I was writing up a post to help encourage folks who’ve always wanted to start a webcomic to dive in- and that they shouldnt have to fear ‘being perfect’ to start one
And as I was going along, it made me sad to realise that.. there is an expectation now in the webcomic sphere, as much as I want to deny it (and that it should NOT stop folks from creating!!! please keep creating, no matter your level)
I’m bummed out about the changes in the webcomic sphere over the past 5 years, i’m disappointed that there has been changes to this medium that was KNOWN for all of the different skill levels and flavours of so many different creators.
I want to combat that.
I want to see more beginner art, I want to see that excitment and embracing of growth. I want to see what made webcomics so accessible to so many creators and readers flourish again.
Hopefully, if you see this post, and you’ve always wanted to make a webcomic but felt you weren’t ‘good enough’ :
Make one anyways. Have fun even if you don’t know all the ‘ins and outs’ of comics. Make one because you’re obsessed with your characters and you wanna share them with the world. Make one just because you can, and not because it has to fit in some impossible standard we’ve forced onto ourselves because of the changing landscape.
Start one, and have fun doing it for YOU!
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i dont have any trigun mutuals so i'm just gonna ramble my thoughts into the infinite void of tumblr. and im sure others have touched on this same topic but
it almost seems like vash is getting softer with every new installment of trigun? like incredibly consistently and incredibly specifically.
let me explain.
i'll start with tristamp and work backwards; the tristamp vash we all know and love there is incredibly adverse to violence.
more often than not he ACTIVELY refuses to fight and just WON'T draw his gun. this post loosely counted the amount of bullets that he shot throughout all of season 1, and almost ALL of them (like to an insane degree) were dished out against knives, who vash knew was strong enough to take the hit.
the few times vash does draw his gun against a human in tristamp, it's as a blunt force weapon (against the badlads gang and livio, for example) or to disarm others/save someone with ricochet (like shooting the punisher before wolfwood can kill livio).
he just doesn't shoot people. at ALL.
then if we look at 98 trigun, things change drastically.
here, vash isn't afraid to hurt people a little if it means more will be saved in the end. of course he never kills, but he actually shoots people here. not only that...
he holds a casual, sarcastic conversation while pointing his weapon at people.
he constantly shoots at limbs to immobilize people, fires warning shots extremely close to peoples' vitals, and performs several very insane trick shots throughout the show to wound those with armor.
tristamp vash wouldn't even draw, but 98 struts around firing warning shots into the sky and singing about bloodshed for intimidation! i'm not sure there's a single episode where he doesn't shoot someone at least once.
...so what about trimax, then?
(PLOT SPOILERS AHEAD)
he is so. shockingly. violent.
of course he never kills. of course he's still trying to save people, but there's this anger in him that i was completely taken off-guard by reading for the first time.
tristamp vash is so soft he's painful to watch. 98 vash makes a heartbreaking effort to be as silly and nonthreatening as possible, constantly making himself out to be the fool. but trimax?
he's... literally grief-stricken and out for revenge. explicit revenge. he's angry and he's hurt and he lays his intentions out so clearly. he's making THREATS.
seriously:
hunting legato. HUNTING him.
it's not even a matter of drawing his weapon anymore. he does it constantly, and fires just as much. never to kill, but he doesn't joke around the way 98 vash does. the most he'll offer is a sunny smile to reassure others and nothing more.
i'm not that far into the manga, either. i'm sure there's countless more (and probably better) panels to convey this side of trimax vash, but i suppose it also says something that i've found so many panels depicting this so early on.
but the progression of vash's personality is fascinating regardless.
from a tortured, angry loner desperately trying to cling to his morals for rem's sake
to an equally devastated man who devotes himself so completely to acting the role of the fool
and finally to the sad, chronically depressed shell of a person in tristamp who refuses to so much as draw his weapon.
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thinking about how as Aemond’s wife you are the model of perfection.
Your back is straight as you curtsy when you first meet him and hair neatly braided with fine jewels. Your voice is even and never waivers as you speak to him of your family and how grateful they are for this union.
You are intelligent and beautiful, the perfect wife.
It’s why Aemond hardly ever spends time with you.
He bears no ill will toward you, of course. There is no resentment or hatred to his lady wife, but there are no fond feelings either.
He knows of courting and romance, his mother taught him everything from a young age. The poor woman would hold her son’s hands tight and explain that a man must not only respect his wife, but truly cherish her. Love her in the eyes of gods and men. As he grew older he noticed the way his father would wave off her constant advice and concerns until the dreaded night where she was the only one defending him after he lost his eye.
But practice was one thing. When you were nothing but a concept. A figment of Aemond’s imagination when he was ten and marriage was only spoken of during his lessons. Before he lost his eye. Before he heard the ladies of the court whispering about his mutilation and before he watched a whore flinch at the sight of his scarring when Aegon dragged him to a brothel on his thirteenth name day.
He learned then that no matter how much he would love and worship his wife, it would not be returned.
Rather than attempt to force it (he was no brute and had no intentions of doing something so cruel) he simply let you be by yourself.
Yes you were married. You sat by one another at every meal and formal event and on the rare occasion he would even ask for your hand in a dance. But Aemond’s affections toward you were few and far to find.
But there were moments.
Where his icy facade would weaken and you found yourself able to slip through the cracks.
Alicent had told you of his “moments” when the engagement had been announced. The queen herself taking you by the hand as you walked through the garden and explaining gently of Aemond’s condition.
“There are times where he feels a great deal of pain because of the-” She paused, chewing on her cheek while trying to find the most inoffensive way to describe the tragedy that befell her son. “-incident he had as a child.”
You knew enough of it. Many rumors flew through court the day Aemond targaryen walked in with a patch on his eye after Laenor Velaryan’s funeral at driftmark. Some day it was from a sparring incident, others say it was a mark he bore from the first time he mounted the mighty vhaegar. Others say that the Rouge Prince Daemon Targaryen himself gave it to his younger cousin after crude words were exchanged behind closed doors.
You didn’t know what was the truth. Aside from the day the princeling got his scar, was the same he got his dragon.
A fair trade, some would say.
But they didn’t live with the attacks he did.
Nerve damage, is what the maester’s called it when you asked them for more information. His wound may have healed years prior but the prince would continue to live his life with constant bouts of mind-numbing pain brought on by the slightest touch or too sharp of a wind to his cheek.
“Senseless fits.” Aegon called it. When he heard about your curiosity about his brother’s condition he had all but cornered you late at night in the hall. “Anything will set him off and send him throwing a tantrum like a belligerent child. It’s quite entertaining.”
But there’s a moment where the elder brother frowns and you see a shred of concern in his eyes.
“He doesn’t like to be touched during those moments. It makes the pain worse. So if you’re trying to find some way to comfort him I’d recommend you do something else.”
What was ‘something else’ you learned, was simply being there.
Sitting by his side when he curled into himself, trembling fingers reaching out to grab yours and not complaining when his nails dig into the palm of your hand as he cries out in pain. When his breath evens out and the pain subsides, he crawls to you and presses his face to the crook of your neck. He’s far too tired to cover the gnarled scar covering the side of his face but you show no fear or disgust at the sight of it. Your fingers run through his hair, gently combing back the silver tresses and ignoring the tears that stain the shoulder of your gown.
The next morning your husband would wake in your arms and takes a moment to watch your peaceful expression and the way the morning sun kisses your skin.
That day Alicent notices her son sits closer to you at breakfast, speaking softly to you of something she cannot understand. But when she sees his hand reach out and grasp yours, she smiles.
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Oh, damn. No 25 with MC trying to protect/take care of Seven in a dangerous situation sounds nice.
Hope you feel better soon, Amy! Take care!
Thank you! <3 Dangerous situation, you say?
Double whammy (the amount of seven asks...)
CW: blood
This is all your fault.
You shouldn't have said anything. You shouldn't have fought with the person at the bar. You should've left it alone.
You should've known that Seven wouldn't let it go. Even when they hate you.
You should've known Seven. Has it been that long that you forgot who they were? Once, they were as familiar to you as the very lines on your palm.
"Seven, please."
You're holding onto them as you two stumble out of the bar, moving like two drunkards though both of you are terribly sober. The warm sensation of Seven's blood on your shirt sends dull fear over you. You're spiraling. Breaking. You don't know what to do.
Seven lets you guide them outside, your arms wrapped closely around them as they keep a hand under their nose which spews blood like an open faucet. It sends another round of fear down your spine, but it's not their nose that has you so breathless you're dizzy.
Their stomach.
In the heat of the moment, the person Seven was fighting threw them on the table littered with glass cups and broken bottles. Seven claims to be fine, but the way blood makes an angry stain on the green fabric of their shirt and Seven limps like their body is failing them, you know they're anything but.
Seven loses their footing, tripping on the last step and making both you and them fumble to the wet, concrete ground.
Your body shakes when the cool water of the alleyway seeps into your jeans. Seven coughs, rolls on their back, and lets out a sigh.
Blood is smeared across their face, their eyes are hazy, the blooming flower of blood grows larger across their stomach.
Your hands flail in front of you when you get on your knees, fingers shaking, lips shuttering. You feel the burning sting of tears. "Seven, what do I do? My phone is dead. We need to call an ambulance."
Seven groans. Coughs. Their hair turns damp when it sinks into a puddle by their face. "Stop...yelling."
"How can I stop?!" you cry. "I need to see it-" You begin to lift up their shirt but Seven stops you.
"No."
Anger replaces your previous fear. "Seven-"
"I don't want you to."
That hurts. Hurts more than it should in this moment. Seven is hurt, bleeding, and even now they don't want you to touch them, to care for them. Has everything been for nothing? Have all the years you two spent together meant nothing?
"You fucking asshole."
"What?" They burst up and groan, hissing and laying back down.
"I need to help you." The fear returns anew when Seven's eyes glide towards you slowly, their lips parted. Not from pain, but from slight surprise. "Please. I know you hate me. I know you have no reason to trust me. But please... I'm asking you to anyway." You bite your lip to hide the way it shakes. "Please let me help you."
It takes them a moment. They stare at you so long you feel like you're being judged. Then, in a move that shocks you even now, Seven nods and looks away.
"Go ahead."
You clear your throat, slowly peeling the shirt that sticks to the blood on their skin. Seven winces, and you let out a small sound when you catch the piece of glass lodged to their rib.
"Not bad," you try, wincing, "just a tiny piece. You'll be fine."
"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"
You look at them, ready to shoot them a glare, when you see a small, amused smirk on their face.
"Shut up," you mumble, turning back to their wound.
As you inspect more of their skin, slick with blood, you catch their stomach heave when a small laugh leaves them. You look at Seven, quirking a brow. "You called me an asshole." They look at you. The blood still smeared all across their lower face, they look at you and laugh. "I'm about to die and you call me an asshole."
"You're not about to die," you say strongly and then quieter: "and you are."
Seven hums. "Maybe. Maybe you just bring it out of me."
"That's not helping," you mumble.
You move to lift their shirt higher when you feel a wet hand on your wrist. Seven's blood leaks from their fingers to your skin, but you hardly notice it. Not when they're looking at you with a face so soft it disarms your every defense. "I don't hate you."
Your heart rate quickens. "...You don't?"
They shake their head slowly, stifling a small grown with the movement. "How could I?" they mumble, but don't elaborate.
A sigh leaves them and they glide their gaze to the sky. The sound of an ambulance rings in the distance; the bartender must've called the cops.
"I don't hate you either," you say.
Seven says nothing, but their face twists into a satisfied smile, their eyes closing.
I never did.
and then seven dies. JUST KIDDING
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