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Cyberpunk Aesthetic - Blog Posts
Okay! 12 days of being a rubber slut are done, so Violi whips herself up a brand new outfit to celebrate! Tis very Cyberpunk inspired, and honestly I've been tinkering with it since June of last year. I'm really happy with how it turned out, and I hope you do too! 💜😘
submission for the hue oc zine a while back :3
A little character art for Returning to our Roots.
Debbie (the bunny girl) is the MC of the story, and the girl on her shoulder is Slackjaw, the most dangerous merc to ever live in New Bright City. And Debbie's girlfriend.
I imagine this selfie is from one of their first dates.
Next character reference sheet for "Returning to our Roots"
Kaine Augmo, "son" of Adam Augmo.
The main antagonist for the story.
His father had him made from scratch. He is one of the only Anthro's who was never human. He was raised to be his father's body gaurd, and eventually, his brother's.
He is a weapon underestimated by his father, who didn't think Kaine could handle running Augmo Inc. Kaine would prove his father wrong.
There was only one other merc who could match Kaine in hand to hand combat. Unfortunately, she nolonger stalks the streets of New Bright City.
Hatsune Miku graphics
f2u w/ creds, like/reblog to use
Day 2 of @ddenryu event : Cyberpunk graphics
errm first time doing this kind of style
Morning Routine - TF2/Blender
In the early mornings, whether you're lower social classes' member or a newly minted corporate clerk, it would be great for anyone to freshen up in their old, shabby (and most likely moldy already) bathroom to start another day in a city run by corporations, since the last time. Here, everyone decides for themselves - whether they'll join the new order of live in Mann City or, through the thorns of the law, be a quiet rebel.
fray to free.
otherworldly
rebirth
Ｙｏｕｒ ｎｅｗ ｌｉｆｅ ｓｔａｒｔｓ ｎｏｗ
𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕟𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘
𝓙𝓸𝓱𝓷𝓷𝔂 𝓢𝓲𝓵𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓭
Day X
CyP
Like anything involving the government, it took forever for he corpos to gain the necessary power to properly influence the government. However, because the government was structured quite solidly, it never became a puppet. Still, what the corpos wanted, the corpos (usually) got, sometimes with caveats, sometimes without. When they wanted a monopoly, the government said, "Keep the prices reasonable." When they wanted children back in the workforce, the government said, "Keep the place safe and clean." When they wanted cheap resources, the government said, "Make it sustainable." But when the corpos said, "Let's make robots," the government turned a blind eye. It seemed they didn't want to have to govern another set of individuals, so they let the corpos handle it.
Of course, the corpos did just that, and the results were unsavory, to say the least. Then the government stepped in because the people started to say something. So the government said, "These androids are sentient beings." And they were, a small part of why the masses had united to relieve their oppression.
But that was it. Classic government blunder. Not clearly defining something and then it gets loopholed to high heaven. That's when the people stepped in. Even if they couldn't stop the corpos or the government, they could control themselves. So they made clubs and special apartments and parks specially catered to androids. Now not all of them were exclusive to them, such as LOVE.EXE.
But some of them were. One such establishment was The Ring. The makings of a corpo, but run by androids and humans, it was special. It was a setup of fighting, winners and losers alike getting paid by enjoyment from the fans. The Ring was funded entirely by donations and tips, trying to remain nonprofit the best they could in the capitalist hellscape they called home.
It was a place HCTR-1770, better known as Itto, frequented. A heavy machine, he was 12 feet tall and three and a half tons, built to haul hundreds of tons on his own. It was a quirk of EGGS. They over-engineered all their products to maximize efficiency and strength and longevity.
He shuffled his feet like he'd seen on TV. His opponent, Boris, was also a mid-weight machine, designed to protect from military encounters. Itto came in close, waiting for Boris to initiate. Boris started with a body shot. Unlike with a human, an android didn't have as many limitations, and thus could fight freely. Replacement parts were cheap.
Itto returned with a blow to the face, knocking Boris' arm down and smashing his knee into his chest. Most fights ended with a concession, but select few ended with shut downs or death. It was to be expected if you went in there and the corpos weren't going to fuss. They'd just make more. For every android that got destroyed in The Ring, hundreds more were made to do that job. It wasn't too big a deal.
Boris grabbed Itto and slammed him into the ground, straddling him and pummelling him without letup. No breathing meant no needing to stop a flurry. Itto kept his face covered, then reached his legs up and flipped Boris over by his head.
Based on this post.
neon-stitched seraphim She limps, but not from pain— from memory. From nights when the alleys had teeth and the rooftops whispered names of the ones who didn’t make it. She walks like a glitch— half-code, half-ghost, all sorrow stitched in synth-wire grace.
Neon bleeds from her elbows, sacred and slow, a luminescent trail for the dead to follow. They do. You can hear them if you listen hard— in the static between heartbeats, in the fizz of broken screens, in the tremor of her breath when the darkness closes in too tight.
Once, she flew. Not with wings, but with boosters lit by bad choices and whispered promises of a future she never asked for. Now she crawls through glitching dreams, jerking awake as if her soul’s buffering. Lagged. Unpatched. Shaking with the echo of every capsule she swore she’d never touch again.
Her skin carries the gospel of survival— burns from datajacks, bruises shaped like goodbye. Every scar, a city landmark. Every wound, an archived file. She is not broken— she is backed up, fragments looping in corrupted prayer.
They tried to sanctify her pain, to call her angel. because she didn’t die when they said she would. But angels don’t flinch at their own reflection. Angels don’t wake up screaming. She does. Every night. She wakes to the smell of ozone and rot, to the taste of old sins on her tongue, to the silence left behind, by voices she couldn’t save.
The city never forgives. But it forgets. And she lives in that forgetting— a glitch in the archive, a flicker on the feed, a body moving just slow enough to be missed.
She does not look for redemption. Only quiet. Only something soft enough to rest on without dreaming of fire.
And still she walks, luminous and limping, the afterimage of someone who once believed she could be more than this.
What bleeds from her is not blood. It is data. It is grief. It is the price you pay for choosing to survive in a place that demands you die pretty.
And if you meet her in the shadow between heartbeats, don’t ask what she’s running from. She’s not running.She’s remembering.
Beneath the hum of neon, the city moves,
A machine of profit, grinding lives to dust.
Patents carve bodies into pieces,
Medicine locked away, guarded by cold hands,
While sickness festers, left to rot in the shadows.
Ideas are not born here, but captured,
Imprisoned behind glass and code,
Creativity dissected, each thought assigned a price.
Knowledge, once a river, now trickles through corporate gates,
The flow rationed, the gates controlled.
We drift through streets of flickering light,
Chasing the promise of a cure that never comes.
The rich thrive, their veins untouched,
While we bleed beneath their gaze,
Barely human, just cogs in their machine.
But deep in the underbelly, a new pulse emerges,
A signal that disrupts, a code that fractures the walls.
In dark alleys, where the light barely reaches,
The broken gather, hacking their way through the chains.
No more bodies sold for profit,
No more thoughts bound by patents.
We take back what was stolen,
Reclaim the future from the iron grip of wealth.
When the towers fall, their lights will flicker out,
And in the darkness, we’ll find a different kind of light,
Not neon, not owned, but shared,
A future built with hands, not money.
Flickering lights trace the edge of sight, A city alive while the mind strains in the quiet. Circuits hum beneath the skin, sleepless whispering, In the hollow hours where neon breathes like a heartbeat.
Eyes reflect the dance of fractured light, Insomnia's rhythm winding tighter, an endless tether. In the haze, thoughts unravel, coded in static, A mind split, part flesh, part data stream, lost in transit.
Throbbing signals drift through empty skies, Dreams corrupted, overwritten with binary ghosts. Awake but somewhere deeper, past even the body's reach, Chasing some solace hidden in the glow, forever elusive.
And as dawn breaks over glass and steel, The heart remains untouched, pulsing faintly, A quiet signal, lost beneath layers of code. Still tethered to life, but only barely.
In the urban maze's arteries, neon courses, A luminous stream amidst shadows' dark embraces. Through streets tangled like veins, secrets pulse, Neon's deceptive hues painting the city's face.
Here, where dreams and demons collide, Neon blood flows, relentless and untamed. Lost souls wander, seeking solace in its glow, Electric whispers weaving through the neon's frame.
Amidst towering structures, desires unfurl, Neon blood pumps, a rhythm unfettered. Beneath glamour's veneer, souls ensnared, In the city's neon heart, where reality's blurred.
In this realm of synthetic dreams, Neon stains the pavement, a mark of transgression. For in the urban arteries, neon courses, The lifeblood of a city, where truth finds no expression.
Sharded, those whose minds have bled, neon leaking behind their eyes.
No longer only walking the world of man, souls split from flesh, yet tethered the same.
Hearing rhythms of the blackwall, as they fade from the songs of flesh.
Cavorting with deamons, engineers of their own tools, carving trees from false worlds stone walls.
Ask not why these creatures of neon seek hedonistic pursuits, when they emerge from their short deaths.
When the soul sunders, and the mind warps, progress in processing data streams at a price.
The body becomes a machine, and the operator a god within, trapped in the very thing tethering them to life.
A soul drifting in a sea of neon elixir, struggling to the surface, to touch those they love once more before sinking to hear the gods below.
Artificial souls, gods in the machine, the speakers without flesh.
Fragments of immortality, dancing eternal in their cages of light.
Neon eyed, integrated singers, rejectors of authority.
Punks of a broken world, living on the edge of corporate control.
Cracked hardware, unregistered waves, illegitimate goods.
Protected by the freed souls, hidden in the virtual from pet hounds, leashed to company interests.
Freedom from suffering, a siren song, of corp advertisements, to surrender the self for eternal profits beckons.
Neoned ink drips, as the needles dip back to flesh, carving the code of another runner. Flashes of light drift, across eyes once seeing. Runes of long dead gods, adoring the bones the flesh and steel hides, while neon code pretending at art decorates the skin. Seers of a new age, guardians of newfound homes, seekers of virtual paradise.