#posting old art here instead of making new art

[marleemutt]

R A W R ! ✨️

[quibbs126]

So earlier I was debating whether or not to even make and post this, and it doesn’t even have everything I wanted, but you know, it’s here now, so why not 

I don’t know, it started as me thinking about the idea and sort of wanting to put it in its own text post, but I thought it wouldn’t be worth much salt that way, and I’m an artist, why not draw what I want? But as I was doing so, I started to doubt whether anyone would like this, particularly Constructicon fans since I don’t actually know those bots that well, and that I would annoy people and maybe I should have just kept it as text, but I was already making it

It was a whole mess, but we’re here now, and this is what I’ve got for you today

Also, if you notice that this isn’t what was on here originally, yeah that’s because I rewrote it. I didn’t like how much I was butchering my thoughts and thought maybe I’d do better on a second go-around. Even I don’t really feel like writing the entire thing over again

But anyways, onto explaining this, we’ll talk about the art later

So basically this is drawing from that one scene in Five Faces of Darkness Part 4 that I’ve mentioned prior, with the Constructicons seemingly having built Megatron

Here I’ve got it that the Constructicons didn’t necessarily build him, but they did basically find him as a small sparkling, and since he was alone and seemingly abandoned, they pretty much just decided to take him in themselves 

In their words, he’s their apprentice, to learn the tools of their trade even if he isn’t a Constructicon (like let’s just say here that Constructicons are built Constructicons, same with other roles and such. That’s also why Megatron stays silver). But in practice, tiny Megs basically just has 6-8 dads

But he grows up under them, learning to build, even if he tends to lean more into mechanical/electrical engineering and such rather than civil engineering/architecture like the Constructicons. But they’re chill with it, he’s finding his passion

Eventually when he’s older, he decides to leave to pursue his own path in life, and they all part on amicable terms. It’s basically just him reaching adulthood and moving out

Then there’s the part I’m unsure about keeping, that being the reprogramming thing we see in The Secret of Omega Supreme, since I’m trying to weave those two parts of the Constructicon lore together at least. We’ll get into why later, let’s just explain the story here first

So later on, Megatron is building his Decepticon army, and he goes to the Constructicons to offer them a place in his ranks, in part for their useful construction skills, but also because he still values them greatly and wants them to join in his ambitions. The Constructicons however, decline his offer, as this Decepticon movement doesn’t really align with their own ideals. Something to note, I’m having it that prior to the formation of the Decepticons by Megatron, all of Cybertron would have essentially been “neutral”, including the Constructicons and Megatron, none of them being inherently evil or anything. But they still try to be respectful of Megatron during this, since they still greatly value him as well, and he’s his own bot now, they shouldn’t tell him what to think, and this Decepticon thing probably isn’t as bad as it sounds, they trust Megatron 

But Megatron doesn’t take this rejection well, at least inwardly. So he decides to instead make the Constructicons join him by reprogramming them, and thus the events of the Omega Supreme flashbacks

Now how the Constructicons feel about Megatron doing this, no one can truly say because of their reprogramming, it could easily be the new code telling them that they’re grateful to him for doing this. Megatron thinks it was good, but maybe down the line, he starts to feel some guilt for basically forcing his mentors to join him and stripping them of true free will. He might even consider trying to undo the programming, in the hopes that he can make things right, but he also wants their forgiveness. And a part of him is aware that most likely, he will not get that forgiveness from him should he do it; they’re more likely to entirely reject and denounce him for what he did, maybe even deciding to turn to the Autobots instead of staying with him. So he chooses to not to do anything about it, and tell himself that this is what they’d want

So the reason I’m unsure about keeping this angle is because it’s a pretty unequivocally evil thing to do, to forcefully rewrite your family’s brains so that they’ll agree with you when they’ve already respectfully said they didn’t. Like the only way anyone is getting out of that is if they’re a small child who doesn’t understand morals well yet, and Megatron is definitely not that. And yeah, Megatron’s supposed to be evil, but this is kind of on another level

And you know, it kind of takes away from the silliness of “Megatron has 6 dads” part of this if it’s canon this is all against their free will and he is forcing them into joining him. Like it becomes incredibly distracting 

I like the headspace thing for Megatron, seeing why he’d do this, but it also might just be too evil. I guess it does fit for g1 Megs, he kind of is just evil, but still

So if he didn’t reprogram them, how did they join the Decepticons? I don’t know, I guess they just decided to go with him that first time. Ignore that their morals presumably degraded in that time, maybe the Decepticons weren’t as bad at the time 

But regardless, how do they interact within the Decepticons? I mean Megatron is a grown bot now, but they still got times where they still see Megs as the cute little apprentice he used to be. And they also don’t tend to cow to his commands, probably instead snapping back for it, like “what did you just say, young man?”. They all still care about each other regardless though, at least on some level (the Constructicons probably care for Megs more than the other way around, but it still exists somewhere in his spark)

Also I’m thinking that their relationship, while they’ve never outright stated it, has never been something they decided to keep secret either. Like one of them will casually talk about something he did as a small bot, much to his embarrassment, and just their general vibes when they interact. It’s not the most known fact in the faction though, because they don’t tell people. Most bots probably don’t even know they’re older than Megatron, so when they talk about Megs having once been cute, it causes great confusion 

Speaking of which, why do the Constructicons still have good looks while Megatron, whom they raised, looks ancient? I don’t know, maybe he’s just cursed with old man face

Also where does this whole backstory thing fit with g1? Eh, I don’t really know. Like I wouldn’t say this is my exact headcanon for them in g1, though for all intents and purposes, it certainly could be. I mean, it’s my explanation as to two parts of the Constructicons’ inconsistent backstories, and also maybe why Megatron is so skilled in engineering in the show (and he’s built some structures too I believe)

But like, I feel like it’s simultaneously a little too different from g1? Maybe I’d use it for that g1 rewrite idea I had once, where you’d take the plots and concepts from g1 and just give them consistency/continuity and generally better writing. I’m given to understand Skybound might be similar to that? But also it’s not as dark as Skybound,  it’s just g1 with higher quality. And presumably the plot ends up changing at some point due to this

But anyways, I think that’s it on the plot stuff, now to ramble a little on the art itself

I wanted to do a few more drawings, like a younger apprentice Megs or when he left and re-approached the Constructicons, but I didn’t end up doing that in part because of my indecision on all this, but also because I’m lazy 

The designs are predominantly g1 based, since that’s where this draws from, but I think it turned out pretty well

I think I also did a little better on anatomy too, probably because at least on the second one, I tried to look for a reference for Megatron’s thinking hand. I think I need to remember pose references more, since it really was helpful here

I also gave tiny Megs a black helmet and yellow eyes to reference D-16/the comics because why not. Though I’m not sure why his head changed in universe, other than I guess getting older (the red eyes also isn’t because hier turned evil, I guess it just happened). Probably also more of his body should be different, but eh

He’s also got the permanent eye shadow because I like it

And I think that’s it for this, hopefully it’s more coherent than the original. And also, I think that Megatron should be given more of a connection with the Constructicons, even if I suppose it doesn’t make sense in most other continuities

[springysprongy]

Transfem Medkit mainly for today.. + notebook doodles

(Last one here isnt transfem Medkit </3 instead! We get transmasc Medkit <3)

[greyedian]

.

[marchwardenofmordor]

I fucking loved Nosferatu. The Death and the Maiden imagery, how faithful it was to the original FW Murnau piece (including some of the recreations of iconic scenes), all the ‘Little Deaths’ and how FINALLY there’s some gnarly vampire erotica that doesn’t feature the vampire as some glazed twink, and has him as a rotten old corpse instead. Loved the Romanian dialogue. Loved that gruesome death scene, and the final frame was a fucking work of art.

Unfortunately it makes me so frustrated that not everybody will get it or understand it and why it’s so good. Everyone I’ve spoken to about it were too preoccupied with “all the weird moaning” and laughing at the full frontal vampire cock.

Meanwhile I’m sat there trying to explain vampire folklore and their cultural history, documents of ‘real’ vampirism, their symbolism and roots in xenophobia and antisemitism, blood libel, the manifestations of demons as personifications of shame and desire, Bram Stoker’s possible closeted homosexuality and his ties with Oscar Wilde and how Dracula was published around the same time Wilde was imprisoned, the ‘bohemian’ movement in the victorian period and how it simultaneously romanticised, fetishised and demonised Romani culture, la petit mort and necrophilia and how grief, sex and death are intertwined, the science behind why humans both are attracted to and repelled by the smell of indole, why funerals make people hungry/horny, the Victorian Christianity perspective on blood transfusions, the significance of blood as a ritualistic symbol and device throughout mythology and history, mental illnesses and medical conditions connected to vampirism and other vampiric folkloric creatures like the Nachzehrer and the Gwrach y Rhibyn whilst everyone looks at me like I’ve grown five heads

And honestly? I’ve never kinned Dr Van Helsing more in my life than at that exact moment.

By all means, take me to the cinema to watch a piece of vampire media but do not expect to win an argument concerning vampires against me because I can and will put you on your arse. This is my domain, my special interest.

Just gonna add a lil something in here hol’ up

Bam. Enjoy some takes.

[esccpism]

- let ruin end here [.]

it’s peak hours on the train to grand central. you and sevika share a booth.

cw: younger woman x older woman, strangers to lovers, reader is anywhere from 23+, cunnilingus, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, light dom/sub, complicated relationships with parents, reader's mother is passed, reader’s father battles alcoholism, overcoming implied suicidal ideation, undertones of grief

wc: 5.6k

a/n: i think the only thing that feels worse than making bad art is not making art at all. i really want to like this and can't. exposure therapy is posting it anyway! this is loosely edited so i apologize for any errors, and hope you enjoy x

fic inspired by this beautiful artwork by moonie_forever on twitter.

you don’t see her at first.

you’re focused in a frantic sense, eyes raking up and down over heads stuffed in phones or laptops for a leftover space to cram yourself into.

your hunt yields. you snatch the spot immediately, sliding into the last remaining seat in a six-seated booth. 

not that you can afford any pickiness, not that you ever can—but it's an aisle seat. it’s maybe the worst for an hour commute. you’re forced to remember this almost instantly, punished by a careless passenger rushing past who pummels your shoulder with their suitcase. 

the offense strikes against you like a match and the anger ignites quicker than you can swallow it.

you yelp under your breath, and look up with a painful hiss, ready to send daggers into the back of the offending head and instead your eyes latch onto her.

sitting diagonal from you, her gaze is on you already. there’s nothing in them, nothing you can discern, anyway. her vague curiosity seems to run out as soon as no argument erupts because she settles back into the book cracked open in her hands.

rubbing your shoulder, you try to be quick. strangers have a keen sense of who’s staring. 

you don’t want your trip to get any more annoying, but you take a big gulp and sink under: thin rimmed glasses bridge her strong nose, and she’s dressed comfortably, dark hair tucked away behind her, wisps and fly-aways brushing over her eyes. impossibly long legs eagle outwards in the seat, taking up far more space than necessary, and you nearly laugh—the poor old woman next to her is sitting stock upwards, elbows tucked to death—but it fails to be funny for long, seeing how her thighs dwarf the woman entirely and easily. 

the rest of her body follows the same pattern. her arms sit broadly. she’s got a pretty shade on her lips, dark as night, and—

you inhale sharply. she’s watching you watch her, again.

her brow lifts. 

you fish for the quickest thing you can reach for: smile breezily and nod towards the book in her hands. tell her with a voice that comes out strong and unwavering that you picked it up a few weeks ago, too.

it isn’t a lie. you recognize the title. the sentence, by louise erdrich—it’s sitting on your shelf in your childhood bedroom, and you’d put the book down temporarily as you had done with most things recently in order to keep yourself afloat. 

her eyebrow does something new that rustles inside you. 

her voice does something worse. it’s low and smooth velvet, and curls around in your stomach when she offers back, “main character’s a bit of an idiot.”

“only at first,” your grin grows, and loses its performance. 

“from cocaine transport and body snatching? i would hope so.”

“she was in love,” you shrug, in her defense. “a pretty woman will do that to you.”

her eyes glint, amusement or a ghost of a laugh or something else golden on the horizon, you’re not sure. she asks if you would know. you answer her, oh, yes. intimately.

there's a crease or a dip in the space between you two that fills itself with words, cradles lines like water cupped in the palm of your hands. you spill nothing even in the awkwardness of talking over the shoulders of the passengers beside you, who continue bouncing their feet in irritation. her gaze flickers to them and back to you, mid-breakdown of both of your least favorite writing sins ranked from most hated to satan couldn’t even think of this—something bridging just on amusement pulling at her mouth.

when the man seated in front of her stands to exit at his station you shift over to take his spot. 

your knees crowd together and kiss—she asks you if you have enough space to sit comfortably, and you tell her not to move a muscle. her long legs, stretching outwards like a yawn, hold yours inbetween. 

₊⊹

you’d gone home that night and, bored, thought of her briefly as the tall buildings flit by. you wonder and then wish you’d asked what she was doing in new york, where the city was taking her, where she was headed. 

and then you move on. 

wandering is no longer in your best interests. what’s important is what’s right in front of you, and if you let your attention drift for a moment too long it might crawl out from your grip and shatter to the floor.

you fantasize about it, sometimes, in the weak hours of the night. what it might feel like to let it all fall. how your lungs won’t remember what air feels like when it doesn’t burn. what it might mean if you were to stop running. 

alcohol hits you first, always. the stench sobers you up. 

you lean one hand against the hallway and lift your heel up behind you, slip your flats off and let them clatter to the floor. your dad doesn’t lift his eyes to greet you when you shuffle into the dark.

“hi, daddy,” you murmur, and rest a light hand on his shoulder as you pass.

he starts under your palm, lets his head roll towards you. the T.V. paints his face blue.

“hi, princess,” his voice scratches on the way out. he shifts, and a bottle rolls out of his lap and clatters onto the floor. you sink to pick it up, gathering another three with you. he grunts, rubbing his drooping eyes torturously slow, working the words out of his mouth. “how was your—uh…your internship?”

you let the bottles rest on the counter. there are about a dozen others there too, your eyes coast over them tiredly. tomorrow, you tell yourself. you said so yesterday, too, but you think you mean it this time. you’ll clear them out tomorrow.

you have nothing left, tonight.

you tell him to remember to turn the television off when he’s done, and after a long, dripping silence he makes a vague noise in his throat in response. 

the house is dying. 

there’s no pretty way around it, no way to clean the sentiment up. the house is dying. and it took your mother first, one quiet night, under the illusive cover of sleep. your father had first begged despairingly for it to give her back and then resolved to go in after her. 

the pile of empty bottles on the kitchen table counts down the days. they increase steadily, creating an ominous figure in the dark, and you glance past them everytime you twist your keys through the lock. 

the house is dying. your father wants to die with it, and you know greed when you see it—the floorboards shift and groan under your socks, just biding its time to give way and swallow you whole. it will come after him soon. he won’t have to wait long.

yet no matter how far you go, you can’t shake the feeling sinking its nails into you, trailing inside your shadow. the house is dying. you know that once it takes your father you will be next.

it’s what the city does for you. and you've considered moving countless nights, wrapped in your rainbow zebra print blanket, the one your mother gifted you when you were thirteen and the world was so big it burned.

the city cannot love you back, and so you stand to lose nothing from throwing yourself into its aching maw. you stare at the cars beneath you on the commute with a child weeping in the seat beside and a mother tiredly shushing it, and swallow down the bile that bubbles. stalk through grand central with tall boots that mouth at your knees or heels that make just a bit too much noise because you eat moments that make you feel alive, keep yourself full to keep from reaching for emptiness in worse places. 

you’ll take the local to soho, man the shop while your boss goes off to do god-knows-what for hours and wander for a few blocks after your shift is up. you’ll head down to greenwich to sit at the park and catch your breath for a moment and leave before you can let empathy crawl between your tired bones and make you too vulnerable. it shows, sometimes, when you care too much. you avert your eyes from a homeless woman on the bench diagonal from you and bury the feeling away. 

bum a smoke from a stranger at a bar or book a table at a restaurant for one, it doesn’t matter. come home around midnight and leave again before the sun. if the plan keeps you on your feet then it’s a good one.

but then there was her.

and wandering won’t do you any good—the snag she clipped in your routine was barely a blip and still her smile sears behind your eyelids, burning everytime you squeeze them shut. 

she was funnier than you’d expect of her. though she’d seemed at first confused and then entertained by your giggling—her humor was a bit dry, and her face far too expressive for her own good. you’ve never seen eyebrows that moved so much.

you had forgotten what laughter tasted like.

you flip your phone shut, and slide it onto your desk. sink into your comforter. right foot first, then left.  sleep seeps into you near instantly and you try not to flinch away, feeling its cold fingers slide down your eyelids. it stills you like death, every night like a ritual. 

drowsiness renders you helpless. it helps.

you dream of your mother and her cradling hands—of big things, of running away, of flying.

₊⊹

the eight a.m. peak hours aren't even the worst it gets, and still you only manage to sink into another six seat booth, in the aisle space next to an elderly lady who gives you a weary look before shifting so your legs don’t touch, and returning to her mobile game. 

her high score is shit when you steal a peek over, and you immediately feel a bit better.

flipping your bag, brown leather and well-loved, you tuck a hand inside and pull out your phone. eyes flickering across the screen, lifting to check the time—

there she is.

the words leap from you before you can catch them and smooth out the wrinkles, 

oh—. 

you!

it paints itself like a holy declaration, bright and a bit too loud. your seat mates and those across the aisle, as well as the woman who fills your chest up when her eyes lift over her lens to meet yours, all shift in unison. the world, the blue sky, all rushes out, all crashes back in. 

the conductor enters the car with a woosh and clatter behind you, calls out reminding the lot of you to have all tickets ready, and you ignore it. to your every elation she does too.

not quite a smile, but something catches her lip a little, and a huff sounds through her nose. 

“hey, you. long time no see.” 

₊⊹

her name is sevika, and your schedules align more than is normal.

each time it's the same train car, the fifth one from the back—and if you can’t make it you just jump train cars until you spot her dark, fluffy hair from over the seats. she has the same book cracked open each time you wrestle into the booth. 

her greetings tend to not be greetings. she peers at you and receives whatever it is you’ve brought to her to chat about. sometimes it’s more pet peeves, other times it book recommendations, and she begs you to slow down with those, or a video that had made you laugh so hard you spit that she watches blankly and tells you she doesn’t get it. you’d gotten her only once, though, caught her lip flicker, pull to a smirk—your own breath locks and then you pocket it for later. only the political memes make her crack.

her outfits change erratically, too, and you think the first day must have been a fluke. you ask her how she does it so early in the morning, all the belts and straps and buckles, and then kick her when she says with a small grin that she’s got a lot of practice. 

she nods in greeting, once, when you come to fit in the spot before her. her legs are always spread out wide and yours tuck together, inbetween.

it’s all you spend the weekends doing, now, gathering what to take with you to monday. you’re forgetting the bottles on the counter. you’re forgetting to tell your father to turn off the T.V.. the world moves in slow motion, everything moves in slow motion. even your dreams sludge through your sleep like a child running through snow.

some horrific mornings every seat in the booth is already taken. 

her gunpowder eyes will occasionally flit over to where you sit a row down, mirth brimming inside at your cross expression and your crossed legs. some days you bring two cups of coffee. and she surprises you—she enjoys hers sweet. she takes it bitter the first time, feeling sorry to force you to drink it, and you watch her stain your thermal jug with dark lipstick over the rim of your drink.

you both fall together like rainfall in june. your legs are forgetting what it feels like to be rid of oxygen, to burn and repair in order to burn. your muscles don’t ache when you sit, sevika makes sure. asks if there’s enough room for you. spreads out like open arms.

her progress in the book is slow. and you learn that she’s sort of cute when she gets defensive. 

her cheeks puff out and her brow creases and you wish you could tip forward and sink into her and disappear inside it. she tells you she’s really busy, you know, and her time on the commute is really the only time she gets to herself where she isn’t sleeping.

sevika pauses then. looks at you thoughtfully. 

“well. not so much anymore,” she says. “i guess now there’s you.”

but the next morning you do see her, she’s a bit further in than she would be at her usual pace—and you scoff, and then laugh, and she leans back and sighs. but watches, softly, as your giggles peel you apart.

₊⊹

for a few days you don’t see her.

you embarrass yourself by walking through every train car, eyes threading over the seat, legs sludging past briefcases and elbows. you know she won’t be in any of them if it isn’t the fifth car and you check anyway. and are proven right.

the remainder of the day is a bit dimmer. you try not to overdo it, you don’t know her, no matter how much you enjoy the chats you share. she doesn’t owe you anything, much less any fore notice of when she might be absent. 

she might just be sick or taking a day off. or maybe your eagerness scared her away. or maybe something had happened to her and the universe decided you’d enjoyed enough hope for a lifetime and she was taken from you, too.

your dad doesn’t respond that night, when you greet him—and you nearly crumble right there.

you hold your breath as you shuffle over, your sandals light on the floor boards. coast a hand under his nose, and still the blood pumping in your veins.

his breath whistles against your thumb.

you let your arm fall back down to your thigh. stare fiercely down at him from where he’s curled into himself. smaller than you ever remember. 

mother would ask you to save him were she still here, because that’s the kind of person she was. and it wouldn’t be a request, it would be your duty. she’d drape it around you like a badge, let go, and watch the weight of the metal pin you to the earth.

his death means your death. and maybe that shouldn’t be it—maybe you should simply love him, and let that be reason enough.

and your mother, she wouldn’t forgive you for failing. but she would understand.

you draw away. click off the T.V., set down the remote in his palm, and then turn on your heel. 

₊⊹

sevika is there the next morning. 

this time her eyes catch yours first, already staring before you find her. 

you stall momentarily, caught like a deer. the passenger behind you steps on your heel and you both mutter half hearted apologies as you slide towards the booth. 

it’s hard and inconvenient to get around the other passengers but you shuffle over them despite their evident discontent. you aren’t paying attention to them. sevika takes your arm and helps you over—her grip warms you from the point of contact, inching outward and webbing down your insides. 

her eyes are careful and steady on yours the whole way down, and your bare legs scrape her thigh. she closes them briefly to make space for you. 

as you get comfortable—adjust—she lifts the book from her lap. 

“i got up to the part where her friend haunts her,” she says in greeting.

“they weren’t friends,” you return. “they were something worse.” 

sevika shakes her head—her mouth quirks. “no,” she disagrees. “they were friends. sometimes there’s nothing worse.” 

you could think of many worse things, but none of them find you right now. the image of her toothy smile is lodged in your chest like stone, a dull ache. summer glances off her face, when the train emerges from under the tunnel.

she’s all at once and all of a sudden too much. you want to turn and flee in the opposite direction. you want to lower yourself between her jaw and pull her mouth closed around you, let the fangs sink into your skin, like a cheetah licking the meat off a gazelle.

everything falls away. guilt sucks its teeth. you won’t flee, and you know you won’t. no one with this feeling fluttering in their chest and ramming against their ribcage can let death wrap its cold fingers around their arm and remain still. 

you know you are forgetting your mother’s face, and your father will wither away and you won’t follow behind him—because you have something else to chase, now, and it’s living and breathing and smiling at you.

truthfully, the thought shudders through you. you’re even losing what her laughter sounded like. her voice when she’d tell you, silly girl. the place you’ll call home is waiting for you to make it. what’s there to fear? 

her cradling hands inside your dreams, when she’d grip your wrist and then your face and tell you, the door is always open. go.

sevika is terrible at hiding it, and she tries—but you think she’d missed you too. 

she had called the protagonist an idiot but she’s no better, you can see it in the way she stares at you as if to take you inside her mouth. how she tracks your every movement. watches the very saliva slide down your throat.

you think you could make a home out of wherever she’s heading.

you let your legs eagle out. her gaze lingers on the place where your naked knees press into her thighs. your skirt rustles but you don’t mind what she sees. if anything, you welcome her heady gaze, and the hot coals it rakes over your body.

“thought i’d lost our little book club,” you say. it’s so uncasual it trembles in the air between you two.

her dark rimmed glasses slip just a bit down her nose, and she shifts them. keeps her eyes on you.

“is that what this is?” 

the question stretches wider than just the book in her lap. 

the conductor calls out the transfer at jamaica—you’re meant to stretch out of your seat. sevika watches you cross your legs, watches the new passengers stream in, crowd and fill in the empty space. 

a few stragglers jog down the stairs, legs reaching past every other stair. the doors close mercilessly, passing like time. their frustration or disappointment passes across your chest as if it were yours, the familiar, intrusive ache of sympathy. but their story isn’t yours. 

sevika closes the book around her fingers. 

“i know today’s your day off.”

sevika leans forward, onto her elbow. “and you came to find me anyway?”

“who knew you’d be here? you must really love the morning commute.”

her mouth pulls for a drawn out moment. she tells you she has a second job back on the island, that she would’ve had to commute anyway to come back home—but you interrupt her. because not at this hour.

you know when her second job ends because she told you her schedule back to front when you’d asked about it. offered details about her day-to-to with one pretty smile from you, ran you up and down her routine with her voice calm as the shifting sea. despite accusing you of eventually revealing yourself to be a hitman or something else ridiculous she’d relinquished anyway, admitting well, it’d be a sweet way to die. 

you would’ve kissed her then, if you were smart enough. 

“you end far too early.” you tell her now. stare, and she stares back. “you should’ve been back hours ago.” 

“this is my routine, sweetheart.” 

“i’m your routine.” your leg bounces, scrapes and traces hers on its journey. her eyes are damp in the sunlight, kerosene drenched, and they speckle sunspots onto your skin with her intensity. 

you wonder if she’ll refuse you. 

wonder what you’ll do then, what the train ride back will look like. how you’ll open the text you send your boss. how curt he’ll be with the one he sends back.

but then—inside her incriminating, drawn out silence—you think that maybe she needs direction just as much as you need chaos. 

“alright,” she relents. her voice is quiet but her hands aren’t. they flatten along your knee, thumb tracing up and down. fingers nipping just under your skirt, resting there, warming. “but don’t start whining at me when you lose that dream job of yours.”

“i don’t whine.”

sevika retracts and leans back into her seat, as the train rushes forward and thrusts itself into darkness, rumbling underground. the station is four minutes away now, and the conductor’s voice crackles over the speaker. 

“we’ll see.”

₊⊹

you’re the compass that points eastward. 

sevika stabilizes you with a heavy hand on your waist, but she doesn’t anchor you down to the earth. you float as her heavy boots thud along the cement behind you. moves you out of the way of pedestrians, steps in front when a biker whizzes past. 

it’s her apartment you’re both headed to but you’re the one leading.

but her presence weighs, and the velvet of her voice keeps you holding hands with gravity. you tell her your story, and she tells you hers. 

she’s a senior consultant, and it’s a demanding job. what she says is that it can be draining. what she means is that she gets paid by big boss men and CEO’s to have someone to blame when things go to shit.

her overnight job is easier on her sore skin. she mans a gas station, and spends the shift exchanging stories with the regulars and insomniacs, and chasing away creeps that come to bother her girls. 

got yourself a little community, you say, squeezing her knee, and the comment makes her pause. you watch a few things flit across her face, before she grunts, and settles on one. 

…i guess i do.

on the subway her hand rests on your thigh, massaging the flesh near imperceptibly. your legs are crossed and you squeeze after squirming too long—she feels you grinding into the rolling, loose coil of pleasure from the shuddering train and she tuts you under your breath. you nearly lose your common sense, a shaky breath escaping thinly through your nose. 

you don’t have to ask why she doesn’t let go of you. 

you’ve seen it, anyway—she was always fidgeting, shifting her weight, wrapping fingers around a page, an unlit cigarette, or around your thigh as it bounced anxiously, over and over against her knee.

and in the dark of her apartment in the three hour layover between her different shifts, instead of a book it’s a sparkly rocks glass, or an untouched bottle. the place is neat otherwise, almost clinically clean—empty as if she weren’t it’s habitant. as if no one were. 

the drinks, she doesn’t consume them. they sit there, just in case. an assembly that doesn’t speak and company that cannot warm.

you survey it wordlessly and she watches you without offering any explanation or defense. 

she takes your silence a way you hadn’t meant it—stoops and begins shuffling things around, but you stop her with a hand on her arm, tugging her back up to her full height.

“there’s time for that,” you say, “later. we have so much time.”

her face flickers—tightens. 

there are no tears, no emotional eruption, nothing so melodramatic. but she gathers you into her with the force of an ocean that swallows with a hungry mouth. she tastes how she looks. she moves like something inside is dying, being replaced or beckoned out by something newer, some new life she can only find on your tongue.

you give her everything you’ve got. 

it’s not much. you aren’t an answer—you’re empty as a tin can most days. if she minds you can’t tell—she sucks in a breath when you stand naked before her, dripping and squeezing your thighs together.

“come here, sweetheart,” she beckons you closer, patting her thighs.

you’re guided onto her lap by a rough hand, one that squeezes and kneads but doesn’t go searching.

“spread for me.”

you whine lowly. she’s clothed still and her eyes are glued to you and it’s rustling at the sediment in your stomach, the fabric of her pants delicious on your cunt. 

she taps your thighs, voice lowering, “spread your legs, baby.”

slowly, you let your knees fall wayside, and the scent of your arousal washes forward immediately. she nudges you backwards, lowering you until your back thumps onto the bed. your hips are peaked in the air towards here, dripping cunt open wide for her to see, and you exhale shakily at the new angle, embarrassment crawling over your skin. 

sevika stares, slow and methodical, eyes touching every crease and corner of you as you start squirm under the heat of it, begging her to do something, before your throat caves into itself.   

“so restless, baby,” she says, a small smile crawling its way on her face. 

you feel like cursing, like clawing at her to move. you don’t realize you’re rolling into nothing until she rests hands on your hips and guides the movement, fingers pressing dents into your skin. 

the humiliation couldn't get worse, and your pride withers as you mumble, “are you going to touch me or what?” 

“i can’t savor the view?” 

“sevika,” you lament, and when she laughs you feel her stomach jump against your thighs. you suck in a breath, wet with want or something bigger, you aren’t sure and won’t reach out for it. it’s enough having her this close. she’s warm every place her skin makes contact with you, the cool surface of her prosthetic fingers rooting you back to earth with every squeeze. 

she doesn’t tease for long. her thumbs extends and presses down on you, and all your breath gets trapped in your throat. she rubs your clit softly, tracing little circles, matching the whimpers you make with low hums of her own. you hips lift and roll against her touch, arching off her lap. 

“feel good?” she coos. “when i rub your clit like this?”

you try to tell her you need more, but her maddening pace is making your brain muddy and your words slurred and nonsensical. but she’s never needed much from you in order to understand.  

sevika’s fingers dips to find where you’re most promising, wet and writhing as she taunts the worst of yourself out of you. 

she sinks inside and carves out the cave of your cunt, curling her fingers until your hips arch off her lap. she takes the invitation and readjusts, shifting until she’s supporting your hips in the air, and tucks her face into your thighs. bites and nips and searches the skin, leaves behind proof of herself in little tugs of teeth and wet kisses—and she’ll find nothing inside but your climbing greed, humping her mouth and whining sinfully, begging her to take you for all you’re worth. 

she drinks, feverishly. as if your greed were the best thing she’s ever placed on her tongue.

sevika groans inside you, kisses and laps your cunt sweetly. your hand finds her hair, sinking your fingers inside. you tug harshly as her tongue begins to work faster and she makes a low, rough noise in response. her name warbles off your mouth, rolling your hips up off the bed to meet her. her tongue flickers back and forth and up and down, sinking and sucking. your begging begins to sound more like babbling, and her hand comes to rest on your stomach as she drags your body in closer.

you’ve lost comprehension—your mind is hazy and you’re slipping, reaching out for something, just on the horizon. 

your thighs clamp around her head when your orgasm whispers against you, swelling tightly—

she murmurs into you, there you go, baby, give it to me, and that completes your search. with her tongue she presses you back into yourself, and you wail outwards as the crash overtakes you, seizes your body and squeezes till you’re shaking and shuddering. 

you collapse. your limbs are jelly, twitching at her touch—

and she hasn't pulled away. your body cringes away from her tongue, still gently kissing and rolling your clit.

“sevika, wait,” you pant, as discomfort and pleasure swirl together. “too sensitive.”

“sevika, it’s too…” your head tips back, rolling into her mouth again. she supports your hips with her arms wrapped underneath—rises to peer up at you, the beginnings of a shit-eating grin flitting at the corners of her mouth.

“hmm?” she asks, a question she already has the answer to, as your glistening cunt reaches towards her. 

“no, dont—don’t stop.”

“thought it was too sensitive?”

“sev, fuck,” you reach down, leafing fingers through her hair, guiding her back down, “please.”

her lips curl against you—a private smile, just for the two of you, and it guides the pleasure back as she sinks inside. 

she takes until you’ve got nothing left to offer. your body is heavy and spent, and when you kiss her and cup her face in your hands she holds your wrist, tender, soothing your back with her thumb.

wrestling her clothes off takes little convincing and a little laughter, and you reach down and let your fingers play at her pants zipper, slip your hand beneath as she watches you, lids low. her brows pull and she intakes a breath when your fingers brush her fuzzy lips, spreading to feel the pool that’s amounted there.

you glide your fingers along her. she just barely ruts forward into your hand, eyes disastrous, grip on your waist tight. “you’re this wet just from getting me off?”

sevika makes a small, breathy noise, and her voice comes out tainted. “what can i say. the sounds you make are something else.” 

“‘cause you make me feel good,” you murmur, slipping a finger inside. her eyes flutter shut, lips pressing together, before parting to pant. 

“that right?”

“don’t swallow it,” you say, watching her face contort when you pick up your pace, when you slip in another finger. “you sound beautiful. can i hear you, too?”

₊⊹

you pick sevika’s glasses up from her bedside, and push them onto her nose. she asks if you have work tomorrow—promises to walk you there, and you wave her off. 

butterscotch invades your senses when you rest your cheek on her chest. it’s all over you, too, she’d scrubbed you down and warned you that you’d smell like it for maybe the next three days. you couldn’t imagine a better predicament if you tried.

“i want to be haunted,” you push the words into the quiet, when her breathing has evened out to a near stalemate. she shifts, the only indication she gives that she’s listening. “i want to tell all the people i’ve ever loved that i hope they haunt me. but i waited too long. they won’t know that i wouldn’t mind.” 

“i think they know,” sevika turns her head to peer at you. “you should hear yourself. i think they’re doing a fine job.”

“do you enjoy it? being haunted?”

she’s quiet. her brows lower, she works her mouth. 

“sometimes,” she admits, quiet so as to not disturb the unretrievable. “when it gets bad enough it’s like they never left.” 

you tip onto your stomach, sprawled across her. reach over and spread her fingers out, slide forward the length of your hand until they seal together. the angle is awkward but the effort is earnest. she’s warm, like a living thing. it’s all that matters.

when her eyes glance upon you, shiny gloss in the dark, you don’t think you’d mind being a compass. 

you tug, and point eastward, outside the bedroom. leaving is the first step. 

“come.”

the door is always open. go.

“come. let’s go clean up your ghosts.”

you plant your feet on the cold hardwood, right first, shiver against it, resist retreat; and then settle the left. push off the bed, and trust sevika is following behind. 

© esccpism.

[nonasuch]

Miss Universe National Costume 2024, Part 2!

Splitting this off into a new post so I'm not clogging up everyone's dash quite as much.

Miss Malta is some sort of environmental protection Sailor Scout. I think the giant bow would look better on the back of the skirt but otherwise this is solid.

It has just come to my attention that I skipped over Miss Albania and several other A/B countries, back at the beginning. I sincerely apologize! She went to all this trouble putting together a Fifth Element cruise ship passenger costume, and I nearly missed it.

Miss Armenia, in what even I have to admit would be a legit Princess Leia fit.

Miss Bahrain, adding some green to her Gold And Vaguely Historical look, along with what is either a comically large prop chalice or an upside-down lamp.

Miss Bangladesh appears to believe that adding two plush tigers from the toy store around the corner from the pageant venue will conceal the fact that she is just wearing a tiger-print evening dress. Miss Bangladesh is incorrect.

Miss Belgium. Girl. No.

Miss Belize let the seventh-grade art class do her whole costume, which was a bold choice.

Okay, I think that's everyone I missed! Back to alphabetical order. And I should have to rely less on shitty screenshots, now. Some countries were benefiting from the low resolution, tbh.

Kind of feel like Miss Maldives had a luggage mishap and she's just wearing the outfit she packed for a slightly dressy dinner.

Miss Martinique's costume would honestly have looked better in the shitty screencap version. The construction is... bad. It's bad.

Feel like we're in a little bit of slump here. Miss Mauritius did not stick enough butterfly appliqués to her gown to conceal that it is, in fact, just a regular evening gown.

Slump officially over! We are so back. Everyone say thank you, Miss Mexico.

I would like this better if it had just committed to the giant skirt and not felt the need to make it a Sexy Miniskirt look. Sorry, Miss Moldova.

Miss Mongolia wanted to stand out from all the other gold armor on stage, so she decided to a) wear cooler armor and b) bring a bow and arrow instead of a sword. Great work, Miss Mongolia.

Starting to feel like I'm picking on the smaller countries that probably don't have a huge pageant culture or the budget for really elaborate costumes, but on the other hand Miss Montenegro's costume is super low-effort AND the fabrics look cheap, so what am I supposed to do?

Okay, this looks like a pretty standard Miss Universe Sexy Bird, yes? Well, THIS is how Miss Myanmar entered the stage:

She had to fight her way out of that thing! God only knows what the visibility was like in there.

I think the hat is doing most of the heavy lifting to keep Miss Namibia's costume from being Just An Evening Dress, sadly.

Oh, yikes. It's more obvious in motion but Miss Nepal's bodice looks like it's made of craft foam and it fits real weird. The rest of it looks a little like she got together with Miss Cyprus and a pile of tablecloths for a sewing bee last night, I'm sorry to say.

Miss Netherlands has chosen a Tribute to Delft. I think if I were in charge of this costume I would do a much fuller skirt that falls from the waist, instead of the weird trumpet-skirt-with-hoop we've got here. And, obviously, I would make the windmill on the bodice actually spin.

It looks like she's having some issues keeping the wings and peplum in place, but I really like Miss New Zealand's costume from a design perspective. It at least slightly resembles the bird it's supposed to be (New Zealand fantail) and I think the feather pattern is meant to be in a Maori art style.

Miss Nicaragua is a Sexy Cathedral, which I think might be a Miss Universe first and is definitely a big old step closer to drag.

Okay, pausing here to get the next batch ready.

[cheswirls]

i started this ml sketch back in 2021 and have successively redone it so many times since and i think..... fingers crossed!!!!!! that i like this version from last night enough to maybe color or do something past sketching at least

[kxsagi]

Hello girlie I loved you april fools day post. I wanted to ask if u could make abt crack post the blue lock boys being police officers. Like rin is in the drug invetigation bc with his tongue outside he looks like he is on crack😂. Could you pls make it for isagi,rin,sae,bachira nagi and Kaiser and maybe Ness. 🩷

“𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢'𝐦 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐫”

a/n: ASNFSLNGSLNGS I LOVE THIS REQUEST

(don't know art credits)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, kaiser michael, ness alexis

isagi yoichi – “the golden retriever cop who accidentally becomes the face of justice”

he’s not even supposed to be out there. he’s just vibing. assigned to desk duty because he’s “too emotionally involved” (he called a suspect “bro” during a chase), but he still ends up in every major bust because he “took a shortcut through that shady alley for fun.” 

has no idea how he keeps getting tangled in crimes. one minute he’s picking up a coffee, the next minute he’s wrestling a jewel thief to the ground while still holding his caramel macchiato. 

will 100% try to de-escalate situations by talking about soccer. “sir, you don’t have to rob this bank. have you considered football?” 

is weirdly beloved by the public. grandmas bake him pies. criminals call him “that one nice cop.” internal affairs doesn’t know whether to promote or arrest him. 

famous quote: “you have the right to remain silent, but like, if you wanna talk about your trauma, i’m here, bro.” 

itoshi rin – “narcotics officer who looks like he invented cocaine”

they only put him in narcotics because every time he walks into a room, people assume he’s either: 1) the supplier, 2) high off his mind, 3) both. 

has that look. the messy hair. the tongue constantly sticking out. the eyes that say “i haven’t slept since 2012.” when he stares at you during interrogation, you confess out of fear, even if you didn’t do anything. 

his motto is “if it looks suspicious, tackle it.” he once tried to arrest a 5-year-old holding powdered sugar. 

drinks black coffee that tastes like war. has never smiled on duty. the closest he’s come is a slight smirk when someone sneezed and he got to yell “possible contaminant.” 

he doesn’t do paperwork. he just sends his reports as voice memos that are five minutes of silence and one “they were lying.” 

famous quote: “do drugs look at you the way i do? didn’t think so.”

itoshi sae – “internal affairs king, aka the fun police for the police” 

his job is to catch corruption. and he loves it. like a little freak. his coworkers hate seeing him because if he’s in your department, someone’s getting fired. 

interrogates officers like a disappointed dad. says things like “you stole evidence bags for what? to impress your tinder date?” while looking at you like you’re a worm on the pavement. 

refuses to join team-building activities. said “i’m not building anything with idiots.” 

once investigated himself for conflict of interest and found that he was, in fact, too perfect to be guilty. 

he lets no one get away with anything, except rin. but only because he doesn’t want to fill out paperwork. 

famous quote: “just because you’re wearing a badge doesn’t mean you’re not stupid.” 

bachira meguru – “undercover cop who ends up forming emotional connections with every criminal”

he’s supposed to be subtle. blend in. instead, he walks into an illegal casino wearing glitter and a hello kitty shirt, and somehow they all believe he’s just a quirky new member of the gang. 

laughs too loud. reveals his real name by accident. once shouted “FBI, freeze!” during karaoke because he got too into the role. 

his sting operations always go sideways, but it’s okay because the suspects love him. like, “this is bachira. he’s chaotic, but he’s family.” 

he’s single handedly dismantled three criminal rings just by being himself. they trust him too much and end up confessing while painting his nails. 

famous quote: “okay technically i wasn’t authorized to go undercover, but i was bored and they had snacks.” 

nagi seishiro – “cyber crimes detective who hasn’t left his chair since 2021”

works in a pitch-black room with eight monitors, a gaming chair, and a suspicious number of empty pringles cans. doesn’t even show up to roll call anymore. they just assume he’s alive if the servers are still running. 

he hacks faster than people blink. cracked a billion-dollar crypto scam while watching anime in a tab next to it. accidentally hacked NASA once because he was bored. 

he only talks in internet slang. someone once messaged him a serious question about a murder suspect and he responded with “lmao idk he looks sus.” 

has a robot dog named “proxy” that does his patrols. was supposed to be temporary. it’s now got its own badge and a little hat. 

famous quote: “technically i’m not asleep, i’m buffering.” 

kaiser michael – “traffic cop with main character syndrome”

he turned a boring job into a reality TV show. gives tickets like they’re autographs. will literally tell you “you’re welcome” after citing you for illegal parking. 

rides a motorcycle with LED underglow, blasting german techno. wears designer sunglasses at night. 

pulls people over not based on violations, but on vibes. once ticketed a guy for “driving a beige car and ruining the aesthetic of the road.” 

he’s gotten reported 27 times for arrogance, but all his violations mysteriously disappear. probably because the chief owes him money from poker night. 

famous quote: “this isn’t about road safety. this is about setting an example. and the example is: look at me, i’m flawless.” 

ness alexis – “forensic analyst who thinks he’s starring in a drama”

takes blood samples like he’s in grey’s anatomy. has a dramatic gasp every time he finds a single fingerprint. 

writes his reports like novels: “and in the crimson shade of blood splatter, the truth was finally revealed...” 

doesn’t walk, he glides into crime scenes wearing latex gloves like they’re part of his personality. 

he’s scarily smart, but emotionally volatile. cried once because the lab’s coffee machine broke and said “how am i supposed to solve murder on decaf?” 

takes kaiser's orders like gospel, but also keeps a secret blackmail folder “just in case.” it's organized alphabetically and color-coded. 

famous quote: “i speak three languages: DNA, sarcasm, and disappointment.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[soleauclub]

The Wellness Girl’s Guide to Not Hating the Gym

You’re not at the gym to punish your body. You’re there to romance it.

Working out is not about shrinking yourself. It’s about stepping into your hot, strong, glowy energy. Period.

So if you're currently in your “I’ll just do Pilates at home and pray for results” era, babe... this one's for you.

Step 1: Rewire Your Gym Mindset with Main Character Energy

You’re not dragging yourself to the gym. You’re showing up like the main character in a glow-up montage.

Instead of saying “I have to work out,” start saying:

“I get to move my body like a woman who lives in St. Barth’s.”

“I’m not working out—I’m becoming art.”

“This is my pre-beach-date body sculpting ritual, not bootcamp.”

You're not surviving the gym, you're curating your next level self.

Step 2: Dress Like You’re Filming a Workout Collab with Alo Yoga

Hot girl rule: If you look cute, you’ll want to move cute.

Throw out the old sorority T-shirt. We’re going matching set, lip gloss, slick bun, and a tiny tote bag energy. Add a spritz of fragrance mist and watch your entire vibe shift.

Try this:

Matching seamless set (neutrals or pastels only)

Gold jewelry you can sweat in

Tinted SPF and lip balm with shine

Cute headphones that double as a vibe

When you look like the gym is your runway, the workouts hit different.

Step 3: Romanticize the Workout Like You Romanticize Your Matcha

Don’t just go to the gym—create an experience.

Curate a playlist called “Walking Away From My Ex Energy”

Stretch like you're in a moody French film

Do your glute bridges like you’re prepping for yacht season

Take slo-mo mirror selfies, sip water like it’s prosecco, and remind yourself: this is your show

Step 4: Find Your Hot Girl Movement

Spoiler: not every wellness girly loves lifting heavy or running miles—and that’s valid.

What matters is that it feels fun, feminine, and flowy AF.

Try these gym-friendly glow-up workouts:

Pilates with ankle weights (builds long, lean lines + that snatched waist vibe)

Cable machine glute days (booty pump without gym bro energy)

Incline walking on the treadmill while watching “Selling Sunset” (10/10 vibes)

Dance-based cardio for your main character moment

Stretching + breathwork in a corner like a zen heiress

This isn’t about what burns the most calories—it’s about what you’ll actually show up for.

Step 5: Post-Workout Glow Ritual = Non-Negotiable

You didn’t suffer through 45 minutes of sweaty goddess energy just to go home and scroll TikTok.

Make your post-workout feel like a spa day:

Shower with eucalyptus steam or a luxe body wash

Moisturize with shimmer oil or body butter that smells like your dream vacation

Ice roll your face, gua sha, or sip a collagen smoothie

Tell your reflection, “We crushed it, angel. You’re glowing.”

Here's the Wellness Girl Manifesto for Loving the Gym:

Workout = worship, not punishment

Looking hot makes you feel hot. Dress accordingly.

Music is your motivator, not reps. Build a vibe.

Move in ways that make your body feel expensive.

Romanticize recovery like a skincare commercial.

You don’t have to be a “gym girl” to feel strong, sexy, and powerful in your body. You just need a new mindset, a fire playlist, and a wellness-first glow-up strategy that feels so you.

xx,

Soleau Club

[wordsinhaled]

i feel like every other day i see posts being like, “is dbda fandom dead? where did everyone go?” and… no? we’re not dead? we’re very much still here.

i still think about my wip fics all the time; they’re not abandoned. i have more fic ideas, even though the words can be unpredictable sometimes so i haven’t done much on ao3 in a while. but i still have many more plans for fic, lots of gifsets in mind, more art i want to draw, and many, many more thoughts about these characters.

the dbda big bang/minibang is literally in progress right now with tons of beautiful fic and art in the process of being created. the fandom just released a 200 page zine full of fic and art! the fandom is making gifs, edits, fics, art, moodboards, playlists. the fandom is paying for multiple billboards to stay up for months at a time, to show support and love for the show & actors, and continues sending cameos to george and jayden when their cameos are open. there’s a fan meetup planned. there are new prompt weeks/events popping up all the time.

in short… the fandom and its talented and passionate creatives haven’t gone anywhere. some authors or artists’ interests may have shifted over time, or they are in multiple fandoms at a time (myself, i’m currently watching doctor who as well). but posting about how the fandom is “dead” or “abandoned” isn’t exactly the encouragement to create more that folks seem to think it is; instead it’s just baffling and a bit discouraging to those of us who absolutely are still here, creating out of love for a show that is barely over one year old.

maybe folks are not seeing the exact type of fic/art/gifs they want and think the fandom is waning as a result. but the best way to see the exact creative work YOU want to see is ultimately by creating it yourself - however new you might be to creating, there is no barrier to entry! or at the very least, connecting with the folks who are creating things and spreading genuine love for whatever is out there is the way to keep a fandom going.

much love to everyone <3

[nights-at-crystarium]

Okay the number of new followers reaches critical mass, which makes me anxious to show around, what's this place, what I'm doing here. Hi and welcome to the gay gremlin zone o/

My main thing is Fragments, a wolgraha/wolemet comic that takes its sweet time. Launched in 2022, it has enough script to last for a good decade. It updates every other friday. It's written first and drawn second, meaning that I pay great attention to pacing, themes, characters etc. It's not a 1:1 msq retelling, the canon divergence grows over time. My fresh approach and the dialogue quality start to slowly gain critical acclaim if you ask around.

Also I'm an edgelord, therefore the soft and silly scenes sit next to dark and angsty ones.

I'm mainly writing this because my recent Alisaie art brought in a veritable crowd, she's a major character in Fragments too! She starts out wrestling with a crush that only causes problems to everyone, eventually gets over Vivi, grows into a proper friend and finds a woman she likes. That can't happen overnight, and it's a mere subplot, so I suggest enjoying it as a part of the course instead of expecting it to be the main dish.

Fragments is a work for a mature reader capable of thinking for themselves. The thing I cherish the most in ShB is moral ambiguity, and I'm further expanding upon it by showing every mc's pov and refraining from making judgements.

If that sounds fun to you, take a seat and watch this local elf hurt everyone including himself.

Read Fragments on tumblr or webtoon!

The stuff I post aside from the comic is random art, when I take a break from drawing The Big Thing by drawing something else, I strive to reset my brain and do something different, like painting or animation. I also yap and shitpost to my heart's content.

There's always someone who missed the thing I posted a week or a year ago, so I self-reblog a lot. I encourage and appreciate it when people take the initiative and interact with my old posts!! Feel free to binge-like or reblog EVERYTHING. Here are a few fun tags to start: wolgraha | wolemet | feo ul | alisaie

[wireweaver]

Cyberformed New York

How it went down, and the basics on how cyberforming works.

It happened out of no were, a loud boom and them a second later piercing burning white light, no warning no time to prepare, shit is now officially fuck and now everyones gotta adapt, if they want any chance surving let alone at stopping this from getting any worse. Because even if the first big change is over, whatever caused this is not gone and is still slowly shifting and warping things.

Read more about what's going on with the city here

I'm not going to say how yet because I still plan on writing that fic, so I won't spoil the mystery yet, but you all are free to speculate. :]

To be successfully cyberformed and not become a metal statue or some kind of mechanical beast requires two things: a mechanical or electronic something that can serve as a frame, and so, so much luck. The human body is used to create the spark, and the process of transforming flesh into a spark often goes awry, sometimes for an identifiable reason, and sometimes for what seems like no reason at all. That's why you need that luck.

Full Cybertronian

Aka a successful spark conversion, the lucky few who get to at least keep their minds after cyberforming, where the body, essence, and life force are successfully converted into a spark.

What makes a successful or failed spark conversion is unknown to most; it seems completely random, but no human who has spent a significant amount of time exposed to Cybertronian has had a failed spark conversion. The reason for this is still unknown to the characters. However, for those who had a successful spark conversion and didn't interact with cybertonians before, there doesn't seem to be any clear connections as to why they didn't lose themselves.

Cyber beast

Failed spark conversion, most who get cyberformed end up like this, a lot of things can go wrong when converting fleshy meat into a semi eternal burning life force so over 98% of spark conversion fail

Any potential frame material being touched by more than one person will always end in a failed spark conversion, as trying to make a stable spark out of 2 or more separate beings almost always fails

Statue

Becoming a statue is the fate to befall anyone not in contact with something that could become a frame. No frame materials mean, well, instead of your body becoming a spark, it just becomes metal.

No amount of cybertronian friendship points can save you from this fate,

--------------------------------------------

ya, this AU is old. The art with Raoul Tracks and Sparkplug is new, but the stuff with that random guy is from 2023 but was never posted wtf lol

Anyways, fun fact about the Raoul and tracks drawing, I started drawing the Raoul was fixing, looked up the ref of the engine, realized it had a mid-rear engine, not a front engine, so had to flip the car and redraw it lol

[porcelana-r0ta]

let the mourners come

Title: let the mourners come

Ao3 Link: Only available to Ao3 users

Word Count: 3045

Summary:

It started, as most things do with Danny Fenton, as a joke.

It ended, as most things do with Jazz Fenton, with things better than they were before.

xxXxx

When Danny finally gets a Twitter, it’s during Elon Musk’s shit show takeover. He’s able to secure a good Twitter handle thanks to people leaving en masse and fleeing to Tumblr. He knows about things that happen outside of Amity Park (he is terminally online rather than chronically, after all), but he still doesn’t think anything of using @TheJoker as his handle, even knowing about Gotham City’s clown troubles. It’s just going to be a shitpost account, anyway, one that dances in the chaos of Elon’s electronic graveyard. Nothing will come about him using @TheJoker when he’s merely posting things like, “Just grew a new row of teeth!!! very pointy but can’t go to the dentist anymore bc they might turn me in to the giw.”

So Danny honestly never foresaw The Actual Real Joker breaking out of Arkham Asylum all the way in Gotham City, New Jersey, and deciding to get a Twitter account to terrorize people online as well as offline. And he definitely never foresaw The Joker @’ing him on Twitter, demanding that Danny change his Twitter handle. But, well. Here he was. 

[Image Description: A screenshot of a Twitter reply chain, starting with the real Joker @'ing Danny's Twitter account, which uses TheJoker as his Twitter handle. The Joker, who has a verified account, demands that Danny "change your handle", and Danny replies with a simple "no" followed by red heart emoji. The Joker Tweets, "Kid you don't know who you're fucking with," to which Danny replies, "Ye I do ur some dude w/ poor fashion sense and lame jokes. Maybe try badjokesbyjeff bc originality is ugly on u" followed by a shrugging emoticon. The Joker responds, "Check your DMs." Danny then responds, "Perf [happy emoji surrounded by hearts] I've sent you a time and place. Can't wait to beat the shit out of another disgrace of a clown." Someone with the username "Gregg rulz ok" responds to Danny's last Tweet, "Bro is absolutely RATIOING the joker but the clown keeps responding [three skull emojis] embarrassing frfr too bad he's gonna die for realsies".

End ID]

Danny is quick to respond and then makes even quicker work of roasting The Joker. This soon results in The Joker DMing him his IP Address and a creative threat. Still, Danny isn’t about to cow to a clown with no respect for the art of clowning. He replies to the DM: 

Cool, meet me at the Nasty Burger parking lot in Amity Park IL on tuesday at 2am

The response from The Joker is quick:

Fourteen year olds are too confident these days

Danny rolls his eyes and ignores the influx of notifications from Twitter, and instead makes another Tweet.

Imagine beefing with someone over a Twitter handle lol acc so embarrassing for him

He blackens his screen and stretches in bed, letting his spine pop more than what is humanly possible. He runs his tongue over that second row of teeth, his lips curling into a grin. 

xxXxx

Gothamite Twitter is blowing up over The Joker’s social media beef with a faceless shitposting account. Jason, upon finding out about it, has a series of reactions: first, he looks up the shitposter and follows them. Then, he finds the actual chain between the poster and The Joker, and his vision goes vibrant green when he sees that The Joker’s profile picture is of the second Robin, beaten and swollen in an abandoned building in Ethiopia. 

When his vision clears and he can breathe without wanting to kill, he likes the shitposter’s replies, and he calls the Replacement to see if the other Bats know already.

“We know,” Tim says in lieu of a hello when the ringing cuts out. “We’re working on it.”

“What, you think anything’s gonna come of it?” But even as Jason asks, he already knows the answer. The Joker is unhinged and once he’s threatened something, he’ll follow up unless he comes up with a “funnier” option. 

Tim’s breath hitches, and he says, “I’ve hacked their DMs. Joker knows the kid’s IP address and sent it to him. He knows everything from that address alone.”

He pauses in the middle of suiting up, “Kid?”

He hears Tim swallow, “Yes, kid. He’s fifteen. And he gave The Joker a specific time and place to meet up to fight. In his own hometown.”

“Are— are you fucking kidding me?” 

“No. B is already calling Nightwing. We’re taking the Batwing to Illinois.”

“Jesus fuck. I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Hood, I—”

“Shut up, I’m already in my gear.” He hangs up without waiting for a response. 

He refreshes the Twitter feed and barks a laugh at the newest Tweet:

Jason Todd votes, and the Red Hood leaves his safe house. 

xxXxx

A commercial flight to Illinois takes around two and a half hours. In the Batwing, they get there in an hour, and don’t even have to worry about the drive from Chicago to a small speck of a town like Amity Park. They spend the quick flight learning everything they can about Daniel James Fenton, the owner of the Twitter account, and they can all sense the growing tension from (and between) Bruce and Jason.

But, well. Jason doesn’t care. Let them be uncomfortable. It doesn’t compare to being ripped back into life and finding out his dad didn’t even get justice for his death. 

When they reach town, it doesn’t take long to find the Fentons’ home. This is in part because Amity Park is a very navigable town, and because of the giant neon sign proclaiming FentonWorks on the side of the building. 

“Is that a blimp?” Dick asks. “Why don’t we have a blimp?” 

“Where would we keep it?” the Demon Brat counters practically. “Goliath takes up all of the Cave’s extra space.” 

Jason rolls his eyes and knows veins would be popping out of Bruce’s forehead if it weren’t for the cowl. 

“Let’s go,” Bruce says instead, and they all make their way to the house. 

Nightwing, predictably, goes for the front door approach. Jason rolls his eyes as he takes one of the second-story windows and finds his way downstairs.

He gets down at the same time that a redheaded girl answers the door and nearly slams it in Dick’s face. Jason has to suppress snickers at the sight. 

“Wait, wait, wait, are you Jazz Fenton? We need to talk to your brother!” 

“...We?” she asks, then tenses and turns around to see the rest of the Bats in the hall behind her. Dick takes the opportunity to step in completely, closing the door behind him. “Wha— what’s going on?”

“Where are your parents, Jazz?” Bruce makes every question sound like a demand. Jason rolls his eyes from behind his mask—way to put the teenager at ease, B.

“Why do you need to know?” Her voice has a defensive edge to it. “What do you want with Danny?” 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Nightwing comforts. “He didn’t do anything too bad, just said some dumb things online. It’s not his fault.” 

This relaxes her, and her shoulders begin un-hunching. “Oh, s-so what’d he do?”

“He foolishly challenged The Joker to a battle in a ‘Nasty Burger’ parking lot tonight.” 

“You could’ve had some more tact, Robin,” Nightwing scolds. But the Demon Spawn just crosses his arms. 

“He did what?” Jazz shrieks. “Like, The Joker from Gotham? That Joker?”

“Are there others?” Red Hood comments dryly. 

Her face goes through several different emotions—disbelief, rage, fear, and then rage again, “DANIEL JAMES FENTON! GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!” 

There’s a thumping noise, and then frantic footsteps down the stairs. 

“Wha? Who died?” asks the figure of a tiny fifteen-year-old, smaller than even Jason had been when he was alone with The Joker. He’s tiny and lanky. Zero muscle definition. Eye bags to rival the Replacement’s. Something ripples in the Pit, deep and distinct, but he can’t name what causes it.

Oh, this kid is so dead. 

“Danny,” says Jazz calmly while Danny blinks uncomprehendingly at the heroes in their hallway. She is solemn when she says, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill you now.” 

“What did I do?” 

She stares at him, “Why have you scheduled a fight with The Joker?” 

“Oh, that.” He rubs the back of his neck, “Is he taking that seriously?”

“Of course he is, Danny! It’s The Joker! That’s what he does! He can’t differentiate between a joke and reality! He would tear off his own face for the bit!” 

“Oof,” is all Danny can muster. He digs his phone out and starts typing before Jazz yanks it out his hand. 

“You’re fucking TWEETING about this?” Jazz asks incredulously, and Hood’s hackles rise. She even reads the Tweet aloud, “‘Just found out @TheJ0ker is being fr about fighting me. Sad but i can take a clown.’”

“I was gonna add ‘i’ve done it b4,’ but like the letter and the number four. But yeah.” 

“You’re grounded forever.” Danny opens his mouth to protest, but the look Jazz cuts at him is so scathing that he shuts his mouth. Hood is reluctantly impressed—she had what could be cultivated into a fantastic Batglare. She pockets the phone, “You’re never getting this phone back. Taunting The Joker to Amity? Have you any brain cells? What if he brings Joker gas with him, huh? Or any of his goons? What if he starts hurting other people? Have you thought any of this through?” 

Danny’s face goes from tired to chastised, his lips drawing into a frown, especially at the mention of other people. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think that he’d take it so seriously.”

“He sent you your IP Address.”

“I thought that was just a random string of numbers?”

“Oh my god,” Jazz despairs. “Oh my god. Grounded forever. See, I know you're lying to me. I know you're lying because Tucker, the nerdiest tech nerd to have ever been born, is your best friend.”

He rubs the back of his neck, “I tune him out?”

“You’re still lying to me?” Jazz scoffs and turns to Batman, “Do whatever you want with him. I’m not going to defend him from this.” 

“Hey!” complained her brother, but Batman just continued on, “Where are your parents?”

“They’re in Sweden for a science convention,” Jazz answers. “They left this morning.” 

Damn, Jason curses to himself. 

“Jazz, seriously. You’re not gonna let Batman kill me, right?” 

“Do you want to be cremated or buried, Danny?” Jazz asks blasély, and Danny gulps, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. 

“It’s my Twitter handle,” he mutters petulantly, and Jason can’t believe the gall of this kid. Or maybe stupidity. Audacity’s a good one, too. “If he wanted it, he should’ve gotten it first. And he gives clowns a bad name.” 

“Not the clown thing again.” Jazz digs her palms into her eyes, sighs, then turns to the heroes. “He has a whole clown thing ever since Circus Gothica came to town and robbed a bunch of jewelry stores.” 

Danny gestures wildly with his hands, as if demonizing clowns was the real problem and not the egomaniacal mass murderer who wanted to murder him for his Twitter handle, “Clowning is an art form, Jazz, and people like Freakshow and The Joker make a mockery of the very serious societal statements that clowns make!” 

All of the Bats very carefully Did Not look at Nightwing, who has made very similar rants on quiet patrols.

“You are never leaving this house again,” she says serenely. “And I’m unplugging the wifi router.”

“You would punish even yourself?”

“Oh, little brother. I would watch the world burn if it meant knocking sense into your thick skull.” 

“Okay, Christ,” Red Hood finally interrupted the siblings’ melodrama. An unyielding redheaded girl and a mouthy black-haired, blue-eyed boy? They’d fit in a little too well back at the Manor, so Jason needs to cut this shit out before Bruce’s bat-doption instincts start tingling. “Stop. Just… Christ. Stop. Is this how you always interact with each other?”

“Sometimes there’s explosions,” Danny pipes up, a cheeky grin on his face. 

Jazz doesn’t dispute it. 

Fucking hell. God damn it. I can’t. I just can’t. 

Batman doesn’t give anything away, “Robin and Red Robin will be staying here with you until Nightwing, Hood, and I apprehend The Joker. First, we’re going to check the perimeter.” 

“Oooh, I get to give the lab tour!” 

Lab?

“No lab. You’re grounded. You’ll only be in there for cleaning duty now.”

“Wh– hey! No fair!” 

“What’s this lab you two are talking about?” Red Robin asks before Jazz can rip into her brother again. 

She sighs, “Our parents’ lab. I’ll show you, but someone needs to stay with Danny.” 

“You act like I’m gonna run off and start World War III….”

“I wonder why,” she says sarcastically.

Batman nods to Robin, who nods back, and the rest of them follow Jazz out of the living room to a metal reinforced door. She types in a code—Jason catches the numbers 03-14-99. There’s an assenting beep, and she opens the door, flicking on the lights and leading them down into what is apparently a basement lab. 

A stone settles in Red Hood’s stomach, cold and heavy. 

The basement is large, likely the floor size of the entire building. There are several work tables, filled with miscellaneous blueprints and spare parts and weapons and tools. Against the farthest wall is another armored door, but what draws Hood’s—and the entire Batclan’s—attention is the south wall, where a circular hole in the wall was glowing a toxic Pit green. 

The stone shattered in his stomach, splintering into his body. Is it harder or easier to breathe? Jason can’t tell. 

“Wow,” says Nightwing. His voice is cheerful, but Jason can feel the stress beneath it. “Do I even want to know?” 

Wasn’t this supposed to just be typical Joker bullshit?

“Our parents are ectobiologists,” Jazz explains nonchalantly, walking further into the lab. “As in, ghost biologists.” She pauses at one of the work tables, picking up a green and white thermos. Pretty boring, considering the rest of their surroundings. 

“Ghosts.” Red Robin’s voice is carefully neutral. 

“Ghosts,” Jazz reaffirms. “I know. I thought they were crazy at first, too. But I can prove it, if you like.” Then, without waiting for a yes or no, she untwists the thermos, and there’s a bright flash of white, and a whole entire body sprouting out of it. 

“WHOO! I’M FREE!” cries the…being, pale and floating and lanky and entirely too big to have fit into a fucking thermos, of all the fucking things. “....And not in the Realms? Wait.” He stops stretching, descending to rest closer to the ground, but still hovering a few inches from the floor. He’s got green eyes and lifeless (ha) blond hair. He’s wearing a trenchcoat and a green skull necklace. Overall, he looks like the type of thug he’d arrest in the Bowery. 

“Hello, Johnny.” The man’s—ghost’s?—eyes flicker around each person in the room, his gaze becoming more and more confused and panicked as he takes in each Bat, before settling on Jazz Fenton. 

“Why are the fucking Bats here?” 

“The Joker’s coming to Amity,” she says. The ghost’s eyes widen. Jazz tilts her head, “How many ghosts would you say passed away in Gotham, Johnny?” 

As Jason and the Bats tense, this Johnny guy lets out a wicked laugh, “Oh, Doll, you have the best surprises. Why did we break up?” 

“You did try to have my body possessed. That ruins any good relationship.” 

“Man, but Kitty’ll love this. Thanks for letting me out of Soup Time, Doll.” He floats higher, “Any advice?” 

She throws him the phone she’d confiscated from Danny and he catches it easily, “Everything’s on here. Have fun.”

“What exactly are you planning?” Batman scowls. 

Johnny laughs, “Aww, don’t worry, Bats. Peace and love on Planet Earth, or whatever. We’ll make it quick.” Then, as the Bats leap into action as one, Johnny turns invisible, the Batarangs passing harmlessly through where he’d once been floating. 

“Where did he go?” Batman turns his scowl, angrier than ever, to Jazmin Fenton, who stares back unflinchingly. “He’s going to solve the problem.”

“You mean he’s going to kill The Joker.”

She shakes her head, “Oh, no. That’d just be asking for him to come back as a ghost. Could you imagine a Joker with powers like invisibility, intangibility, flight, and more? Johnny can be impulsive, but he’s smart. None of them will kill The Joker.” 

“Then what are they going to do?” Red Robin asks. 

“My parents are ectobiologists,” Jazz repeats from earlier. “But I am more of an anthro-ectopologist. I am concerned with the study of ectoplasmic beings’ societies and cultures. And while it is very ancient, there is protocol in the Infinite Realms—that is, where you go when you die, should you remain after death—to prosecute living criminals who have killed a certain number of Realms citizens. So you don’t have to worry about your moral code, Batman. The Joker will be tried by a much fairer court than Gotham can ever hope to have. No offense.” 

Jason stares at Jazz Fenton, who he’d pegged as the sane sibling. He’s not so sure now, but he can’t say he hates it.

“And how do we know it’s a fair trial?” Nightwing asks. 

She waves her hand, “Oh, as Gotham’s Knights, you’re key witnesses. I’m sure you’ll be summoned to testify. You will see then. And don’t worry about your secret identities—the dead don’t care much for that sort of thing.” 

“So if this is a ‘fair’ trial or whatever, The Joker’s going to be locked up forever?” Jason asks. “I mean, that’s the only option for shit like him.” 

Batman sends him a look, but he ignores it. 

“Well, there are several different punishments that could be deemed appropriate, but he’ll never be able to set foot in the mortal world again, yes.” 

Jason Todd grins, “Oh, I’m glad your brother’s stupid, kid.” 

She sighs, long-suffering, “Well, that makes one of us. Still, there’s more important things we should discuss now that you’re here.”

“More important than The Joker trying to kill your brother over a Twitter handle?” Red Robin asks doubtfully. 

Jazz smiles, sharp and dangerous, and asks, ”Have you ever heard of the Anti-Ecto Acts?” 

xxXxx

Several months later when Danny is finally un-grounded, he Tweets his last three Tweets before Twitter can become the foolishly named X: 

Imagine bullying the Joker so hard that it not only lands the Joker in ghost prison BUT it also leads to major law reform in the US lmao someone make the domino effect meme about this pls

Y’allre replying to me with thanks like i did anything other than be an internet troll. My sister literally manipulated local, federal, and interdimensional law so you should be thanking her. 

i just a babie 🥺🥺🥺

xxXxx

Thanks for reading! This is the whole fic, so pls do not ask for tags! Thank you :)

[beartitled]

HIVE belongs to @braisedhoney

Canon HIVE blog 👉 @talesaboardthehive

‼️ATTENTION HIVE CREW‼️

I BRING U

✨HIVE megadrawing✨

Bc tumblr cannot comprehend the glory of our ship/silly image size and pixel limit >:(

You can view the quality version of the art with all the numbers 👉here👈

The quality of the og art gotten eaten a bit too, so here’s close ups :D

And of course 🐝CREDIT LIST(s)🐝

Thank u to everyone who participated in choosing the art style for it >:D

@blackkatdraws2 @insomniphic @demonicrhythms @mhokino @writtengalaxies @myhandshurts @bucketfullofstrawberries @stingraystray-ing @kuzann @aetermorte @otterlyinluv @atlantis-whale @4thwallbreakerdraws @fudgemallowmaniac @crimsomcrystal @tumbling-turmoil @dafry-shenanigans @xandyprojects @technologyvoid @idunnowhattowriteheretbh @ejsuperstar @bananatemilkshake @masky-the-mask @cj-is-causing-chaos-again @whatsupwithjinx @oswinunknown @twolitwicksinatrenchcoat @bootleg-behindthescenes @junebug-dot-com @notmefoina @derrangedhemlock

‼️Important note

If you recognise your number and would like to be credited (tumblr, name, etc.), please let me know!

This art contains numbers from old HIVE discord server (which was deleted), so some ppl’s @ might’ve been lost

🐻‍❄️< silly gathered all hivesona art she saw before server deletion, but forgor to screenshot the list of server members

You also free to stay anonymous of course 👍

I will wait some time before posting it on others socials to make sure the credits are alright 🫡

Also little reminder that the drawing is non canon, so we have a lil uniform fashion show in the corner there 💅 (all uniforms have to be grey colour)

Nöw

Lemme me do my usual rambling >:D

The giant took about 3 months +- (hard to count bc I worked on other projects in the same time💥)

Lemme tell u the planning was an actual investigation

(and chaos ofc)

(fun type of chaos :D)

Shoot out to Amari who helped me gather evidence🕵️ and Crimsom who helped me accidentally find a number I didn’t know about before❗️

Thank u guys you’re awesome ❤️

As I said before there are identified numbers, where I either only had a name/somebody’s vague pfp/a discord status 💥

I used standard anonymous crewmate design for ppl with no info

But tried to gather at least some info from old server screenshots for cues, like CR6548 Kura had different red emojis in their bio, so I gave them a rose strawberry crown and earrings 🌹🍓

For anonymous people with asks I added lil visual identifiers ✨

Part of me kinda wants to write a whole guide, but I think it’s more fun to discover things by yourself >:) *whisper* go reread #ney’s chatter

Fascinatingly enough, this drawing really enhanced HIVE as an eldritch abomination

This thing shifted and changed so many times

Constant edits 😭💥

When I planned out the composition I added the balcony as an extra space reserve for crewmembers

Ironically balcony stayed empty, bc I didn’t have enough ppl to fill it up with

Decided to put fandom characters that are associated with Captain’s blog and some alter egos

🗣️ HOWEVER 🗣️

When I finished lineart and posted Bumblebeedog comics

Ppl started creating new Hivesonas 🥺

Nobody can resist the Bumblebeedoggo 🐝

So had to improvise to put more and more ppl into different empty parts of the art 💥

🎶gotta add em all 🎶

This is actually my biggest work so far

Like literally

I usually draw on A3, but decided to go bigger and drew on A2 format instead

A2 is like 420 x 594 mm/ 16.5 x 23.4 inches (big boi)

Which was an absolute nightmare to scan 💥

But honestly really enjoyed the process, bc bigger format allows for more details

Also technical fun facts x2

Drawing program froze sometimes during colouring 💀

cue the anxious saves lmao

Anyway 👏

Hope you guys enjoyed the art and reading some of the backstage ❤️

Hey Ney >:)

Hope u like

Hit me up if u would like the link to 4K version of the megadrawing™️

[thewandererh]

what if why we didn’t see the doctor’s primary black-cloaked vessel ingame is because it’s his last resort? what if it’s where his heart is stored? or even where all the last copies of all his vital organs are kept safe?

an active consciousness can still stem from a backup of his brain, which his primary vessel holds. so, after his physical brain goes belly up (literally😭) the network of transmitting consciousness to each of his bots is still active. just transferred to a weaker method.

following the “murder” of dr harley sawyer in chapter 4, perhaps he scrambles back to this old vessel whereever it is. maybe it’s been neglected, a plan B dangerously collecting dust, or it’s sitting pristine in a sterile room on life support. nevertheless, harley finds himself in it after croaking his “last words” mid-transfer, and struggles to breathe. he forgot about this vessel. he’d cast it aside because it held the scars of his initial transfer into machine and the containment that followed. it was his first body. and it was so weak. but now it is his last chance.

however, he’s not properly adjusted to the whole having organs thing, and this vessel needs to be properly taken care of. so with bated breath and the struggle of calming his mind, he summons one of his metal corpses from his brain’s tomb. it takes a few agonizing minutes as it arrives to wherever he is, but eventually it’s close enough that he can actively switch bodies with it. consciousness transferral relies on proximity (this is why we only see the bots around his brain ingame).

revived and disoriented, the doctor must now look after himself. the fact of being reduced to this husk eats away at every atom of his being, but he’s simply too weak. he failed. he failed and he’ll be killed for it. but he’s not afraid.

when the splitting headaches cease and he gets used to being alive he can kill something again.

soon, but not yet.

4/19/25 edit : THIS AU NOW HAS A SIDEBLOG! https://www.tumblr.com/screws-of-sawyer headcanons, fics, art!!

…

…

info ramble & sillies under cut!

au idea, ayo?? early titles are ‘mechanized-mind’ or ‘inside-the-mind-of-harley’ or even ‘dry-bones’ but i’m still brainstorming X]. i love putting my characters through emotional agony <33 but this time it’s an au of an existing character i have to analyze to get right so that’ll be fun. now for the drawing, i really like both medical concepts and making stuff up so maybe only some of the function would actually work, but i do not care. the idea was that harley’s primary vessel had a more meshy, detachable plate in his chest to give room for his heart and probably-disproportionately-sized lungs. here that plate is removed in order to help his heart beat. tons of other tubes are wired into his ventilation vents to keep him running to. my running idea for why the sarley hawyer (clone bot, aka secondary vessel) here doesn’t have a cloak is because maybe he had to take it off due to contamination. or it got snagged on the way here. but honestly i didn’t want to cover up the cool anatomy of my neat design i’ve been playing with, so he is naked once again 😔

this was the big flipaclip harley piece i mentioned in this post while trying to animate something. this idea arose instead, and slowly came to fruition as i found an elaborate way to color while listening to some lethal company and ppt 3 & 4 vids. pen pressure is really new to me and i’m on my knees thanking it for this neat coloring texture and technique i will probably never use again 🛐😌🫶 thank you apple pencil ilysm

anyways, here’s some funny wip shots, and general doctor sillies i found today!! ^_^ it’s been another doctor day

once again, astralspiff is a very cool guy guys 🗣️🔥🔥

but alas. adios amigos 😵‍💫🫡 goedenacht!