. If he just believed enough.
And he wouldn't have known he had fallen asleep if it weren't for him waking up the chirps of robins and sparrows with his eyes sore and swollen. He'd stare at the ceiling in silence for a moment, before getting up and making his bed. Taking a shower. Buttoning his suit up. Locking the door behind him. On mornings after nights like these, Mordecai Heller would keep his memories under lock-and-key again as he steps out into the fast-moving world of guns, alcohol, and blood.
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