R.E.W ;) @r-3-w - Tumblr Blog

asmoteeth-deactivated20260430

Life Update bc I don't wanna b radio silent

So I've been a little inactive lately but I have a good reason, and that reason is that I started having health problems all of the sudden back in October and guess who ended up hospitalized in a clinic??? meeee I spent 2 full weeks in there while the doctors were literally holding meetings trying to guess what the hell was wrong with me; I had to be given blood transfusions bc I was critically anemic and they changed my IV needle like 5 times (7 if we count that one nurse that kept poking my arm but couldn't find my vein), oh yeah and they did a colonoscopy and it was the most terrifiying thing I've ever experienced (until they gave me anesthesia- I was giggling and having a blast from there forward) Good news is that they found out what was wrong with me, bad news is that it is an AUTOINMUNE CHRONIC disease that makes my entire digestive tract prone to inflamation, yeah. I am currently back home and getting used to the restrictive diet they put me in while I wait for my doctors appointment, and perhaps I can go back to college next week (I lost the semester already but who cares at this point honestly) I've lost 6 kilos (13 pounds) and my legs are midly atrophied from not walking (walking was really painful due to the disease symptoms and liquid retention) so I'm trying to go back to the weight I was before being hospitalized for now, while trying not to cause a rupture on my intestines (apparently possible) So that's whats been going on and why I didn't reply to the birthday wishes :( very sorry, I love you all and it made me very happy when I was at the clinic I promise Other news for my moots I've been thinking about abandoning this blog and starting a new one for my ocs, yumeship, and more fanart. I'm kinda tired of getting notifications from art I posted in 2020, and even thought I've started using tumblr less and less I still love this app a lot and the reach is immaculate, but I wanna start tagging my art correctly and reblogging less stuff to keep everything tidy, if I make one I'll post the @ later; reminder that I'm 20 now so some of you may not be able to follow or interact :P sorry, but I wanna explore some topics that may not be suitable for my younger moots, it was good while I made RBA art but I kinda wanna do more serious stuff with my ocs and fanart of other franchises.

That's all for now, I just wanted to sound off that I'm alive and well, for the most part.

sf3

pizza pasta and his two adorable dogs

they look familiar........

#rew's reblogs #pizza pasta #punch out

insomniolent

Don't mess with king hippo

This is just a short shitpost since Idk if I could post tomorrow

thebreadwhoburned

Third locket

Art by my pook @r-3-w

The morning crept in slowly, casting a dull light through the grimy windows of a motel room that seemed to have been neglected for far too long. The air was thick with the stale scent of unwashed linens and lingering smoke—a potent cocktail Aran barely noticed anymore. The tiny, sheet-devoid bed was occupied by none other than Aran Ryan, the notorious red-headed cheat. He lay sprawled across the mattress, clad only in a pair of light green boxers. His ginger hair was a tangled mess, and a scruffy, three-day attempt at a beard adorned his jaw, giving him the air of disheveled, vaguely menacing disarray.

The shrill, insistent beeping of the alarm clock pierced the silence at 9 a.m. With a groggy grunt that sounded more like a dying boar, Aran shot a hand out and smashed the clock to pieces with a single, practiced punch. Springs, glass, and plastic scattered across the floor. "Shut the fuck up..." he muttered, rolling over to face the window, only to be met with the incessant hum of traffic outside, the Parisian hustle already well underway.

Just as he began to drift back into a restless slumber, his phone disrupted him once more. The screen displayed the image of an older man with grey hair and a formidable mustache, labeled “Bossy Eejit.” The phone continued to ring, each chime more insistent than the last, until Aran reluctantly extended his hand to answer.

“What in the name of all that's holy do you want, you bloody donkey?” he barked, irritation lacing his voice, which was still thick with sleep.

The man on the other end, clearly unfazed by Aran's tone, demanded to know his whereabouts. “Où es-tu?!” he inquired, his French accent thick and unmistakable, the very sound grating on Aran’s nerves.

Aran rolled his eyes, a flicker of sarcasm playing on his lips. “I don't converse in gibberish, Gabby.”

The older man quickly corrected him, insisting his name was Gabriel, not Gabby, and that Aran had understood the question perfectly well.

Aran sighed, the weight of the inevitable conversation pressing down on him. “I don't bloody well know, but could you do me a solid and cover for me, 'Gabby'? I'm going to be a tad late, as the traffic is quite heavy,” he lied, hoping to buy himself some time.

Gabriel's response was swift and pointed, dripping with condescension. “Being stuck in Paris traffic is hardly a valid excuse, Aran. It is akin to stating the sky is blue. Also, I don't work for free; I'm going to need something in return for this favor.”

“I'll figure it out,” Aran snapped, hanging up with unnecessary force before Gabriel could state his price.

He dashed into the bathroom, the cold tile shocking his bare feet. Aran's morning routine was quick and brutal. He didn't bother with a towel, just stood under the scalding hot shower for precisely two minutes, using it to wake up his system. He stepped out, grabbed the cheapest razor he could find, and quickly shaved the scruff from his face, leaving only the aggressive angles of his cheekbones and jawline exposed. He stared at his reflection, a feral energy already simmering in his light eyes.

"Let's see... what am I going to have to do this time for my daft boss?" he muttered, toweling his damp, fiery hair into a semblance of order. He tossed on a simple black tank top and a pair of faded black athletic shorts, his uniform of convenience and rebellion. On his feet, he laced up a pair of pristine obnoxious purple high-top shoes. The job didn’t really matter as long as he showed up.

He grabbed his skateboard, a battered deck with purple grip tape and scratched trucks. He leaped up, balancing the board on the windowsill for a moment before dropping it to the floor.

He was out the door and on the street in minutes, the loud clatter of his wheels announcing his presence. He launched himself into the thick morning traffic, treating the narrow Parisian streets like a skatepark. He weaved effortlessly between taxis and scooters, using the slight inclines of the road to gain speed.

He was going too fast, taking up too much space. A driver in a small, well-polished sedan leaned on his horn. "Hey, watch where you're going!?" the furious Frenchman yelled out his window.

Aran’s head snapped over. He didn't yell back; he just flipped the bird twice with a theatrical flourish, then, with a flash of rage, slammed the nose of his skateboard against the car’s side window, shattering the glass with a sickening crunch.

The furious Frenchman didn't hesitate, throwing his car into park and immediately taking off after him on foot, shouting in incoherent rage. "Oh shit..." Aran muttered, but a wild grin stretched across his face. He pumped his leg, his purple shoes blurring as he gained speed. He glanced behind him. Soon, the blue lights and rising wails of a swarm of police cars joined the chase, the whole street erupting into chaos.

“I really hope the idiot knows it's illegal to skate in Paris…” Gabby sighed, watching the clock.

“Aran spotted a small, crowded outdoor café just ahead, tables spilling onto the pavement. A mischievous grin split his face.

"Alright, boys! Let's see you try the 'Irish Special'!" he yelled over his shoulder, a clear invitation for more bullshit .

With a sudden, sharp turn, he rolled onto the edge of a flower planter, grinding the concrete rail before launching himself over a small awning with a "Kickflip-to-Manual!", narrowly missing a very startled tourist mid-sip of espresso.

“Arrêtez, espèce de fou!” bellowed a voice from a police car, the driver slamming on the brakes. The cars behind him, less agile than a skater fuelled by spite and adrenaline, created a spectacular, multi-car fender-bender that blocked the narrow street entirely.

One officer, a stout man with a meticulously trimmed mustache, managed to leap out of his wrecked car. “Descendez de votre planche, voyou!” he roared, pulling a baton.

Aran didn't even slow down. He took a wide arc around a boulangerie, then saw his golden opportunity: a traffic jam of massive delivery vans. He executed a soaring Ollie, landing perfectly on the roof of the first van. With the police bellowing below him, Aran didn’t skate across the street; he skated above it.

He rode his board across the metal roofs of five separate trucks, performing a casual "Nosegrab" over the gap between the third and fourth. The trucks were shaking from the vibration of the sirens, and Aran’s ginger hair, now completely disheveled, flowed wildly behind him in the wind.

“Il est sur les toits! Il est complètement fou!” cried a voice from a megaphone.

He leaped from the final van roof onto a low, wide balcony belonging to an apartment building. He immediately performed a "Tail Slide" down the length of the balcony railing, sending a potted geranium crashing to the street below. He reached the end, spotted a drainpipe, and without hesitation, jumped onto it, using it as a temporary chute to slide down to the street level of the next block.

He found himself right next to a construction site. Seeing a temporary wooden ramp leading to a small, single-story utility shed, Aran grinned. This was it.

With a powerful push, he raced up the ramp, hitting the crest and launching into the air. He tucked his knees, executing a massive "Madonna" trick high above the street, his silhouette briefly framed against the dull Parisian sky.

He landed hard on the flat roof of the shed. He didn’t stop, instead using the momentum to spring off the shed and onto the roof of the next, higher building, a historic stone structure with crumbling edges.

The officers below were reduced to frustrated shouting and the sound of screeching tires. They could only look up, hands on their hips, as their perp turned the Parisian skyline into his personal skate park.

"Come on, lads! Give us a cheer!" Aran yelled down, before starting a precarious "Grind" along the decorative stone cornice of the building.

As he moved, he spotted a small, decorative gargoyle mounted on the edge of the building about three stories up from the ground. With a sudden burst of speed, he skated toward it, leaped off his board—letting the board clatter away onto a separate lower roof—and grabbed the gargoyle's weathered wing.

He pulled himself up to the roof's peak, his red hair whipping wildly around his face.

“Arrêtez de démolir la ville!” the megaphone screamed from somewhere far below.

Aran paused, catching his breath. He had been so focused on the chase that he hadn't noticed he was wearing a bright blue, unbuckled bicycle helmet, probably grabbed from the back of the van he originally smashed. He ripped it off his head.

He lobbed the helmet over the side of the building, aiming for a narrow alleyway below. It plummeted, hitting a loose clothesline, bouncing off a rusty fire escape, and landing with a dull thunk right in the middle of a police car's windshield.

Aran let out a loud, victorious "Wahoo!"—the classic cheat's war cry—and began a dizzying parkour descent. He used a fire escape railing as monkey bars, swung himself over a gap to a balcony, jumped onto an air conditioning unit, and finally slid down a smooth, angled roof toward his destination.

He landed, heart pounding, right near the loading dock entrance. His board, luckily, had rolled down a series of lower roofs and now rested against the building, waiting for him.

He grabbed his board, took a massive bite of the baguette he still had tucked under his arm, and darted inside just as the police sirens converged directly outside.

Aran dusted his hands off, a smirk of pure, chaotic satisfaction plastered across his face. He checked his phone. It was 9:45 a.m.

“Tard is better than never, ‘Gabby’,” he muttered, making his way to the elevator. He was forty-five minutes late, had caused a multi-car pileup, destroyed public property, and now he needed a ridiculous favour from his boss.

He pressed the button for the top floor. This was going to be a long day.

Aran slipped through the loading dock door and into the building's relative calm, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He paused only long enough to catch his breath and scoop up his skateboard. The muffled, frustrated shouts of the Parisian police outside were quickly fading into the background hum of the city. He didn't bother with the elevator, opting for the stairs, taking two at a time—it felt safer than being trapped in a metal box.

Once he hit the second floor, he slowed his pace, trying to look like a man who had simply arrived for a late shift, not a man who had just used a gargoyle as an anchor. He found himself on a crowded, glass-walled walkway overlooking an internal courtyard.

It was here, surrounded by the organized hustle of an actual workplace and away from the simple chaos of the streets, that the second, more subtle wave of panic hit him.

He passed a dozen employees chatting briskly as they hurried along. They were speaking French. A brightly colored poster on a nearby bulletin board advertised a company event—it was covered in French text. A digital sign above a water cooler flashed a company memo in rapid, scrolling French.

Aran hadn't realized how completely he had relied on universal gestures—like smashing a car window—to communicate. Now, in a professional, bureaucratic environment, he was utterly lost.

He couldn't read the signs pointing to the offices, couldn't understand the names on the doors, and the brief, complex conversations swirling around him were nothing but an infuriating, elegant gibberish. His grip tightened on his skateboard.

Right, okay, I can’t read a bloody thing, he admitted privately, a wave of annoyance washing over him. It’s just fancy noise.

He refused, absolutely refused, to let this weakness show. He was Aran Ryan, the master cheat, not some bewildered tourist who couldn’t tell a fire exit from a supply closet. His solution was simple: aggressive overconfidence.

He straightened his back, jutted out his chin, and began marching down the hallway. When he passed a sign he couldn't read, he'd scoff dismissively, as if the sign itself were beneath his notice. When a woman in a crisp suit asked him a rapid question in French—probably about his damp hair or the fact he was carrying a skateboard—Aran didn't even slow down.

“Oui, absolument. Très bien. Carry on, then,” he clipped out with a dismissive wave of his hand, layering his thick Irish accent over the three French words he could remember, hoping the sheer force of his arrogance would ward off any further linguistic interaction.

He didn't know where he was going, but he was going there with purpose, all to conceal the truth: he was a red-headed cheat lost in a building full of signs he couldn't decode, and he'd sooner jump back onto the rooftops than ask for directions. The only destination he knew was Gabriel, the "Bossy Eejit," and he just had to find him by sheer, stubborn force of will.

Aran marched onward, his purple shoes slapping against the polished floor, the silence of his internal panic louder than any police siren. He rounded a corner and finally saw something vaguely familiar: an escalator leading down to a massive, bustling area.

He descended, and the scent of yeast, roasted meat, and strong coffee hit him. He was in the ground-floor retail and dining area, packed with tourists and business lunch crowds. His destination, Gabriel's restaurant, had to be down here.

The overwhelming chaos only intensified his linguistic isolation. Every sign was a mockery. He saw "Sortie" (Exit) and "Toilettes" (Restrooms) and assumed one led to the kitchen. He passed a brightly lit kiosk labeled "Tabac" and figured it sold lunch.

Two sharply-dressed businessmen stepped directly into his path, deep in conversation.

“Non, non, c’est impossible! La nouvelle réglementation est une catastrophe!” one exclaimed, gesturing wildly. (No, no, it's impossible! The new regulation is a catastrophe!)

Aran didn't understand a single word, but their agitated tone made him assume they were criticizing his choice of attire.

“Eyes on your own paper, lads,” he grumbled, shouldering past them.

He spotted a huge, ornate menu board outside a very expensive-looking place. It was entirely in French, of course. Aran tried to sound out the words, his lips moving silently. "Pâté en Croûte," "Velouté de Potiron," "Mille-feuille." They just sounded like threats. He scowled at the menu, deciding it was just deliberately confusing to rip off customers.

“Excusez-moi, monsieur, vous êtes perdu?” (Excuse me, sir, are you lost?) a helpful-looking waitress asked, approaching him cautiously.

Aran didn't pick up on the tone of concern. He heard the word "monsieur" and something fast and high-pitched. He immediately went into dismissive cheat mode.

“Look, I’m only late, not blind, yeah? Shove off,” he snapped, making a rude gesture with the baguette he still clutched, before spinning around and heading deeper into the crowd.

Upstairs, in the quiet solitude of his cramped office, Gabriel was pacing a path in the carpet, his grey mustache bristling with annoyance. It was nearly 9:55 a.m. The entire lunch prep for his high-end establishment was stalled because his star—and worst—employee wasn't there.

Gabriel ran a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have agreed to the bloody favour," he muttered in a mix of French and English. He knows the kitchen entrance is just by the delivery bay. How is he taking this long?

He checked his phone and saw Aran's contact—"Bossy Eejit." Gabriel immediately pressed the call button.

Aran, currently trying to squeeze between two elderly women carrying shopping bags and failing miserably, heard his phone blast the familiar ringtone. He yanked it out.

“What now, Gabby? I’m here, aren't I? Just got bogged down by the local entertainment,” Aran said, his voice straining slightly as he wrestled past a rolling luggage cart.

“Aran, où diable êtes-vous?!” Gabriel's voice was tight with fury. (Aran, where the devil are you?!) “You should have been here fifteen minutes ago! I can hear crowds! Are you on the street?!”

“No, I’m inside, obviously! In the… the big white marble hallway. Full of… tourists,” Aran lied, leaning against a pillar next to a sign that clearly read "Galerie Commerciale."

“The 'big white marble hallway' is the entire ground floor! I’m in the 'Le Cochon Fidèle' kitchen! It's right next to the floral boutique, opposite the fountain!” Gabriel spat out the precise directions.

Aran’s eyes scanned the chaos. Fountain? Floral boutique? He saw a large display of wilting hydrangeas, but next to it was a shop selling fine jewelry. No fountain.

Suddenly, a loud, booming voice came from behind him. It was a security guard.

“Monsieur, cette zone est réservée au personnel avec badge! Vous devez quitter les lieux immédiatement!” (Sir, this area is reserved for staff with a badge! You must leave the premises immediately!)

Aran understood none of it, but the guard's size and the word "immédiatement" conveyed the general threat.

"Look, 'Gabby', I'm getting grief from the natives! They're speaking to me in the fast gibberish again! Just tell me what corner of this bloody maze you’re hiding in!” Aran hissed into the phone, turning to glare defiantly at the security guard.

“I am not hiding, you idiot! Look for the red awning! The one that says 'Fidèle'!”

Aran slammed his skateboard down again, ready to move. “Fine! 'Fidel'! Got it!” He took off, hoping the sound of his escaping wheels would satisfy both Gabriel and the irate security guard.

He took off, weaving back through the busy gallery, his focus narrowed solely on finding a sign—any sign—that looked like "Fidel." He skated right through the middle of a crowd of tourists, narrowly missing a camera bag, then pivoted sharply to avoid a cleaning cart. His phone was still clutched in his hand.

He spotted a huge, glossy poster advertising the restaurant. It showed a jovial pig mascot wearing a chef's hat, with the words "Le Cochon Fidèle"—The Faithful Pig—written underneath.

“Aha! Found the bloody pig!” he muttered. The entrance was a grand, red-awning affair, looking far too posh for a cheat like him. He skated right up to the velvet rope.

Before Aran could decide whether to crash through the rope or simply ride his board over a small child, the door burst open. Gabriel, the Bossy Eejit himself, stood framed in the doorway, his face a mask of controlled fury. He was dressed impeccably in a chef's white jacket and checkered trousers, a stark contrast to Aran's chaotic black tank top and shorts.

Gabriel's eyes—narrow and sharp—flicked from Aran's damp, red hair and the skateboard to the lingering security guard and back again. The manager's fury was so potent it seemed to steam.

He didn't speak English. He simply grabbed Aran's arm, yanked him through the velvet rope, and slammed the door shut behind them, all while letting loose a torrent of rapid-fire French.

“Dix heures moins cinq! Dix heures moins cinq, espèce d’incapable! Tu es en grand décalage!” Gabriel hissed, pulling Aran through the dining room at a pace that threatened to rip his arm out of its socket. (Five to ten! Five to ten, you incompetent! You are seriously delayed!)

Aran stumbled, trying to keep up. “I’m here now, aren’t I? Bit of a dramatic entrance, is all!”

Gabriel ignored the comment, continuing his blistering tirade as they entered the sweltering, controlled chaos of the kitchen.

“Regarde-toi! Tes cheveux, tes shorts! Et ton putain de skateboard! On ne travaille pas comme ça! Tu es un vrai... une catastrophe!” (Look at you! Your hair, your shorts! And your damn skateboard! We don't work like this! You are a true... a catastrophe!)

He slammed a greasy apron into Aran’s chest. “You owe me big,” Gabriel stated, his voice dropping dangerously low, finally reverting to English to deliver the financial threat. “Now put this on and get back to work!”

Aran looked at the apron, then at Gabriel. "Fine! I'm late! Now tell me what ridiculous thing you want me to do to pay you back for the cover. I ran from the entire city constabulary, I deserve a proper mission, 'Gabby'!”

Gabriel took a long, slow breath, composing himself, the scent of expensive French cuisine mixing with the stale air of the kitchen. "The mission, Aran? It’s not a mission. It’s a punishment. You will start by scrubbing every single pot in the scullery. Then, because you were so profoundly delayed this morning, you will be our special delivery boy for a very sensitive package."

He gestured to a large, wooden crate sitting innocently beside a stack of flour bags. It was marked with a single, handwritten word: "Fragile."

"And you will take the Metro. No skateboard. It’s part of the penance."

What kind of "sensitive package" do you think a high-end Parisian restaurant would need delivered, and who is the mysterious recipient?

Aran stared from the sweaty copper pots piled high in the sink to the small, wooden crate marked "Fragile." He chose the crate.

"Forget the pots. I'm late, yeah? The delivery is the important part," Aran stated, completely ignoring the scullery duty. He was already planning how to ditch the Metro.

Gabriel, busy screaming at a sous-chef about the state of the mirepoix, pointed a wooden spoon at the crate without looking away.

“That package, that 'Fragile' box? It is a bespoke commission for Madame Dubois, the chief food critic for the Revue Gastronomique. It is a Croquembouche—a wedding cake made entirely of delicate, caramel-glazed choux pastry. It is ten kilos of pure, edible blackmail.”

Aran wrinkled his nose. "A cake? You want me to deliver a fancy pile of sweets?"

"It is not sweets, you peasant. It is a masterpiece. And if you so much as chip the spun sugar cage on top, she will write a review that will bury this restaurant and my career faster than you can smash a car window." Gabriel paused to stab the spoon in Aran's direction. "The address is on the label. No skateboard, no running, no smashing, and no 'improvising.' Now, get out before you breathe your Irish filth on my coq au vin."

Aran finally snatched the greasy apron off his chest and tossed it back at the counter. He went to the crate, gave it a skeptical shake—which produced a faint, worrying tinkling sound—and hoisted it up. It was heavier than it looked.

"Right. One delicate, bribe-cake delivery," Aran sighed. "You owe me even bigger now, 'Gabby'."

Aran Ryan, the man who treats Parisian traffic like a video game, is now tasked with carefully transporting a massive, delicate pastry by public transit.

#rew's reblogs #glass joe #aran ryan #burnt bread

Scratch games

Scratch punch out fans built different they make glass joe so powerful, I drew one

#ibispaint art #punch out #punch out fanart #punch out fandom #punch out nes #rew's art #glass joe #artists on tumblr

sf3

Hi, I love your aran and birdie drawings, so I was wondering, how do you draw their hairstyles without making them inconsistent? I tried looking at their sprites but I had trouble drawing their hair esp aran's shaved side and back hair and lost the look that made them recognizable!

hi anon! im very flattered about this since their hairs do look inconsistent in my drawings OTL........................

honestly i try eyeing it, i know this advice sounds pretty uh,,,unhelpful but i tend to break their hair down in parts.

about aran:

trust me, when i first drew snes aran. it was a chore because his hair is quite different than his wii version but i usually do the braids first, his ahoge and then the shaved head + his three/four strands last. his ahoge is very important to me! (he loses it in his wii version. which is why he is inferior) JK

unfortunately i do exaggerate his ahoge by making it a mile long so i should probably get better about that......... (its fun tho)

another thing to note is that his strands cover his back head so his shaved part ends near the back. but tbh snes aran is always recognizable to me no matter how people draw his braids/strands (i cannot stress enough that his ahoge is the best part and his best attribute)

please note that this is also a very old game so pixel art like this wont be as detailed. dont sweat about the small details!!!

about birdie...............................................

im gonna be honest. birdies hair confuses me too, thats probably why i dont draw him as often because its truly a beast to conquer.

if it helps, he has two strand on each side of his hair and they stem from the back

birdie doesnt have a portrait (or at least a better one) like the other fighters so the best images we have are his sprites...

let’s learn birdies hair together anon……heheh…😥😥😥

#rew's reblogs #punch out #aran ryan #birdie mac

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

R.E.W ;)