→ If you'd like to work with me, please reach out! My contact information can be found here, Discord or email preferred.→ Please make sure you read my Terms of Service in full before initiating a commission.

→ I accept only payments via PayPal at this time, and will send a link to invoice(s) per commission.→ The payment will be made in two parts; 50% after we talk and plan the artwork, and the remainder after I finish the artwork. These payments cover the sketches/lineart & coloring/rendering respectively.→ I will not start the sketch before the first payment, and I will not send the final files before the second payment.

Stage I.

→ We'll chat a bit about what you'd like for your commission. You'll share any references or written descriptions you have for me to work with. If you have any questions or need clarification on my guidelines or Terms of Service, this is the time to ask.→ Once the planning is finished and the first payment is made, I will send you a rough sketch. During this stage, we can make any revisions desired until you're satisfied with the final composition of the artwork.→ After the the rough sketch is approved, I will start the final sketch. During this stage, I can make minor revisions to proportions, pose, expression, etc., but the overall composition is locked in.→ Approval of this final sketch initiates Stage 2 of the commission.

Stage II.

→ When the final sketch is approved, I will start the lineart. During this stage, only extremely small changes can be made.→ After the lineart is done, I will send the second invoice and start the coloring/rendering process. I can only make broad revisions to the palette at the beginning of this stage; large changes will become impossible once detailed rendering has begun.→ I will only send the final resolution file after the second payment is confirmed.

→ During Stage 1, you are entitled to cancel the commission & receive a full refund at any time, no questions asked.→ Upon proceeding to Stage 2, you waive all rights to a refund of the Stage 1 invoice, as the work it covers has already been completed & approved.→ During Stage 2, you may cancel the commission & receive a full or partial refund. The refund you receive corresponds inversely to the progress of the lineart stage, where 0% completion = 100% refund.→ Once coloring has begun, refunds are no longer available, and you will be held responsible for full payment.→ In the event of a refund at any stage, you will not have any rights to the unfinished artwork, which may be discarded or repurposed at my discretion.

You may not:

X Repost my artwork without credit, or claim it as your own.
X Use whole or partial elements of the art as a basis for other commercial artwork such as commissions, adoptables, bases, etc.
X Remove my signature and/or watermark from the final image (it will always be placed unobtrusively).
X Use paywalls to restrict access to the final artwork on sites like Patreon or Ko-fi.
X Sell physical or digital merchandise (such as T-shirts, prints, books, video games, or NFTs) featuring the commissioned artwork.
X Use any part of the commissioned artwork to train or instruct applied statistics models ("AI") with the intent to generate images.
X Manipulate the final artwork (or enlist another artist to do so) with intent and/or effect to circumvent the guidelines.
X Use commissioned artwork in any form, intact or manipulated, for commercial advantage or monetary compensation of any kind.

Contact Me

I can be reached via email at [email protected] for business inquiries, but the best way to get in touch with me quickly is at the Discord handle dweeblet (formerly dweeblet#4075). You can also find me & my artwork on these sites:

• Discord
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Illustrations

• 2020
• 2021
• 2022
• 2023
• 2024

Written Works

• Prose
• Poems
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Other

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Gleanings

• Read

Gleanings

Originally compiled October, 2023.

Things I've written about things that bring me joy: found language poetry from chats I've had with my friends. (I like the way language pours out of me when I'm just talking to communicate).

this makes me wanna nap in the sun
except it is raining.
i'm just imagining
this could be a way of saying
“i love you, i missed you,”
but I lost my nerve.
it's not totally accurate to how things really were
however all of it is one hundred percent True,
you know?
they're just poems.
i don't know whether to be pleased or anguished
but I trust you.
it's very simple but it does Things to me
and it is ugly and needful
PERFECT ON ALL FRONTS;
It makes me so Everything.
this is true
like real, serious poetry
that deserves to be printed and kissed.

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Lua

1,581 words. Originally written March 25th, 2019.

Content warning: Brief references to domestic alcoholism, fantasy violence/trafficking.

“A full moon is poison to some; they shut it out at every crevice, and do not suffer a ray to cross them; it has a chemical or magical effect; it sickens them. But I am never more free and royal than when the subtle celerity of its magic combinations, whatever they are, is at work.”― Harriet Prescott Spofford, The Amber Gods and Other Stories

The moon is watching.Her gaze filters, watery and pale, through the dark, casting blotchy shadows into Randell’s bedroom as it passes between the drapes. His gangly adolescent body is stretched out on top of his sheets, spread-eagle and restless. There is an itch crawling beneath his skin, in sweaty palms and shallow breaths.The merle shadows of his bookshelf and his closet are vague through the tired veil of his lashes, seen through half-lidded eyes. He can’t sleep, so he stares at the indistinct expanse of his bedroom wall instead. It’s painted cornflower blue, and a poster for some police procedural from his father’s childhood is tacked above the squat bureau. All of his clothes are rumpled in his laundry basket instead of folded inside.Something foreign is inside him, dragging a hook through his innards and making him feel sick and fitful. The light slipping into the room is hot on his skin, needling him with countless little claws when it scrapes against him. His door is shut, window too, and that makes him feel oddly confined. He doesn’t know what, but something isn’t right.Despite everything, the feeling is not menacing or foreboding; merely uncomfortable. He doesn’t resist it. It tugs at him from within and, like ink into water, he slides into himself beneath the fervent kiss of the moonlight. She sings to him, lilting and slow.His paws hit the floor when he rolls off the bed.

Oren knocks back another glass with trembling hands. His vision has started to swim, but the warm rush of alcohol keeps him drinking. And drinking, and drinking so he can sleep. The photo of Ana stares back at him, frozen in an amber-lit memory.She was tall and lean with tight curls and laughing blue eyes like gems. He thinks she looked like an angel, even during full moons; the spectacle of her, unearthly graceful, drew him in from the start and never let go.As a wolf, Ana was all rippling muscle beneath her dense coat, fangs as long as his fingers; predatory by design, and yet she was so thoroughly gentle it made him shiver. She would put her wet nose to his and tell him with her eyes, so big and brilliant, that she loved him, even like this. She would sing to him, throaty and canine, until the moon slid beneath the distant sea and the wolf left her asleep in his arms.He loved her, too.The bitter ache of a sob rises in his throat—Randell was only a toddler when she vanished. Before then, she had rubbed her pregnant belly and sung stories to their boy, whispered fables of the Great Old Ones that lent their brilliance to the wolves and birthed their people. He was a piece of something bigger, she promised, to Randell and Oren alike. The child indulged in the adoring lilt of her lullabies for only an instant, the long minute between infancy and first words; an amniotic haze of childhood closeness that he will never fully remember.He won’t remember her.That thought latches on and pulls a hiccup from him, drawing up a soft cry as he buries his face in his hands. They say time heals, but every year it only seems to get worse—the hollowness of grief only yawns deeper, and Oren doesn’t know what to do. Not with a kid like this.He cannot carry Ana’s culture along, can’t pass it down to Randell. Not without her. He has waited for his son’s first wolf-night from the moment of his birth—at first with anxious eagerness, but now terror claws at his heart. There is nothing he can do to guide him, not through something as intuitive as a werewolf’s dreamy shift—but Randell is of age. It is coming.There’s a market for werewolf parts, he knows. Luxurious pelts that bring good luck, ground-up claws for strength, tooth-charms for profit, diluted blood to cure all manner of ails. There is no proof, and no one willing to chase it, but Oren is certain that they took Ana from him. He quivers at the thought of Randell being claimed, too.

His senses assault him, bleeding together despite the startling clarity of their newfound intensity. Randell gathers all four limbs beneath him, balanced on his fingers, and feels something well up deep within him—something primal, perhaps, muscle-memorized instinct that draws his gaze to the moon.Her light shines brilliantly blue through the window, all else muted into a haze of stark sepia in the dark. The moon sings to him, urges him awake, and he takes command of his alien body to move. Warmth suffuses him; he feels safe, cradled by whispers that rain from the night sky, a shower of indistinct sensation—it makes him understand. Lapping waves of caramel-sweet comfort wash over him, snug and heavy like sleep.He can scent thick warmth in the immediate air, spiced by a thin chill of the city that creeps through the cracks in the window frame. Randell lifts his head, parting his jaws to more acutely taste the air; beneath the door he smells the stagnant must of carpet, lingering traces of sour stovetops and citrus bathroom cleaner—and something else.He rears up onto his hind legs, curling his dextrous forepaws around the doorknob and yanking. The return to resting stance jarrs his shoulders, but his door’s open now, and he stalks forth onto the landing. The foreign aria of the moon impresses upon him her devotion, bittersweet regret opposed by the undying bond of their blood.The other house-smells are thicker, unobstructed, but through the aimless mesquite of home that last metal-sharp stink cuts the air, making Randell’s eyes water painfully. His heart thuds in time with the mourning of the moon. The low throb of the heating system is acute in his ears, filtered by the distant purr of the freeway.He scents the air again, ears pricked into the house at the bottom of the stairs. It is uncomfortable and thoroughly disorienting to descend head-first, but he manages, slow and careful despite his young clumsiness—encouraged by gossamer filaments of something like pride, not his own, but reassuring nonetheless. A second pounding sound emerges, quick and quiet, and beneath hitched gasps and airless gulps Randell realizes it is another heartbeat: his father’s.All breath leaves his lungs when the moonlight touches his face. It buffets him at first, but then gentles, cards through his fur with glass-light fingers. She eases into his head with a watercolor-blur of bliss and thinly-veiled remorse—she, the moon and more, leads a chorus that rattles to his very bones, reminding him of the Great Old Ones and of her unceasing life in his heart. The blue light is sapphire-sharp, and in the dark he sees her; his goddess, the moon, but also the humble vessel of his lost mother’s love.He understands.

Round yellow eyes peer, unblinking, back at him when he finally looks up. The night has come, it seems.Randell’s long limbs are clumsy as he edges down the stairs, paws just a sight too big, but Oren can see the vestiges of his mother’s grace lying in wait for him to grow into. Randell is lean and long-bodied in contrast to Ana’s compact strength, but powerful nonetheless. The moonlight washes through the curtains over his sable bay pelt, highlighting the reddish ticking along his sides—a seamless blend of their colors.Oren chokes.Randell pushes his shrewd, furry face up beneath Oren’s elbow, pinching the sleeve with needle-teeth and drawing his arm away when he reaches for the handle of whiskey on the table. Slowly, he pulls his father so that he slides from his chair to the kitchen floor, legs folded ungainly beneath him.A warbling whine purls up from the pup’s throat, long black ears splayed anxiously against his skull. His tongue darts out to lap consolingly at Oren’s face, soft whimpers of sympathy quivering between their bodies.Shifting, Oren pulls his son closer, gathering the little werewolf into his lap like a genuine puppy. He caresses his son’s long ears, cupping his furry cheeks and pressing gentle kisses to his sloping forehead.“I love you,” he says, little more than a whisper in the stark emptiness of their moon-washed kitchen. Randell’s almond eyes glow dimly, reflecting deep anguish as he closes them and throws his head over Oren’s shoulder in a makeshift hug.He cages a sob behind his teeth, but the next one escapes him easily. Oren curls his fingers like claws into the ruff of Randell’s neck, stroking shakily down the length of him. “I love you,” he babbles, “I love you, my boy, and your mother would love you so, so much—look at you, just like her—I’ll keep you safe—”He goes on and on, scrubbing tears from his face as he goes, petrified adoration quavering in his voice. They lie entwined and sobbing until the sun rises.A little boy’s voice reconciles, hoarse in the early-morning hush, that “It’s gonna be okay. Mama told me so.”

Deucalion

1,286 words. Excerpted from a work currently in-progress.

Content warning: brief description of a corpse.

An ineffable sensation plagued Jo that the body, laid so still and tranquil in its box, didn’t look much like Cody at all.She considered him uneasily. Alive, he was almost always faintly smirking, but here his face was dignified, eerily mild. His unruly hair had been subjected to some combination of trimming, combing, and product that made it lay flat and smooth about his temples. It felt, somehow, like the next size down in a nesting doll of tiny losses, to see his imperfect edges sanded down in death.Not to mention how Cody would have absolutely hated it. She half-expected him to sit up in his casket and tousle it back to his preferred disarray, teasing out bedhead spikes and unbrushed curls with crooked fingers. He didn’t, of course, but Jo could picture it so vividly, a superimposed ghost that almost seemed more real than the unmoving truth in front of her.The funeral home’s makeup artist had slathered his face with artificial rosiness that blotted out the dense brown freckles on the bridge of his nose. Though his wounds were covered well, whatever shade of concealer they’d used was just a shade too peachy for the olive undertone of his tan. With it, they’d tried to contour his bruised under-eyes and sunken cheeks away as though it might help her forget that Cody was dead.Despite herself, Jo whispered, as though to raise her voice might wake the body up. “It feels wrong, doesn’t it?”At her side, Sal nodded. “Yeah. It’s… unreal, I guess.” Then he let go of her hand to wipe his sweaty palm on his trousers. With a shuddering sigh he turned away. Jo followed him, and together they lingered against the wall at the edge of the gathering.The funeral itself was a sparing, private affair. Including herself and her Bubbe, Jo could tally everyone present on her hands. She counted Cody’s parents and sister, the Velascos, who were Sal and his parents, and two other mourners she had never met. Those people, she quickly learned, were Cody’s maternal aunt and his godfather, whose only apparent commonality was that they had crossed state lines to pay their respects. That was everyone. For some flimsy excuse or another her own parents had been unable to appear in person, though they at least had the grace to send flowers along. Her mother had chosen them, white roses and hyacinths for purity and prayers.Time crawled through the viewing. When that was done, everyone drove to some dull edge-of-town venue to break before the burial in the evening. Bubbe Ida murmured her comforts, but Jo leaned back against the car headrest and squeezed her eyes shut, unhearing. The timeline for official affairs was abrupt, but they’d already waited almost a week to have them—Jo suspected, from bits and pieces picked up from Mira, that Cody’s parents had debated having them at all.Food and drink was offered, but no one ate much. Even Sal, whose stomach was by all accounts bottomless, took his hor d'oeuvres without enthusiasm. It felt impolite to refuse outright, but Jo couldn’t stomach anything at all, so she just walked around with a single stuffed mushroom on a paper plate. She was sure no one was convinced—not that they particularly cared—but it was at least something to stare at.While the adults muttered amongst themselves, Jo came up beside Sal again. “Hey.”“Hey,” he replied, voice small and hoarse. Without his omnipresent red beanie he seemed a few inches shorter and almost naked, somehow younger. Sal sipped his water. He glanced at her mushroom, then back up at her face as though comparing the two. His glasses were too foggy for her to make full eye contact, but he cocked a brow in clear invitation. Jo opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say, so she shut it again. The moment passed. She looked away from him to watch the adults.Talking came in mostly-hushed murmurs, and the intervening silence ebbed and swelled as uncomfortable conversations tapered into anxious lulls. The out-of-state relatives were caught up on some few stories that were new to them, but the small and familiar attendance meant there was little to be said that everyone hadn’t already known, or else didn’t want to be reminded of. For all there was to like about Cody, celebration of his best qualities only belabored to his mourners just how young he’d been.For someone to die at all was a sad thing, but the sudden, violent death of a fourteen-year-old especially discouraged any hope for a halfway-cheerful wake.Jo, for her part, drifted through the proceedings like a zombie. At some point she lost her paper plate, but didn’t remember discarding it. After lunch, things moved outside. She fought off selfish tears and heard little of the eulogies.Mr. and Mrs. Walker’s comments were stilted and brief. Each word uttered was heavy with the bone-deep weariness of overwhelming loss, still detached with shock—and who could blame them? Black sheep or no, he had been fourteen. He’d been so loved and had such potential, they said, and even though he was gone he’d still done the Walker family proud—and would continue to, forever, as long as his name was remembered.The Walkers weren’t religious, so there was no priest, pastor or Rabbi. During the burial itself, Sal glued himself to Jo’s side and sobbed quietly into her shoulder, convulsive gasps disappearing into the velvet sleeve of her dress. She put her arm around his neck and leaned into him, letting her own silent tears drip into his close-cropped hair. Composure abandoned at the pulpit, Mira had taken her grief almost to the edge of the grave. She bawled loud and messy into a cupped hand over her brother’s casket as it was lowered into the ground.Mrs. Walker ducked her head to sniffle and dab at her teary cheeks, shoulders shaking with stifled cries. Even Mr. Walker made no characteristic attempt to raise the mood. He just stared, glassy-eyed, at the grave as it was filled, as though hoping the body might spring up alive again and spare them all the tragedy.Cody’s godfather was the first to leave, citing some vagary of his work life—though, to his credit, he promised to visit again very soon and even seemed to mean it. Then went Mrs. Walker’s sister, who had a long drive back to Arkansas. At some point, Sal’s parents broke off to peel him away from Jo and take him home. He went without protest, wiping reddened eyes on his shirt sleeve and half-heartedly promising to call.Jo nodded without listening, eyes still fixed on the fresh gravedirt now piled and pressed neatly in the shadow of the headstone. Cody was here, right in front of her. This frozen slab of brass blue granite was all that remained of him to touch. She stood and stared until the engraving left afterimages. She stood there until her thick-soled loafers began to sink into the wet soil, dew-kissed grass tickling her ankles through her thin black tights, leaving damp spots that bloomed against her skin. She stood there and stared until the early evening breeze started to chill her through her dress, until her Bubbe eventually hobbled up to let Jo know that their ride had arrived and it was time to go home.Another blink, and she was standing stupidly on her own front stoop as though waiting for someone to let her inside. Limping upstairs, feeling waterlogged. Next, she was home in her room, where she collapsed into her bed without even taking off her shoes.In time, grief became boring. October marched on.