Nuh Uh - Blog Posts

I posted a video on youtube !!! pleas giv it a like if you would be so kind 🥺/hj /nf

after a whole year of avoiding this task, i have finally drawn jyggalag, the only daedric prince my redesign project was missing! the gang's all here!! i also updated vaermina's and sheogorath's colors a little.

4th wall starscream scenes

Megatron has been gone for a while, presumably died in an explosion, even Soundwave believes it. So they obviously hold a funeral.

Starscream at the front doing the talking (nobody has a clue on how or why but hey free entertainment) : "That bitch is dead!!! Free energon for everyone!!! Let's partyyyyy!!!!!"

Scene pauses: "But not for long... He's not really dead I can sense it.. he always comes back to haunt me.....

It's not fair....

He's gonna come back in three episodes and beat me up beyond recognition- see the reference I did there huh no okay but it's from a song by Mindless self indulgence- due to taking control even though it really is the only option and there's no escape from this fate as I'm only a slave for his messed up entertainment"

"Well that was too much self reflection right there almost made you think I'd change my ways and get a redemption arc like hahaha imagine that."

Scene unpauses: "I'm betting 10,000 shanix that nobody can drink 20 cubes of high grade without pucking - or dieing!!!!"

offerings made to the wise witches of the west,

random quiz i made instead of listening in class: which haikyuu captain would be your true love?

pls tell me your results <3

Is math red

Imagine crying over a stupid boy, couldn’t be me

Hear me out on my list of everything that I want for the upcoming sequel of Ocean's Trilogy that they said in pre-production:

STOP FORCING DANNY AND RUSTY TO BE HET. THERE IS NOTHING STRAIGHT ABOUT THEM! Homies don't stare each other like they wanna eat each other (yk what I mean.)

I hope this one will be set in casino but instead of boring Las Vegas, we are going straight to Monaco. Even better when you think about it; it has Casino and is in Europe. Basically a perfect mix of Ocean's Eleven and Twelve. Also I'm daydreaming to see the casts on yacht again like they did during Cannes film fest 2004 lol.

We need Toulour back, probably this time he is going to be the additional person in the team.

I want the plot to be revolving around Danny faking his death, why? Because well, hehe, might be funny if Danny and Rusty were secretly retiring together and coming back for this last heist to end their criminal activities for good or they might be just bored. But all Ocean's Trilogy heists happened for good reasons so I hope they make it complicated as the predecessors.

I need more intimate conversations between Rusty and Danny. We also need to know their backgrounds and stuffs because although headcanons that writers and fans made are great, I need some closure because they talked like a pair of mind readers and we just like to assumed things (the worse thing is that all of our ideas fit so well with their dynamics.)

Cameo of Debbie and Lou! (SELF EXPLANATORY)

I don't need to put this on the list because we all want this one: bring all the remaining Ocean's Eleven back! AT ALL COSTS! (I don't care if the budget would balloon like crazy, this is probably the last time a franchise movie might be good.)

Don't make Danny and Rusty married to anyone (other than with each other) pls, don't make them have children or any sorta stuff that are so cliché. It's a fact that they won't be conforming to society's heteronormative child-centric ideals. Quoting from Captain Raymond Holt the badass king.

Interesting villain! Gotta be honest Terry is my favourite, both intimidating and as the films progressesed he became more and more chill like rest of the people who robbed him lol.

Tess and Isabel cameo (sorry I want this one to be revolving around the boys not like girls aren't invited tho hehe.) The girls need to meet the rest of Ocean's 8 plsss!

Bring back Toulour too and his absolutely mindboggling capoeira skill.

Dude, I know Brad Pitt's old now and probably needs to check his calorie intakes every now and then but probably a lil bit snacking won't hurt hehe. Basically I need Rusty to munch celery or anything.

Stray Kids are nominated for Favorite Kpop Artist at the AMA's! Please Vote!

I drew @eliza-forget 's AMAZING Shamura design because I love her Shamura design so much-

????

Excuse you??

Where in DMC did you find military? Like if someone has a gun then it's military themed by default??? What?? Have you even like seen any cutscenes from dmc 1? A lone guy running around some random gothic horror castle fighting living puppets and shadows? No?

Even more so, expecting political commentary from action games in 2001? Are you nuts? It was still wild times when those games were made mostly for enjoyment and thrill and noone expected any kind of deep narrative or philosophy from them. It's not cinema, it's no art, not yet. So no political commentary, just a cool guy killing mindless demons for players fun.

The DMC always was about family drama where there's no place for grander things like fucking politics, especially US politics as DMC has nothing to do with irl America at all. Even newer entries has 0 politics and 100 family melodrama and character study. And demon killing ofc. Demons never were some kind of relatable or even distantly humane beings in the series fyi. That's the whole point of personal conflicts for Dante and Vergil as halfbloods. Even when the human blood was revealed to be a cool upgrade material for demons (in dmc 5, and that's a first for the series and it's reaaally big stretch from me to even find this theme) even then it wasn't the point or really important for literally anyone. Because, you guessed it, the family drama.

AMERICAN POLITICS? IN MY DEVIL MAY CRY??!!??

I fucking HATE the term "narcissistic abuse."

If that exists, so does autism abuse. So does ADHD abuse. So does OCD abuse.

"That doesn't make sense!"

NEITHER DOES "NARCISSISTIC ABUSE."

That shit is just straight up ableism.

The Memory Circuit [V]

Bite Down

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⎉: @chaotic-orphan @morning-star-whump Let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist!

TW: graphic depictions of physical and psychological torture, child abuse, grooming, sexual violence involving minors, institutional exploitation, non-consensual medical/technological procedures, trauma flashbacks, violence, captivity, dissociation, systemic abuse.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

It’s in the bones. In the soft tissue. In the places they didn’t bandage, because they didn’t care to.

His ribs are packed wrong—wrapped too tight, maybe broken in three places. His knees are locked in crude external splints. The shoulder—left—burns. Swollen. Dislocated. Maybe shattered? It feels like it. His right hand won’t flex. 

The chair holds him upright, fixed in place. Mechanical restraints at ankles, wrists, chest. A gentle hum. Cold metal bolted to colder floors. Bok can’t breathe easy. He can only sit in the wreckage of himself, eyes half-lidded, mouth dry and sticky.  

He shifts. Just once.  

The pain flares, vivid and immediate.

The door opens.

He doesn’t lift his head. He can hear the steps: unhurried, expensive. A rustle of real fabric, not synthetic. Cotton. Maybe silk.

“You know,” the voice says lightly, “you’ve got a remarkable pain threshold.”

Bok does look, then. Just a little. His neck protests, loud.

The man who enters is not dressed like a soldier. Civilian clothes: deep blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar loose; dark slacks. Wavy red hair pulled back loosely, some of it still curling at the sides. A gold necklace glints at his chest. Black gloves sheath his hands, and at his hip, a sleek holstered gun rests.

Pretty. Bok hates that it’s the first thing he notices. Pretty, in that careless, born-with-it way. Sharp nose, clean lines, dry eyes.

Coffee. He’s holding coffee.

Bok stares.

The man sets it down on the table beside him and gestures with an elegant little flourish, like they’re starting a chess match.

“Broke a man’s tibia with your elbow, apparently. While your own leg was already broken. I don’t know if I’m impressed or nervous.”

Bok can’t tell if he’s being mocking or not.

The man walks closer, retrieving the neural tap cable.

“You were still kicking. Still biting. Ribs broken, hand crushed, and you still managed to stab someone. So forgive me—” he glances at the restraints, “—for being a little cautious.”  

He crouches. Close now. Bok can smell the coffee.  

“I’m Ricky,” he says, tone clipped, unbothered. “You and I are going to get very close.”  

Ricky picks up the bit next, turning it between his fingers—black polymer, soft—and holds it up like a peace offering.

“Bite down.”  

Bok doesn’t move.

Ricky rocks forward onto his toes, his face barely beneath Bok’s eye level, but Bok gazes coolly back down at him nonetheless.

“It’s not for me,” Ricky snorts. “It’s for your tongue. Once I go in, it’s going to get ugly.”

He slips it into Bok’s mouth with steady fingers. Bok bites down hard.

Ricky jerks his hand back with a hiss. “Shit,” he mutters, shaking out his hand. “Yeah. Good man.”

He finally rises, shakes out his fingers one last time, then turns and strides to the console.

The rig hums to life. The tap slides into position, and Ricky’s fingers fly over the controls, quietly humming to himself.

“Not personal,” he adds—and hits one last switch.

¶¶¶¶

Whatever it is slams into Bok’s skull like a hammer.

He jerks in the chair. Screams against the bit. His back arches. The restraints groan. Every nerve lights up like a live wire.  

On-screen, the first images begin to flash.

¶¶¶¶

Age 13. Training Facility: Unit 17

A dorm. Sterile. White. He’s naked from the waist down.  

A clipboard passes between two adults. One nods. The other gestures.  

The handler steps forward. Grabs his jaw. Lifts it. Examines him like a horse.  

“He's grown,” they note. “Ready for evaluation.”  

He tries to speak. Voice cracks. They slap him. Open hand. 

He’s twelve. Maybe thirteen.  

The handler grips his shoulder. Turns him. Presents him.  

“You’ll be perfect,” they murmur, adjusting his collar. “Lower your eyes.”  

Bok watches from the chair, shaking.  

NO. No no nonono stop—stop this—no more, not now—

But it only digs in further.  

¶¶¶¶

Age 14. Night Session: Red Room

A velvet bed. Cameras in every corner. A glass wall.  

Three men sit behind it. Watching. Grading.  

Bok is told to strip. He does.  

Hands guide him. Lotioned palms. Voice at his ear.  

“Do it sweet this time. Smile like you mean it.”  

Sharp cologne. Bok kneels.  

His eyes are dead. Inside, he’s somewhere else.  

Behind the glass, someone nods. A ‘pass’.

Bok clenches his fists in the chair. Restraints grind against metal.  

His whole body is taut. Teeth digging into the bit.  

Ricky shifts. He clears his throat. Tries to skip ahead.  

Bok slams a mental wall in place.  

The machine screeches. Screen fuzzes. Glitches.  

But it finds another path.

¶¶¶¶

Age 15. First Kill

A hotel room. Expensive. Marble tub.  

A client lies back, champagne in one hand. His pupils are slow.  

Bok is dressed in silk. Lipstick.  

He laughs. Touches the man’s shoulder. Drops something into the drink.  

“Bottoms up.”  

The man drinks.  

Thirty seconds. His lips go slack. Bok leans in. Whispers something that isn’t picked up. Then drives the needle into his neck.  

The body spasms.  

Bok pins him with a knee. Watches the light fade.  

Then calmly strips the bed. Wipes the prints. Changes clothes. Twirls the keys, pockets them, gone. 

The whole act—flawless.

On screen, it replays twice.  

Ricky exhales. 

“Why did they pivot you to assassination?” 

Bok curls his lip. “Maybe I got bored.”

¶¶¶¶

Age 16. Assault

A handler. Drunk. Furious. Slams Bok into the wall.  

“You want to make me look bad?”  

He’s been failing evaluations. Slipping.  

Too much resistance.

The man forces him down. Belt off. No camera this time.  

It’s fast. Violent. Bok doesn’t scream.  

Afterwards, he lies there. Eyes open. Something gone.  

¶¶¶¶

Bok thrashes in the chair. Screaming now. Wordless. Gut-deep.  

The restraints dig into broken skin.  

On screen, the memory degrades. Fragments. Blurs.  

Then another—

¶¶¶¶

Age 17. Redress

A locker room. Same handler.  

Bok follows, humming.  

Injector in hand. Sharp. Fast.  

Stab to the neck. Hold it. Hold it—until the body stops moving.  

The blood freckles Bok’s cheek.

He laughs—soft, breathless.

¶¶¶¶

Back in the chair, Bok shoves with every ounce of mental force left.  

The screen hisses. Static. Feedback stutters.

Bok’s pushing back against the onslaught. Slamming doors in its face.

Ricky types frantically. Tries to reroute.  

Fails.  

Tries again.  

Fails.  

Overload. 

Sync disruption. 

Neural resistance spike: critical. 

“Stop fighting,” Ricky snaps. “Stop it—”  

Bok glares at him. His lips are bleeding dark.

He spits the bit to the floor with a slick clack.

“You get off on that, Ricky?” he sneers, voice tight, eyes wet, betraying him. “You enjoy it?”  

The screen explodes into white noise. Hard cut.  

Bok crumples. Not quite unconscious. His head pounds.

Ricky stares at the console. Then at Bok.  

His voice is thin.

“You little bastard.”  

Ricky crosses the room. Pages someone on the intercom.  

“We’ve got a failure,” he says. “Tap’s down. No data retrieved. He—overloaded it. I don’t know how.”

A beat.  

“No, don’t send a tech. He fried it.”  

He turns his back, pinching the bridge of his nose. Silence.

He clicks off.  

Ricky stands by the door, one hand resting on the frame, his gaze tracing the tense lines of Bok’s body as his chest heaves with ragged breaths.

“You know,” Ricky’s voice is hollow, the words hanging in the space between them, “I was hoping you’d make this easy.”  

“Go… fuck yourself,” Bok wheezes out.

The door hisses shut behind Ricky, sharp and final.

The lights dim.

And Bok lets his head fall back, eyes shuttering.

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Well, I did not know about that. And I agree. I too, am not a omega. no way of that. nuh uh

personality determining designation in the omegaverse is actually just psuedoscientific anecdotal crap rooted in centuries old sexist sentiments and it's crazy people teach this in sex ed when we've known for years that it just depends on your blood type. Alphas arent some natural leaders or bread winners or anything. Theyre just Type A! fml. and before yall ask, no. im not an omega just because I call this stuff out 🙄

A little idea for artist having art block (:

Made these in class 💀💀

Bro I gotta lock innn fartttt poooppp 🔫

Sorry not sorry :P

Your writing is good enough. Stop doubting yourself. Stop criticizing yourself. You are a good writer. Yes, you can always improve your craft, but that doesn't mean that your writing sucks.

therapy can't replace getting so angry alone in your room you feel lightheaded

Hi this is self promo i tend to be a bit more active on twitter so if you want to see more of my art definitely follow me on there

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Miomango (@MioMango_) / Twitter

NL | 16 BSD and Arknights enthousiast repost with credit

OBJECTION‼️‼️‼️ nuh-uh but make it alastor and husk

It’s time