#augment-techs

kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking + Sentry Adam & Sentry Skull

Their way to soothe each other’s scars when they return to rheir bunkers after a long, long day~

ARGHHHHHTHEYARESOHURTANDSADILOVEIT

-Complex sketch lines, followed by smooth, soft lineart. -Cheekbones and lips. -A bit of a masculine air even with femme characters, but not in a bad way. -Something of a noir texture, though it's not even about shadow work in the art. Kind of just a...vibe.

I feel so seen! 🥹 Thank you very much; I do love to focus on those features!

You’re not the first to not the masculinity; and you know where it started? I started reading comics c. 2012-2013 and there was something about the way Wonder Woman was drawn that just didn’t sit right with me; and you guessed it I tried to redesign her! I don’t know why it seems to have altered my brain chemistry but it did! To this day, whether it’s in the slopes of their forehead or the shade of their jaws and eyes, all my women are slightly masculine! It used to give me grief, but seeing you point it out like it’s *mine*… it feels good, friend; thank you!

This might be my favorite Adam picture that wasn't part of the Coinless timeline or the Eltarian War. Dunno why; but so pretty.

The ONLY part of MMPR 117 that I've found the energy to care about...so far. Though some parts offer fandoms theories.

Introduction to tiny T.J. and Cassie in the GGPR Deluxe Edition II~ Isn't it nice to see that they're 13 when the current rangers are 16? Helps tie things up for later down the line ^^

The Dan Mora cover sheet for GGPR: FOREVER RANGERS. Group shots from Mr. Mora are always so SOFT.

.....Which County Fair Date, Kim? WHICH ONE??

This… this is SO perfect.

Adam’s look there is ANNOYED™️ and it SUITS him. Like he is someone whos marshmallow happy like, ALWAYS. so seeing him pissed, it kiNDA FITS. BUT ALSO. SO ADORABLE. Saving saving SAVING.

The ragtag team is THE best. They’re not soldiers, but they’re volunteers!!’ THEY WANNA DO GOOD!!!! And that’s what matters THE. THEEEE MOST. Like someone once said, one guy who WANTS to do good on their own is >>>>> someone whos paid to “do good” (and still doesnt do their job properly). Not exactly fitting here, but I thought it was a VIBE. Bulk and Skull are the ultimate “never selected for it, but would always do their part” duo and I LOVE THEM for it.

TINY TJ AND CASSIE’S INTRO. AND THE LITTLE SNEAK PEEK INTO WHO THEY GROW UP TO BE :3 I’m still kinda glad they didnt make kids THAT SMALL rangers (*ignores tf out of Justin*). And the fact that they introduced them in the EXACT GGPR FASHION!!!!!!!!! That’s a power rangers exclusive and I love that TO BITS.

The Dan mora shots!!!! Actually, ACTUALLY, all the covers of GGPR (ALL. OF. THEM.)

Aldo the movie covers. I need help with this bc i don’t know like half the movies, but buuuut I wanna make a compilation/comparison post of all the GGPR movie cover parody posters with the actual posters. Wouldn’t that be fun??

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And uh… you and I BOTH know which date that was for 😏

This is by far my favorite piece that you've done; I am curious as to what prompted you to make it aside from the prime meme material.

mostly the meme material tbh, it was also how i felt out bulk & skull's rise designs - lower pressure image that's just meant to be silly vs higher pressure full body designs, y'know?

Send me a ship and I’ll list three things I like about it, regardless of my overall opinions of the ship:

@augment-techs

The intimacy between the would definitely be... something, that's for sure? Definitely battling it out every time when things get hot and heated.

They really don't like the idea of someone else kicking the other's ass and will pretty much jump into the fire and beat their asses.

Oh fuck yeah, I can do that. Thank you, friend!

~

Come on, scaredy cat. What are you afraid of?

His hands tremble as he reaches for the sleeve of his jacket. He doesn't technically need that damn thing, not since the Series Operators finally defeated Venjix and gave up their morphers until the next time they were needed, but it felt so strange to not be wearing his signature jacket, so he'd kept it and he'd worn it and-

"Zig?" Dillon asks from behind him, from behind the door. A soft knock followed. Dillon's been unbearably soft since they got the news, since he returned from the wastes with his sister and Summer in tow, down a romance, but with a better perspective of his friends- of Ziggy- and he'd been so- "You okay?"

Soft.

"Mm-hm!" Ziggy replies, strangled. He hopes Dillon doesn't notice. Oh, he probably will, who does Ziggy think he's kidding. "Yep, all good!" His voice cracks. Ziggy swallows back a sob.

Honestly I wouldn't worry about Zack's tusks, I'm gonna assume them being super strong and tough will be part of the mutant power package deal. It'll probably be like

So this got a lot longer than I anticipated. I also got another short plot bunny up and running. Tinkered with combining but thought they were better apart.

This actually reminded me of the scene in Drop Dead Fred, where they visit the house in Liz's mind and have to overcome the different people blocking her through.

So without further ado:

Frightened, Lonely Child, Under Lock and Key

Chaotic. Turbulent. Violent. Abusive. Intense. Invasive.

Those were just a few of the words that came to Drakkon’s mind when he thought back on his childhood and early teen years, if he admitted to thinking about that time period at all. But, of course, no one would even dare to ask the tyrant such personal questions. It was best to keep your head down, do your job, and blend into the backdrop.

More often than he cared to consider, the nightmares still found him; late at night as he lay under the plush, emerald comforter and silken sheets surrounded by downy pillows. It crept upon him like a feral cat stalking a rabbit. Before he was even aware of it, the sharp fangs had punctured his delicate neck and then bounded off with him in its grasp.

Drakkon felt deep frustration that he would awaken suddenly, heart pounding, muscles tensed, waiting for blows from literal ghosts. His jaw would ache from the constant clenching as he twisted and thrashed his head side to side. The bedsheets would be soaked with sweat and he would have to peel the clinging material from his scarred flesh.

In the bathroom sink, he’d splash cold water on his face, the shock snapping him back from the past. Deep steadying breaths as he gripped the white porcelain and avoided looking at himself in the mirror. Drakkon had no desire to gaze upon a weakling fearful of terrors in the dark.

Goddammit, he was the monster that elicited fear and horror; powerful and God-like, he would pass his decrees of punishment for those unlucky enough to be caught transgressing his edicts.

His palace was solid, grey stone, looming against the sky. Prisoners being escorted toward the massive, impenetrable walls would quake in fear as they knew there was no way to escape. The accents, art, and furnishings were opulent and grand, intricately detailed, and usually constructed of expensive and rare materials. Only the best found a place in Drakkon’s abode and his private bed chambers dripped in gold, silver, ivory, silks, and furs.

In another lifetime, the man once known as Tommy Oliver resided with his adoptive parents in a nondescript two-story yellow house with a short, cracked driveway leading to the garage. The windows were always obscured with heavy curtains and the front door was always shut against the outside world. Visitors were discouraged; not that there was usually concern for anyone to show up unexpectedly.

Unless you counted the police and CPS.

Inside these particular walls, one could always count on seeing large, gaping holes punched or kicked in the drywall or a door, broken dishes, liquor bottles lining the linoleum floor of the kitchen, and cigarette butts smoldering in chipped mugs. More often than not, the sound of drunken yelling and angry screeches sliced through the air as Mr. and Mrs. expressed their many differences of opinion or contempt for the other. Tommy would cower in his room upstairs, usually hiding under his bed, which sported a bare, lumpy mattress, pillow, and used cartoon-themed comforter. He tightly squeezed the well-worn plush dog to his chest; the pup was missing an eye and in some places the stuffing breached the seams.

He would tremble at every screamed insult, crash of glass, or slam of a door. His face would bury itself in the puppy’s warm, soft hair and it acted as a buffer between the outside world and his inner one. The little creature had carried so many hot tears soaked into its fabric.

Eventually, the flash of red and blue lights would illume the outside of his window as the cops arrived, the warbling siren heard long before they pulled into the drive. It never comforted Tommy; he was never truly safe.

As he’d gotten older, the frightened child grew to care less and less. Slipping into the dented refrigerator, he’d grab the long, cold glass necks of his old man’s liquor bottles and spirit them away upstairs. The drunk never noticed. So, Tommy hid away in his room, drinking to quiet the voices in his head that hissed to him how unloved and unwanted he was, that he was a failure and a disappointment.

Tommy’s body grew bigger and stronger, muscles bulging under his skin as he found his niche in martial arts. He used his strength to intimidate and harass, pick fights in school, and run from the police who would show up at altercations. He just didn’t care anymore.

He was an admired vandal; Tommy’s ‘artwork’ graced many businesses and abandoned buildings. Spray paint and brick walls were his first mediums. Not that everyone appreciated his ministrations. Despite his swift speed, he’d been cuffed many a time and hauled back to face the music.

His ‘dad’ would rant and rave about what a disrespectful little shit he was, how he couldn’t keep his ass out of trouble, thumbed his nose at authority. Tommy thought this was all rich coming from him, but the old man didn’t seem to note the similarities. A dirty, cracked hand would swiftly knock him across the face for ‘back talking’. As time went on, the physical abuse came to rival the verbal.

Why couldn’t Tommy act right? What was wrong with him? What mental defects did he have in his unknown genetic pool? His ‘concerned parents’ only wanted to help, as they assured CPS that they would provide whatever help the poor child needed.

Too many doctors, shrinks, and medications to count. His list of diagnoses was lengthy and debatable among the physicians attempting to provide care. Clearly, he possessed a defiant, surly attitude, lacked basic appropriate social interactions, and was a chronic liar.

Damn right, he lied to the doctors! Tell the truth about what went on at home? Who wanted to stir that shit storm? It wouldn’t change anything anyways.

The medications frequently made him sleepy and fuzzy minded. He either felt ravenously hungry or lacked any appetite at all. His frame became more lanky over time, but no less strong. Eventually, he pocketed the pills in his cheek and chucked them when no one was looking.

Tommy used to spend so much time curled on the stained-up mattress in his room, staring out the window and imagining a different life, one with more power and prestige, money, fame, and admirers. He promised himself that one day things would change, and he would be the one making the orders and commands. His voice would carry the weight, his opinion would be of the utmost importance.

You could bet your ass, too, that he would live some place grand and expensive, luxurious in its appointments. No broken doors or walls, trash littering the floor, secondhand bedding featuring cartoons he was way too old to associate with. He didn’t know how he’d make it happen, but it just had to be. Tears dripped from his lashes to dampen the pillow he’d hugged to his chest as he sobbed.

It didn’t matter who he had to step on to get to the top. People were fickle; they’d kiss your ass one minute and stab you in the back the next. They were unpredictable and could leave you bleeding out in the street if you were no longer of importance to them. There were no guarantees. People who were supposed to love you were no different if his real mother and father were anything to go by.

He didn’t need a fucking soul, he sniffed to himself, hugging the pillow tighter. Who needed all those strings? He’d couldn’t miss what he’d never had: love, comfort, understanding, support, the warmth of a partner’s body cuddling close. The tears scalded the skin of his cheeks as his heart clenched with desire for these experiences just the same.

But unless you exercised complete control of another human being, there was no way to be sure of them. Their choices had to be taken away, the very cadence and details of their days determined for them. Tommy knew that even then, he could never allow himself to be weak and feel reciprocal caring. Never again he be vulnerable to a fragile human’s emotional variability. There could be no ties.

Rita had underestimated the young teen’s commitment to cutting out the weak roots tying him to others. She’d never seen the blade coming, never could have predicted it. His loyalty was only to himself at the end of the day.

Tommy, now Lord Drakkon, placed himself far above humanity. He took power by force, by intimidation, by fear, by torture, by blackmail. If he had something in his sights, it was a good as his already. He didn’t concern himself with the pain and suffering of those weaker than himself; they were no more important than cattle in his eyes.

Whatever he felt could comfort the frightened, unloved child at his core, the tyrant made an obsessive mission to obtain it. No material item had ever been able to silence the broken loneliness that he determinedly tried to ignore.

He kept strict order, both in his palace and in his private life. Routine, dedication, planning/plotting, story weaving; each had its own compartment in his mind. His servants knew to keep everything running like clockwork from his usually decadent breakfast preference to the time he luxuriated in his baths to the precise way he wanted his bedlinens creased. You didn’t want to be slacking in any area if you wished to keep breathing.

Drakkon did have a secret though, a secret that he kept locked away deep in the bowels of his dungeon. One that screamed, cursed, and resisted his authority. A dark-haired, dark-eyed skilled fighter whose brilliance with tactics and strategies made him extremely valuable. Otherwise, the tyrant would have merely snapped his neck like so many others.

That’s what he claimed to the Sentries who were aware of the Red Ranger’s continued existence. Drakkon didn’t answer to them of course, but he knew the human propensity to gossip behind another’s back. God help them, if he ever heard his name in their mouths. If they wanted to huddle like a flock of diseased pigeons and speculate on someone’s personal business, it had better not be their master’s.

The Red Ranger.

Yes, such a lovely possession. So fiery and wild in his anger, so mouthy and irritating. Drakkon wasn’t lying when he said that Jason was a trophy he’d joyfully claimed; but as a trophy there wasn’t much point. No one outside the palace knew he still lived. The deliciousness of the secret, the smug knowledge that he kept to himself when he battled with the Coinless resistance. It was his alone.

But if he were honest with himself, at least, he would admit to there being more to his desire to keep Jason alive. Drakkon found a strange fascination with the Red Ranger, a pull towards the other boy. It wasn’t something he could easily verbalize. This was mainly why the Red Ranger still lived after he’d crumbled and gave up his information.

There wasn’t another individual Drakkon could name as being someone worthy of admiration besides himself. Except for Jason.

The Red Ranger was strong, determined, brave, fiercely protective, a pure wall of safety if you were in his care. Drakkon vividly remembered the night he had dinner with Jason at his home, how he’d easily invited him to eat there again, the concern in his beautiful brown eyes. Of course, he would never forget their drunken foray at the seedy bar, how easy Jason had been to talk to once he’d loosened up.

Jason had borne the brunt of his sadistic fuckery for far longer than he expected. His bullheaded stubbornness had also been an annoyance but Drakkon could appreciate the strength of his will under hellish treatment.

Yet, underneath all that flashy bluster was a soft teddy bear, a cocoon of safety and warmth. Sometimes, he wondered what his life would have been like if he’d met Jason earlier, before everything went to shit. But it would have not mattered in the long run.

‘That shit’ wouldn’t be happening under his old man’s roof. The drunk claimed he tolerated the bullshit antics and wiles that the teen routinely put them through, but there would be zero acceptance for disgusting, unnatural acts while he was on watch, by God. If Tommy wanted to be a ‘little princess’, he’d spat crudely, he’d have more to worry about than a goddamn broken arm.

 Now, Jason was trapped like an animal in a cage, completely at his mercy. Much like a butterfly fluttering against the glass sides of a jar. Drakkon could brutally rip his wings, his life, away at the slightest whim, but he did not. Every day the frightened, confused teen bawled in misery, not knowing what more the evil Ranger expected from him.

The tyrant was obsessive in his desire to completely control the other boy; no, not a boy, not a human being. Not anymore as far as Drakkon was concerned. His ‘puppy’ required a firm hand to train him, to discipline him, to demonstrate who the alpha of the pack was. In that way, Jason would NEVER leave him. His pet would always be by his side, dedicated to pleasing his master.