ESTE SEPTIEMBRE EN KARMALAND VOTE POR NUESTRO PRESIDENTE!

god created man to be penetrated

Happy new year!! I decided to start this year posting some art around here, made for #zosanclubsecretsanta2024

This is my piece for pyrosengineer (on x)!

I'll be posting it every other day if it all goes accordingly. It's my first comic ever, so let me know what you think!!

Read left to right! (4/30)

OK OK OK WAIT

ccquackity sent out a tweet that cquackity is just "chilling in las nevadas", implying that cquackity is the sole survivor of the dsmp finale , or at least for the people that were presently on the server

cwilbur went to utah and somehow managed to avoid all of that bullshit.

imagine. cwilbur goes to utah to heal but always feels like something is missing. empty. he checks his communicator every day for a message from tommy, from phil, from anyone. as time passes by he begins to give up. time must have passed on without him, they must have all healed and gone down their separate ways. he's happy for them, really; the gaping hole in his chest is inconsequential. meaningless. just like he was. the entire time. really, had he ever even mattered to any of them? moods swinging from depressed, to angry, to numb about the whole ordeal -he should really get medicated- he begins to wonder when things got so complicated. he missed home. he thought he'd be going home by returning to utah, but as time passed, he began to realize home wasn't a place. it had been people. and he- he had left them all to die. his home was tommy, and he'd abandoned him. the growing pit of guilt left him feeling heavy, filling his stomach and making it hard for him to eat most days. it was fine. he was fine! he was getting better. but then- the paranoia strikes up again, telling him that maybe it wasn't all fine, maybe tommy wasn't okay, he never should have left in the first place. after all, a mad man was on the loose! he could have hurt- could have killed- his little brother, and he never would have found out. it eventually becomes too much for him and, late at night, in a panic driven haze, he grabs a few of the things he'd managed to earn here in utah and goes back. his blood freezes. he stops, frozen in time, looking at what happened, feeling... nothing. or was it too much? he feels like a puppet who's strings had been cut, like he'd never really escaped from the narrative at all, like he was right back at the head of the story, witnessing himself in an out of body experience. the server was gone. and he'd never know what happened. he would never get closure. he falls to his knees and weeps.

then, you have cquackity. the sole survivor. cwilbur disappeared and everyone else- everyone else died and forgot him. he has nobody left, he's alone, with not even cfoolish there to help him now. the country he built for his fiancés is empty, as it always was, but now it's the most populated place on the server- it has him. the legacy he fought for, clung to with his broken, bloodied fingernails, is now witnessed by no one but him. he's numbed to it over the years; nobody is coming for him. why would they? even if they did remember- even if they did remember, he wasn't exactly the best person. why would anyone come back for him? he would be left to rot, in this man-made desert, in this city of smoke and mirrors that rose from gilded dreams of a man and would crumble with him. he was fine with it, he decided. there was no use crying about it to anybody, especially since there was nobody to cry to. he goes throughout the motions of life emptily, attempting to fill the silence of the city all by himself, trying to carry on tasks day to day as normal. he talks to himself, boisterous and loud like he did when times were... simpler, back when he had no scar on his face and when love came to him so easy. but there was nobody left to love, and nobody left to love him, and over the years the silence suffocated him. stifled him. he stops talking, and eventually, he forgets how to use his voice at all. he feels like a puppet who's strings have been cut, like it's not him living day to day, and he wonders if he had died years ago. if he had ever really been alive at all, and if so, when he'd forgotten how to live.

after cwilbur returns to the smp, and finds it gone, blown to smithareens (he would never know what happened) just like l'manberg. and really, wasn't that fitting? what goes around, comes around. it always ends with an explosion. always. he picks himself up after a while, beginning to wander around the perimeters of the explosion. he resists the urge to wander into the thick of the crater and begin picking through the wreckage, looking for corpses. he doesn't think he has it in him to handle if it was the face of anyone he cared about.

after what feels like days of ceaseless wandering- and maybe it was, god knows that cwilbur knows what its like to wander endlessly, it was just limbo, he had never really left, he was never really alive- he comes up upon a place he never thought he'd see again. and he laughs, maybe, shock and disbelief that turns to a sort of bitter anger. because of course, of course it was las nevadas, of course it was quackity. it was always quackity. quackity was the sun, in a way, a star with things always centering around him.

but if quackity was the sun, wilbur was a blackhole.

wilbur marches into las nevadas, head held high, faltering at the emptiness and state of disrepair. even if quackity was still here- and, wilbur realizes, fear panging his heart, that the idea of quackity being gone is so much worse than quackity having miraculously survived that- he hadn't been able to do everything himself.

cwilbur searches. by god, wilbur searches. he tears the city apart, brick by brick, looking for the man that had the answers. or not. wilbur honestly wasn't sure what he wanted with quackity- to fight him? he knew what had happened last time. but quackity was one of his biggest what-ifs, maybe in another life, another time, they could have been more.

but he might have been too late.

as wilbur was beginning to lose hope, beginning to consider collapsing to the ground and screaming his lungs out, the unthinkable happened.

he was going through one of the many casinos, checking in every room, no stone untouched, all nooks and crannies searched. he had just been finishing up, opening the door and stepping forward when he walked into something.

no. not something. someone

and god was it so fucking good to see quackity. wilbur. wilbur felt like he could breathe again, air filling his lungs. "quackity?" he asked, voice cracking. you're here. you're here. you're alive. i'm alive. i-

cquackity looked... confused. is this a trick? quackity thinks. am i hallucinating him again? this isn't funny. you're not funny, XD. but his voice had left him years ago, and he couldn't even tell the hallucination plaguing him to fuck off. figures. he scoffs and tries to shove past it, freezing when he realizes it is solid. no. can it be? but he could just be- imagining- is he dreaming?

wilbur grabs his wrists. "quackity?" he inquires again, voice fading off. that was one thing quackity had trouble believing. wilbur had looked so happy to see him- wilbur would never look that happy to see him. it just wasn't possible. "quackity, i'm talking to you." irritation shot through quackity. i can see that, asshole. god, he'd forgotten how fucking annoying wilbur was. whatever- whatever this was, it really wasn't messing around. "talk to me!" wilbur barked, shoving quackity into one of the nearby walls, pinning him. quackity was stunned, head hitting the wall behind him. that- nothing had ever done that. all his hallucinations over the years, they'd only been out of reach, whispers at the edges of his vision or they'd solely been there to mock him. and this felt mocking, god, it felt like life was spitting in his face, but it felt real. more real than anything had in years.

quackity shook his head, trembling. he couldn't. he opened his mouth and closed it, aware of how foolish he looked, but he hadn't needed to speak in a long time, and now, he couldn't remember how. distantly he was aware of a thumb brushing his face. "quackity, you're crying," wilbur's voice distantly reached him, and oh, oh. when had he started to do that? that didn't feel right. but he was, he was crying, and wilbur was alive, and god, he wasn't alone anymore.

distantly, he was aware of wilbur leading him to a chair, babbling on about something, the words not quite reaching his ears. but he relished in the sound of his voice, in his touch, god he missed being touched, and he slumped in the seat he was put in.

he was startled back to reality at harsh tapping on the table, flinching and blinking at a pen and paper that wilbur had gone and scrounged up. oh. smart. quackity wouldn't have thought of that, but to be fair, he was in shock. "can you speak?" wilbur asked. quackity shook his head. "right, then, uhm, use this paper to communicate."

quackity nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off wilbur as he reached forward tentatively, afraid wilbur would dissipate like smoke, and he'd be left with nothing. alone. again. but nothing happened, and he had the pen, and paper. he stared down at it numbly, not sure what to write. "what, can't remember how to write?" wilbur teased. "little baby can't pick up a pen? come on, q, you're not a kindergartener."

quackity scowled. he changed his mind. he'd rather be alone. he hated wilbur, the stupid asshole. hands shaking, he wrote a shaky: fuck you. and then, as an addendum: hi :]

wilbur grinned, a genuine smile spreading across the man's face. "oh, ever so eloquent. hello to you too, big q."

quackity smiled back.

they'd be okay.

no the tallest do not have a concept of sex. yes theyre the biggest sluts in the known universe. whats not clicking

Tried a new pen to sketch | diff style? Probs cuz of pen and the ref I used ah

homestuck penis ouija: tntduo edition

QUACKITY: Ok8y, look, it’s perfectly simple.  KAHRRL: oh NO you ARE not DRAWING another SHIPPING grid DUDE QUACKITY: No no no, it’s not 8 grid, just 8 schedule.  KAHRRL: look WE’VE already ESTABLISHED that YOU’RE going TO end UP flushed FOR everyone JUST deal WITH it QUACKITY: No no no I’m gonna m8ke this WORK WILBUR: No, that’s a grid. You’re drawing a god damn grid. This is a shipping grid.  QUACKITY: Ok8y LOOK HERE QUACKITY: These 8re the d8ys of the week. We e8ch h8ve rows for those d8ys 8nd we c8n dr8w 8 he8rt, sp8de, or di8mond for 8ny given d8y.  QUACKITY: M8ybe even 8 club since K8hrrl 8nd I 8re in the m8rket for 8 new 8uspictice KAHRRL: OH my GOD QUACKITY: Th8t w8y, we know wh8t’s up in 8dv8nce 8nd c8n 8void 8ny possible conflicts. 

WILBUR: Put the fucking pen down.  QUACKITY: Hey, cut it out! Don’t touch me! WILBUR: Do not draw a shipping grid, do NOT do it.  QUACKITY: It’s not 8 shipping grid, you bulge ch8fing fuck8ss!  WILBUR: You are not drawing a shipping grid to organize our fucking dating lives.  WILBUR: That is— that is some bullshit, man.  WILBUR: Absolute bullshit, I will not stand for it

QUACKITY: This is not 8 shipping grid, this is 8 schedule to org8nize our qu8dr8nts! It’s 8 useful tool! WILBUR: You’re not drawing anything that even REMOTELY resembles a grid.  WILBUR: Do not draw an arrangement of squares or otherwise interlocking polygons QUACKITY: LET GO!!!!!!!! KAHRRL: oh MY god WILBUR: You will not draw a spreadsheet for the purpose of allocating mine and Kahrrl’s time spent with a potential mutual boyfriend.  WILBUR: That is exactly the shit I do not want to see  QUACKITY: Oh look, I just drew 8 squ8re! Get re8dy to see 8 lot more of those! WILBUR: No stop WILBUR: Do not draw any more squares I swear to god! WILBUR: Do not draw any quadrilaterals or trapezoids or rectangles or fucking n-drangles and especially as fuck not any god damned RHOMBUSES  WILBUR: I don’t want to see your lines making ANY right angles, do you understand? QUACKITY: Oh look 8nother squ8re! 8 bit wobbly but it’ll do.  WILBUR: That is the perfect example of what you should NOT be drawing.  QUACKITY: W8 here it comes! My first “ship” going into the squ8re! WILBUR: Put the fucking pen down! QUACKITY: OW! Wh8t is your problem? WILBUR: Does Sapnap know you’re doing this? QUACKITY: He will! WILBUR: How presumptuous of you to think he might be okay with being tossed into your bullshit shipping grid just because you decided to be “normal human boyfriends” now QUACKITY: Well I h8ven’t put his n8me on the grid yet, h8ve I? WILBUR: I am absolutely stunned that he understands human romance better than you do. Put the pen down, you’re messing up Ranboo’s book. 

QUACKITY: No! WILBUR: Do it QUACKITY: You suck! WILBUR: I haven’t sucked a single thing in my life what are you on about QUACKITY: You smell! WILBUR: Don’t talk to me about rank smells when you smell like a— like a fucking barn!  WILBUR: Yeah, I said it! QUACKITY: My lusus dr8gged in things th8t smelled better th8n you! QUACKITY: 8nd everything he brought home w8s either 8 de8d 8nim8l or liter8l feces! WILBUR: Yeah well that’s dumb and stupid just like you now gimme the pen QUACKITY: No, it’s mine now. I’m keeping it.  WILBUR: Quackity! Whoa, man what are you doing? WILBUR: Why are you drawing all these human dicks? WILBUR: How do you even know what they look like? What have you been watching??  QUACKITY: I 8M NOT DR8WING THOSE! YOU’RE M8KING ME DR8W THEM, STOP TH8T!!!!!!!! WILBUR: No way, this book is now like…  WILBUR: Our fight fueled ouija board of cock QUACKITY: 88888888RGH STOP!  QUACKITY: DON'T  QUACKITY: NO FUCK  QUACKITY: OK NO  QUACKITY: YOU DREW TH8T ONE  QUACKITY: YOU DREW TH8T ONE!!!! DON'T PRETEND YOU DIDN'T!  WILBUR: Are you sure man? WILBUR: See, that’s the spooky thing about penis ouija. You can never be sure who did the dicks.  WILBUR: Was it you or me or maybe a ghoooost??? QUACKITY: GIVE ME B8CK THE PEN! WILBUR: What? No, this is a fucking masterpiece.  WILBUR: We have to see this through.  WILBUR: We’re running out of room. Hey Kahrrl, can you turn the page for us?

QUACKITY: 88888888HHHHHH!!!!!!!! QUACKITY: This 8lterc8ion is becoming uncomfort8bly physic8l, get the FUCK 8w8y from me!!!!!!!! WILBUR: What the hell are you talking about? QUACKITY: You know EX8CTLY wh8t I’m t8lking 8bout!!!!!!!! WILBUR: Oh, shut up and draw another penis.  QUACKITY: You don’t even underst8nd the soci8l implic8ions of 8ll this hostile touching 8nd gr8bbing, do you? QUACKITY: THIS IS SO CLE8RLY C8LIGINOUS SOOT, JUST 8CKNOWLEDGE IT!!!!!!!! WILBUR: Well, if you want to look at it that way, then be my guest.  WILBUR: This is a common human ritual, don’t you know? It means we literally couldn’t give less of a fuck about each other. I don’t care about what you think is happening here.  QUACKITY: GO FUCK YOURSELF!!!!!!!! WILBUR: Stop biting my jacket.  QUACKITY: FUFCK NYOUF.  WILBUR: We’ve really made a masterpiece here today, Quackity. You should be proud of yourself QUACKITY: OK8Y, TH8T’S IT. I’M FUCKING SICK OF THIS!

WILBUR: What? WILBUR: WHOA SHIT QUACKITY: His Honour8ble Tyr8nny h8s sentenced you to life in j8cket prison. WILBUR: HNFNGMGNHNFN WILBUR: KAHRRL HELP KAHRRL: SORRY man IM not MEDIATING this F*CKING trash FIRE youre ON your OWN

chasing ghosts

Girls night..................................................................

Zosan Germa Prince au Masterlist

Where Sanji grew up in Germa, things changed and now he must face the fate he has always been avoiding, boarding the Thousand Sunny as bait to take down Vinsmoke Judge once and for all.

Comic comissions

Parte 1

Parte 2

Parte 3

Parte 4

Parte 5

Parte 6

Parte 7

Parte 8

Parte 9 + Parte 9 (2/2)

Parte 10

Parte 11

russian classical authors like guys from high school 

(just some of them, both novelists and poets)

Pushkin: popular guy who’s  good at freestyle rap, untrustworthy lady’s man, the main editor and the founder of school’s newspaper, fluent in french

Lermontov: Emo, loves the most popular girl in school, but also hates her (and the rest of the school too), reckless, likes mountains and the idea of spirit of freedom, good at painting, but nobody knows.

Leo Tolstoy: teachers hates his essays bc they’re too long, writes text in half-page long sentences, cheated on his girlfriend several times.

Gogol: some dudes are mocking him bc of his nose and haircut, has good sense of humour, writes satirical articles for school’s newspaper, loves everything his mom cooks.

Dostoyevsky: likes to stay in the shadow, had difficult childhood, once forgot to return a pen he had borrowed and can’t sleep well at night ever since, poor, hates bright colours

Kuprin: desperately falls in love with everybody, constantly writes lots of love letters, buys expensive jewlery to his girlfriend.

Griboyedov: natural born diplomat, sharp-witted, mood swings, travelled to middle asia once, wears glasses and fancy scarfs.

Bulgakov: smokes tobacco pipe, likes black cats and tweed suits, wears monocle and lots of hair gel, mysterious, walks a lot at night.

Esenin: underage alcoholic, an actual hillbilly, girls always love his hair, spends at least one month in the summer in the coutnryside with his grandparents, always ready to fight.

Mayakovsky: tall and loud, talks about weird futuristic shit a lot, always makes up new strange words, good at debates and discussions, depressed deeply inside, somehow handsome.