#my first time drawing kobra and his hair stupid as fuck

[awakeanytime]

Haven't posted art here in so long so here's some killjoys (guy with the stupid fucking rat tail that's so fucking hard to draw is my oc say hi everyone)

[ravenxbones]

From a Fun Ghoul in a Distant Land (haha adventure time reference), what are your headcanons for Ghoul?

ah you’ve picked my favorite character to ask about, tysm 🙈🥰

some of this might be redundant from my main BUT here we go

sometime i definitely want to draw his tattoos more fully but he really just has SO MANY. some have meaning (ones in memory of people, ones for his crew, ones that are mementos essentially) and some don’t but his knuckle tattoos are some of the first ones he got upon getting out to the desert (he left the city at age 13) which is why they are. well. a little earnest and a little stupid (one hand reads ‘freed’ and the other one says ‘fuck’. ANYWAYS)

aside from jet who’s desertborn he’s the member of the fab four who’s been in the desert the longest — technically. kobra left with poison at age 12 so he was youngest but ghoul has been out for longer. & he definitely has the roughest backstory. both he & poison were crow trainees and the catalyst for him leaving batt city was the death of his sister & grandmother

this is because of a hc that @sleevesareforlosers shared but now i really associate poppies with him. i think there’s this one california poppy field mid-zone 2-ish that the crew visits when they bloom. ghoul helps the girl make flower crowns for everyone ❤️

ghoul was the one to find the girl in the warehouse where she’d been left after dracs killed her mom & was also the one to argue the hardest to keep her instead of just taking her to gertie’s (obviously they weren’t just going to leave her there but none of them were really sure they could take care of a baby). once it was decided he was also the one who went about finding toys for her and made her a stuffed animal of an indeterminate species. basically what i’m saying is they’re very close <3

he’s had his mouth sliced open and survived, been hit by lightning and survived, endured numerous concussions/broken & bruised ribs/etc from demolition and survived and been shot an incredible number of times and survived so it’s become a kind of weak joke in the crew that the witch is watching out for him (which is probably true)

his hair is naturally black & he doesn’t feel the need to dye it but he has just been letting it grow out since he was about fourteen or fifteen so aside from a reconditioning incident that meant his hair got chopped short again it just gets longer and longer until the girl asks if she can practice hair cutting on him and hacks some of it off every now and then

he learned bombmaking and mechanics from a droid crewmate he had a long time ago — in the last crew he was in before he joined up with the fab four. she’s long dead, but he remembers her every time he wires a detonator or sets an explosive.

here are a few more hcs but basically i love him ty for asking me abt him <3

[discocritic]

for the song challenge: "you only live forever in the lights you make"

It started when they found the mask.

It was just lying on the ground, half-buried in the sand. Ghoul didn’t even notice it until he nearly tripped over it. He caught himself just in time and kept walking, playing it cool.

Party Poison noticed, though, and crouched down to pick it up. Ghoul backtracked a few steps, a little red from embarrassment, and inspected it with him.

The mask was old, cracked and faded from the sun’s relentless rays. The pattern was one neither of them recognized; purple with four black hearts under each eye hole. No ‘joy that Ghoul had ever known had claimed that pattern.

The thing was, they couldn’t return it to the owner because they didn’t know who the owner was. And neither did anyone else that he asked. Not even Tommy Chow Mein, who knows everything about everyone, or Dr. Death-Defying, who broadcasted about it on the radio. No one came to claim it or even offer clues to whose it had been.

It’s obvious now, looking back at it the next day, that whoever had once worn it is long gone. If they were around, they would’ve come looking for it. A mask is your whole identity out here, and losing it is like losing yourself.

It surprised him how quickly someone can be forgotten. And, frankly, it scared him too.

And when things scare him, Fun Ghoul likes to sit and think about them.

(Sometimes, he’ll light a cigarette and ponder for hours on end, but then he’ll end up overthinking everything and scaring himself more. So he tries to not to do that often.)

But normally, thinking a worry through does tend to soothe him.

That’s why, when they’re finally done driving through the entirety of Zone Four and’ve picked a place to set up camp for the night, he wanders to the top of a valley and sits in the sand dunes and starts the process.  

Everyone out here is living on the edge. One wrong move and your life is over, and you’ve risked the rest of your crew’s lives too.

A funeral, a burial, a quick prayer, and they never see you again. The end, faster than you can snap your fingers.

Or you just disappear one day, but they still never see you again.

And then, inevitably, your memory will fade from their mind. Not on purpose, but gradually. They’ll forget what your voice sounds like, the way each little scar gives your face the distinctive look of you, the mysterious aura that surrounds you that they were never really able to figure out what it was, but they knew for sure that it was there.

And one day, they won’t even remember your name.

Ghoul’s a million miles away and so tangled up in his thoughts by this point that he doesn’t even realize Party Poison is climbing up and sitting next to him until he’s already there. He doesn’t look at him.

And he doesn’t say anything either, so they sit in silence, relishing in the quiet buzz of the evening and the comfort of each other’s presence.

Ghoul feels Party’s tension, though, of unasked questions and wondering what he’s doing here. So he says something.

“It’s a little chilly out here, isn’t it.” It’s not really a question. It just comes out.

He didn’t think this through, did he.

That’s not a question either.

Fuck.

“Yeah. I guess,” comes Party’s answer. Then, “What’re you thinkin’ about?”

The evening air is cool, and it comes with a breeze that gently batters the tumbleweeds from side to side as he watches. One starts to come apart as it’s volleyed around.

He feels like a tumbleweed sometimes, tossed this way and that with no say in where he’s going. Just along for the ride.

And sometimes, that’s scary.

Like now.

“I ever tell you what happened when I was a kid?” The subtle art of avoiding a question: deflecting it with a question of your own.

He looks anywhere but at Party.

Jet Star and the Kobra Kid are playing with the girl down in the valley beneath them, a Joshua tree shading the older two from the sun as they set up camp, putting out the radio and sleeping bags. The girl dives down into the Kid’s and pops back up with a giggle, her hair frizzy from its contact with the fabric. Kobra swats at her lovingly.

Party tilts his head curiously, watching the scene below as well. “Don’t think so.”

“So, uh—fuck, how do I start this—uh, I lived in the Slums with my mom when I was a kid. Like, three or four. And, y’know, back then that was when the rogues in the desert were still rebelling, before the last squadrons of soldiers out here got gunned down. They had nuclear shit and all, and everyone in the Bat was way more afraid then than they are now because there weren’t as many drugs suppressing everyone’s emotions. So anyway, one day we were at the park when it just… got bombed twice. Buildings around us fell down, there was smoke everywhere. I remember I was holding my mom’s hand, and then the smoke cleared and I wasn’t. I, uh… I didn’t see her again. Alive. And, uh, out of everybody there, I was the only one who survived. Me, a four-year-old kid who still carried an action figure everywhere.”

Party doesn’t say anything, looks at him with something like pity.

Ghoul hates it. He hates the sympathy, the “oh, no, poor you” fake kind of condolences. But he still keeps talking.

“And I got burned really bad, and cut up by a bunch of shrapnel and other shit. They put me in an orphanage after I got out of medical care, but I ran away and found my old apartment. Someone already moved in. S-so I lived on the streets, uh, until I was fourteen.” He pauses for a moment, closing his eyes and remembering all the desperate theft and sleepless nights.

It’s definitely pity, the expression on Party’s face. It’s echoing on the back of Ghoul’s closed eyelids; he can see it even when he’s not looking. He knows.

It’s something he’s seen too many times in his life, from storekeepers during his first week in the Zones and from the medical personnel that rescued him from the wreckage in the first place. From Jet Star, who nursed him back to health after finding him beat up by a ruthless gang.

“What happened then?” the redhead asks softly. He’s treading carefully, like a cat upon a tightrope, making sure not to rush in case he loses his balance and falls off.

“I came out here and Jet took me in. You know that story. It was… a lot. But we’d been running together for a few years before you guys joined. But anyway, uh, the thing was, I had a couple friends in the city. Street rats like me, and every once in a while we’d joke about how even though I wanted to leave and they wanted to stay, they’d come lookin’ for me the second I left. But when I finally did… they never came.”

Party waits for him to go on, but he doesn’t, so they just sit quietly again, until Ghoul bursts out with the thoughts that have been plaguing him since the day before.

“I just… I don’t want to be forgotten like that again. Party, Party, what if I die? What if I die and no one remembers me in five years? Ten years? Everyone’s gonna move on one day, regardless of anything that happens, and no one will remember me. What if nothing I ever do matters and I just fade away? What if my life really means nothing and I’m just living a fantasy? What if what happened to the owner of that mask is gonna happen to me?” His words are choked out, etched razor-sharp with hysteria.

“Oh, Ghoulie…”

“I just—I don’t wanna to be forgotten. I don’t wanna fade away. Like… oh, god. Forget it. I don’t… I don’t know.”

He’s leaking confidence. He shakes his head and regrets every word that’s coming out of his mouth more by the second.

“Jus’ nevermind. That sounds so stupid. I—you didn’t want the whole sob story. Sorry.” He just needs to stop and shut the fuck up now.

Party watches him, his lips quirked in a sad smile. “No. It’s okay. Now, can I tell you something?”

Ghoul nods, draws in a shuddering breath. He picks up a handful of sand and lets it run through his fingers.

“No one knows this except Kobes, um, I think Jet might suspect, but… I tried to kill myself in the city. Got drunk and overdosed on the happy pills when Kobra was out of the apartment.”“Why?” Ghoul says, mouth slightly agape, letting his shock show.

“I just wanted it to be over. I was so… empty. So one day, um, I just stopped taking the pills. And, you know, when you do that, you end up with a pretty big stash in the back of the cabinet. And then they were there one day and ready when I needed them. So I didn’t care.”

As Party Poison talks, a glaze comes over his eyes and he seems to almost sink back into the memory. “Before that, I lost my job at the Towers ‘cause I kept showin’ up wasted. We were stretching our carbons already and I fucked everything up more. I just kinda gave up, um, I was pretty much ready to die.

“But he found me there after that, on the floor. Kobra, I mean. An-and then he called medical, and then they were gonna take me to re-evaluation, so he took us outta there as soon as I was out of immediate care. I was still sick, too. I woulda died out here ‘f it wasn’t for him.”

“Wow,” Ghoul says. He doesn’t quite know how to respond. His dumb spiel about not being forgotten sounds so stupid now.

“If they would’ve kept me there, I wouldn’t be the same. You know what they do, you know how they change people. Into nothing but a shell of a person.”

“They did that to my father,” Ghoul whispers. “That’s what my mother said before she died.”

Before she died when he was four years old and left him alone. Before he had to fend for himself or he’d die.

“Hey,” Party says suddenly, gripping Ghoul’s hand. His fingers are like cold steel, firm and entrapping, and Ghoul looks up. Party’s eyes reflect something intense, something fiery, something older than life. “Promise me something.”

Ghoul nods slightly, waits for him to go on.

“Can you promise me”—the redhead’s voice breaks slightly—”promise me that if Better Living ever gets me, if they ever try to make me into something of theirs, that you’ll kill me. Shoot me or something. Just don’t let them turn me into that.”

“Party, I…”

“Please, just say it.”

Ghoul doesn’t want to promise. He doesn’t want to, because he doesn’t know if he can keep it.

He doesn’t want to, to say so and then not be able to, and then let down Party when he needs Ghoul the most.

He doesn’t want to, because he doesn’t want his best friend to get brainwashed and then have to kill him when he might not even remember what he asked Ghoul to do.

He doesn’t want to, because he doesn’t want to be the one to end Party Poison’s life.

He doesn’t want to, because he doesn’t want to have that burden.

But Party’s gaze on him is so strong, like he’s going to drink in the response, that Ghoul relents. “Okay,” he says. “I promise.”

That’s it. Ghoul has given his word, and one day, he may have to act on it.

But he’s going to add something.

“I promise that I’ll kill you if-if—you know, but only if you promise me that you’ll never forget me. No matter what, okay?”

His words are shaky and he’s so vulnerable, exposed, everything is out in the open in front of the one person in his life that he trusts one hundred percent and oh, god, what if he says no…

“I swear that I won’t ever forget you, Fun Ghoul. I swear on the evening sun and the stars and everything that is real and good, that I will never, ever let myself forget you.”

Somehow, Party Poison’s managed to make his oath sound so much more authentic than Ghoul did with his. He’s turned his into a poem, brought in the sky and given his word.

That’s why he loves him so much.

The heaviness of knowing that if anything happens, what Ghoul’s sworn to do, weighs on his chest so much that he can hardly breathe. The only comfort is knowing that Party is right next to him, feeling their shoulders brush together.

Life is pretty fuckin’ scary, but when you’ve got someone to hold you down, an anchor to keep you on earth, it doesn’t have to be that bad.

“Let’s go plan the next raid,” Party says. He intertwines his fingers with Ghoul’s.

And besides the unseen electricity crackling between their palms as their hands are skin-to-skin, the moment is over.

So, they go.

They just sat back, laughing at the wounded city

Each breath sucking in ashes and fumes…

Knowing that they would pay to remember the past, he blew out a hot breath

And said, “Burn it all.”