SORRY BLOG IS DEAD! I GOT DEPRESSED

requests: open! (no guarantee though, they’re more like suggestions)

hiiii! it’s algae from @the-cookie-jar-system!! (he/it, :D)

this is my penta el zero miedo blog, :3 i try and draw him or post something about him daily :D (though i may miss days)

(sorry I find my last stamp very funny, it’s my vocal stim, rest of the pinned under the cut!)

hi! here's my own google drive link for the first lucha bros comics, the others i sadly do not have :(

i have never done anything like this but I had some very big thoughts about Them and i have art block, i think this only makes sense to me but that’s okay - algae

Fenix’s steps echoed through the halls, the loud crowd shrieking from ringside, muffled by the Temple’s thick walls. His body ached, sweat poured, sand stuck to skin— sand was everywhere. This Temple he had promised to perform in, it was no such thing, a dingy hall, graffiti on the walls; it was nothing but a sick man’s delusion. He knew better than to pop a person’s cracked reality, especially if it was a man dangerous enough to jump some big stars over a briefcase of cash with little to no consequence. It was only his first match, maybe the grazing of grains and the burning in his lungs would become second nature once more. It’s not too far removed from when he fought in dingy bingo halls with his brother.

Right. His brother. A scowl painted itself on his face, an expression he stepped into the locker room to wash off.

Pentagon Jr. Where could you begin? He was an awful, narcissistic, chickenshit rudo who he was miserably related to— despite his prayers.

Ever since the beginning of his career, it’s been Pentagon breathing down his neck, all the way from his “Dark Dragon” era. Every room he entered, a burning envy followed the man, his cheap tricks bringing him nothing but a quick comeuppance before dragging him down kicking and screaming. Fenix couldn’t tell what he did to deserve it, he wanted to be a luchador because of his brother. He was the one who introduced him to idols like Rey Mysterio, so why was his biggest roadblock the man he regrettably regarded as a father figure?

The locker room couldn’t be called that, a few benches with a few lamps on the wall, and graffiti tags coating everything they could. He shakily sat himself down, feeling adrenaline drop to exhaustion, all the pain from his brother and Drago and that giant dive he thought was a good idea hitting him all at once. Every movement felt colossal, the pop of his bottle opening, the liquid that splashed against him, the cap that bounced against the concrete floor. Then there was silence.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Fenix thought to himself, even as his fist tightened on the water bottle, the crinkle it should’ve made was barely heard.

The room was suffocating all of a sudden, the open room -- a similar size to the ring and its’ outskirts -- felt as if it had tightened itself into a tomb. He couldn’t hear his own breathing and he kept his eyes downcast at his bandaged knuckles, the ribbons of his mask sticking to the sweat on his back.

The quiet shuffle of fabric was heard behind him as somebody leant against the door, even if he wasn’t able to recognise exactly who it was from that action alone, the feeling of death that came before it already alerted him.

“What is it?” He spoke quietly and carefully, he was frustrated but not frustrated enough to make the mistake of angering him right after a tiring match. 

Silence met him, causing Fenix to clench the bottle hard enough for his knuckles to whiten, he didn’t want to play these games, not right now. He’s tired and far too hot.

“Pentagon. What do you want?” It felt like his words avoided the man, burrowing themselves in the cracks of the bricks and the old spray paint layers in front of him rather than confront his brother.

“You not the only one to be here, no?” His accent rang thick and strong. The breaks between his words as he thought for the English equivalent would have been comedic if it was anyone else. 

“There’s plenty of places to be, places without me in them.”

“I want to be here. Is that, ehh, problem?” Fenix could practically hear the expression in his words, that tight-lipped grimace that he wore constantly when speaking with his younger brother, finished with a click of his tongue at the last word. Eyes are the windows to the soul, it’s why his brother wears contacts, to hide his lack of one. He could tell without turning that his arms were folded tight to his chest, his black gear shuffling quietly as his gloved hands tightened onto his upper arms.

He stood up and turned. He was right about that assumption. 

“I’m not looking for a fight, alright? I’m just… Trying to relax. Okay?” Fenix sounded exasperated, unwrapping tape from his knuckles. His legs threatened to buckle underneath him as he shuddered, pressing the side of his knee into the bench to keep himself upright. 

“You already done?”

Fenix found himself blinking at the question.

“It is first night, you beat me, but look. Need to ‘relax’. Sad.” He shook his head, stepping closer and pointing into his little brother’s chest— his face gleaned with sweat as well, the face paint not hiding it well. Fenix stupidly thought his brother was concerned before that, but he should’ve known better.

“I speak with Dario.” Without another word, Pentagon spun on his heel, stretching as he walked out.