Again, Real And True !!

again, real and true !!

i really really like when this happens

hello !! no pressure like, AT ALL !! but i would love for someone to draw tré and an oc i ship him with, asya 💕 ADORE your art btw !!

YOUU ALLLLL

GIMME YOUR RAMSHACKLE SHIPPS IM GONNA DRAW THEM 🫵🗿

snoopy after reading white nights by dostoevsky

Please stop and listen to our painful story and help me save the family 🇵🇸🇵🇸

Help me get my father and mother out and secure their lives

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Donate to Please Save What's Left of My Family, organized by Marleen Tipu

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The story of my father and mother who suffered from illness and lived under the wall of a tent

“The tent was their only shelter. Its winter wall was made of threadbare fabric that did not protect them from the cold or summer heat. Inside, they were lying on a thin mattress, two defeated bodies suffering from diabetes and high blood pressure. They woke up every day to the sound of chronic pain and dreams. That relaxes with every breath.

LMAUR KAHSHAGSHSGAHGA

can finally draw and TRIED MY ABSOLUTE BEST 😭 to doodle the dearest, darling, most precious girl, @rebootgrimm’s Zaria !! from the past, in her modeling days 😵💘 I DON’T THINK it even REMOTELY looks like her though IDK MAN i tried to make her at least a littleee more recognizable from the colors WHICH USUALLY DON’T DO 😭😭

but anyway !! I AM FREE FROM THE SHACKLES OF SCHOOLWORK …for some time !! will respond to RPs and accomplish those requests in a hot minute !! PROMISE !! hope u like it, reboot :)) regardless of how drastically diverts from her reference drawing LMAO SORRY 😣😹

Villain and Violent, Infant and Innocent; of Asya and Tré— a Ramshackle OC Fanfiction.

Asya. He wanted to reach her, to bridge the yawning chasm of their shared misery, but the action he sought to venture eluded him. Words hovered atop his lips, but they felt insignificant upon mental rehearsal, inadequate against the vast distance that separated them. Are you okay? What are you doing? You’ll get sick like that. What could there even be to say? A trembling hand extended in reach for her, willing himself a few steps nearer, but withdrew upon the slightest distance taken. You have cake on your cheek. Come here, I’ll wipe it off. What modicum of comfort could he provide when he himself was adrift, suspended in the unforgiving reality he scarcely endured? I’ll take care of you.

Crumbling like castles ever gleaming, civilizations proclaimed to be eternal— hubris, is it? Or, desperation?

“God, Asya…” breathed Tre, feigning melodramatic stupor— pressing a hand atop his chest as if a blow had penetrated through his heart in affected gesticulation. Finally, he succumbed to familiarity; what was cruel was infinitely easier. “What a scare. You could have given me a heart attack!”

about anastasia salvador (ramshackle oc insert) pairing ramshackle tré x oc (asya) genre character lore, canon-divergent, angst, the romance with the aforementioned couple is merely an addition tws insomnia, depiction of a a panic attack/mental breakdown, moments suggesting eating disorders, and religious guilt insinuated although never explicitly pictured. please heed said warnings and stay safe.

PART ONE of Indeterminate—

The house was but a husk of a home, a tomb— wholly overcome with a bleak, desolate stillness that preceded every crevice of the manor of lacquered gold. Each broad outline of shadow, cast by the obnoxious, grandiose amenities every room was furnished, stretched long and weary into the oppressive depth of the dark night, their harsh, jagged silhouettes becoming a dark pool in the creaking floors, which succumbed with the slightest oppression of force. Each cautious step Tre ventured was a laborious endeavor, his limbs leaden and uncooperative. Plagued by the gnawing restlessness of insomnia, he hauled himself from bed (which, proved nothing but an immediate regret of departing from his dearly beloved covers) and driven begrudgingly forth by some primal, desperate need for a cheap semblance of gratification, however fleeting or elusive the venture’s fruits culminated.

He wandered through the narrow, shadowed corridors, each embellished corner overcome with a total, inky blackness that seemed to pulse with a life of it’s own. It was as if the very walls conspired to remind him of the bleak night beyond the manor’s sprawling gates, weathered by a storm most penetrating— his existential insignificance in the vast, boundless expanse of the rain’s unforgiving onslaught. He advanced with a kind of mechanical detachment, his mind a clouded haze of half-formed flights of thought and distant memories in dejected recollection, all blurred by the heavy fog of insomnia and lethargy.

He crossed the threshold of the kitchen, where a sterile, clinical luminescence from the refrigerator cut through the darkness with an almost surgical precision. The manor’s opulent evening had been marked by a grand dinner party, which had just concluded hours earlier. The remnants of the festivities lay scattered, a detestable departure from the emptiness it now harbored. The stark blue cast long, sharp shadows, outlining the vagueness of the dark into delineated contrasts and unsettling angles. There, standing bathed in the cold glow, a spectral silhouette against the harsh illumination of the open fridge, perched a dejected Asya, her figure etched in sharp relief against the gloom.

The coveted names in the exclusive guest list was a calculated pick of the most desirable prospects in the current social ecosystem, which of course, encompassed Ramshackle’s Holy Order, and their dearest girl. The extension of the night’s festivities was not intended, but drew out longer than expected, and neither was the weather most penetrating— nevertheless, it proved to be an immense joy to Tre’s mother, whom was most excited to suggest her guests’ extended stay.

Although “dearest”, at the moment, Anastasia did not quite appear. She clutched a slice of a cold, decadent cake with bare hands, it’s wet, saturated grain, moist from it’s refrigeration, apparent even from a distance— her fingers overcome with a fitful tremble against the frigid cold as she held onto it as if her only remaining anchor to reality.

Everyone is standing on shaky ground; teetering on insecurity half-concealed and trembling from the weight of the false identities we cannot sustain upright.

Her eyes were gouged of even the vaguest notion of thought or color, vacant and unthinking— fixed in some vague, indiscernible point in the wistful distance, as if she had slipped from the brutal moorings of reality. The light bathed her in an unforgiving pallor, every shadow of outworn grief marring her gaunt face. A mere statue, frozen in stagnant, desolate contemplation, only, a statue would not have been the picture of pity Asya epitomized— the usual, poised arch of her back hunched and sunken, slumped helplessly over a slice of moist cake in the ceaseless expanse of the dark.

The air was frigid, each breath taken a sharp, icy stab that seared Tre’s lungs. Outside, a storm raged, an unrelenting onslaught that battered against the house as though in zealous effort to wring it apart. The wind howled, the mournful howl of a swift succession of rapid gales— overlapping into one another in a fitful, anguished cry.

Asya. He wanted to reach her, to bridge the yawning chasm of their shared misery, but the action he sought to venture eluded him. Words hovered atop his lips, but they felt insignificant upon mental rehearsal, inadequate against the vast distance that separated them. Are you okay? What are you doing? You’ll get sick like that. What could there even be to say? A trembling hand extended in reach for her, willing himself a few steps nearer, but withdrew upon the slightest distance taken. You have cake on your cheek. Come here, I’ll wipe it off. What modicum of comfort could he provide when he himself was adrift, suspended in the unforgiving reality he scarcely endured? I’ll take care of you.

Crumbling like castles ever gleaming, civilizations proclaimed to be eternal— hubris, is it? Or, desperation?

“God, Asya…” breathed Tre, feigning melodramatic stupor— pressing a hand atop his chest as if a blow had penetrated through his heart in affected gesticulation. Finally, he had succumbed to familiarity; what was cruel was infinitely easier. “What a scare. You could have given me a heart attack!”

Asya remained inert, hardened into stone by the utter sorrow enveloping her— tightening it’s constriction upon every waking moment, until it ensnared and choked, stifling her to total lameness. And much to Tre’s dismay, apathetic to his incessant provocation. The right words, the gentle ones, escaped his lips— shaping instead to the cruel, vain ease of scrutiny.

“Wha— what are you even doing?!” He behested incredulously, the berate of such an interrogation almost akin to those subject to those he apprehended for larceny. Talking to her as if hopelessly caught amidst the scene of an abhorrent crime. “You’re supposed to be asleep, or at the very least, with Father Matthias in the guest bedroom. If he or Mother— scratch that, if ANYBODY caught you in such a state, you’d be in awful trouble!”

“Look at you! You have cake on your forehead! I mean— how does it even get there?!” He pursued tempestuously, pointing to the prominences which he expressed indicated such an offense, apparently to him personally. “Are you TRYING to look pitiful?”

There was an inherent frailty to Anastasia, the susceptibility of both her physical constitution and mental character to total, absolute collapse upon the slightest incitement embedded to the delicate fixtures of her being. Weak, she was. Every sharp utterance, every disagreeable flick of the tongue, merely even a cold, fleeting glance, prompted her to unravel, to the point of ceaseless tears— an abnormal sensitivity perhaps a consequence of the isolation she subject in childhood, and social ineptitude.

“Pick yourself up, Salvador!” He bellowed, coupled with a frantic gesticulation of his arms— wild and ardent. “I mean, honestly—’

And of course, upon Tre’s oblivious barrage of scrutiny and imputation, she succumbed to a heaving rise of her trembling shoulder, and subsequent sob. With great suddenness, a rupture of emotion tears her asunder, snapping like thread strained too far— surrendering at last, to the desperate, clamoring tempest of her heart.

Her face twists in her violent outburst, contorting as her brows furrow in impassioned languish, her eyes aching with the tears restrained unshed yielding to its inevitable flood of grief, and her lips parting agape hitching, gasped curse. Ugly, it was— indubitably so, and she was painfully aware.

“--- how do you possibly think to maintain the provisions you’re bestowed when you’re…you…”

Her hands instinctively endeavor to obscure the maddening red that marred her cheeks upon the discernment of Tre’s gaze laid upon such a scene of her vulnerability. It was then that fervent, solemn sentiment was conceived in her heaving chest. She had witnessed her mother amidst a similar collapse of emotion once before, a single sliver of moonlight enlightening the scene as she infiltrated the moment behind a door parted agape. In her Father’s arms, sniveling most pathetically— enveloped in an embrace, incessant kisses pressed to her face, wet with tears. “It’s okay, darling. I have you, do I not?”

God, could he do that?

“You’re crying,” Tre concluded, indicating the painfully obvious— the perceived monotony and tedium of his attention feeling infinitely more debilitating than the sorrow Anastasia lamented, piercing through the heart.

Please?

“Surely, you’re above such dramatics,” he drawled, the familiar intonation and emphasis of his tone laden with a solid disdain, “there isn’t anybody here to fall for your little shtick. That hateable, poorly conceived act you put on, to procure excessive sympathy. I find it revolting.”

No. No he could not.

“I– I do not—” Anastasia chokes, forcing her utterance upon the vice, imposing grip on her throat, wrecking with sobs with a force that shook her corporal entirety. An accusation she would not allow, the only one. “I– I would never—!”

“Please, Asya. That’s pathetic.”

— End of Part One.

erm…what the sigma !! chat this is kinda funny they’re so pathetic PFTFTFTT ERMMM sorry for making Tré such an asshole I AM GOING BY HOW ZEDDYZI CHARACTERIZES HIM IN HER OLD TUMBLR POSTS ☹️😔😔 obvi their validity in canon is questionable taking into account how they’re like…from 2016… BUT ANYWAY he’s not totally a jerk or won’t be for the entirety of the fic i promise 💔💔 he and asya are just complicated angry stupid teenagers and they are 💕 so precious to me !! part two soon, promise ♡