The 49 days are dangerous, monsters will come get you. The darkness of every corner of the streets, will come take you away. So, bring me flowers everyday. Don’t forget to change the water, please. Go through the winding bumpy alley, come visit me everyday.

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Last season's anime: Frieren episode 7-10

Shit I guess I'm full on liveblogging this one now.

This time we have episode 7 dir. Naoto Uchida (known for work on Mob Psycho 100), episode 8 dir. Tomoya Kitagawa (who also directed ep. 2), episode 9 dir. Kōki Fujimoto (key animator on a whole buncha stuff, this is his debut as an episode director), and episode 10 dir. Nobihide Kariya (who debuted not so long before as an episode director on Bocchi).

So at the end of the last post about Frieren, I commented that I found the demons underwhelming as antagonists, and hoped they would have their motivations fleshed out some more beyond 'ontologically evil baddies'. Well.

lmao.

So Frieren and the gang are travelling. We get a lot more on the Great Mage Flamme, who is Frieren's mentor figure. At this rate... she's probably gonna turn out to still be alive or some shit.

They roll up in another ridiculously picturesque town. The backgrounds in this show are apparently based heavily on the concept art paintings of Seiko Yoshioka, who gets credited under various roles including 'layout designer' and even 'worldview illustrator'. She did a crazy amount of work to design all the different settings, giving them distinctive cultural motifs and architectures and colour palettes and so on.

Since this town covers a whole four-episode arc, we get a number of different views of it. There's definitely a reasonable amount of historical care put into the design of those city walls - even sketchy and in the distance you can spot the hoardings and appropriately narrow crenellations, as well as the machicolations on the tops of the towers. (Though unfortunatelly some of those details seem to get forgotten in the later episodes.)

The streets in the town seem kinda wide and clean but it fits the austere vibe. The main thing I'm wondering is what exactly they eat in this town - it's triple-walled in hostile territory without much in the way of farmland in sight, or indeed roads that aren't tiny.

I'm pretty sure they built a model of at least parts of this town in 3D, because as well as certain 3D tracking shots (unfortunately hampered by the lack of any parallax mapping on the floor)...

...we also get shots like this one, which feature a crazy 3-point perspective:

I wouldn't say it's impossible to draw this, but it would be a hell of a lot easier to block it out roughly in 3D and then paint in the details.

Mind you, that's not even the wildest perspective we get in this episode. Check this out:

Absolutely bananas. I love it.

But tbh the praise I have for this arc is pretty limited to this kind of technical stuff. Let's get into the story. (Though you can be sure I'll have more to say about the animation!)

At this point the story shifts gears from this fairly low-key exploration of grief and the passing of time, into more standard action anime territory.

Shortly after arriving in this town, our heroes discover that it has been infiltrated by demons in the guise of peace emissaries. Frieren attempts to attack immediately, but she allows herself to be subdued rather than harm the guards, so off she goes to jail.

Luckily, wizard jail still has pretty generous visiting hours, so she's able to explain the deal with demons to the gang. Frieren declares that demons always lie to gain an advantage over humans, illustrated through a flashback in which a young girl demon begged for mercy, only to betray the townspeople a bit later. Having been proven right, Frieren summarily executes the girl.

I think it's worth comparing this storyline to a couple of other similar storylines in other works of fiction.

First of all, in NieR Replicant/Gestalt, there is the story 'The Little Mermaid', which was adapted into a segment in the game in the remake. A postman takes pity on a girl on a shipwreck, not realising that she is a terribly powerful monster who is struggling to maintain her human appearance. The girl starts killing people to try to maintain her connection with the postman. Eventually, the player shows up and discovers what's been going on. Their intervention provokes the girl to revert to monster state and there's a big boss fight. However, at stake in the fight is the girl's identity. Depending on how you play the boss fight, there are two possible endings, and both of them make overt parallels between the monster girl and your party member Kainé, and one portrays the grief of the postman who cannot let go of his affection for the monster.

Secondly, the second episode of last year's Tengoku Daimakyou features a woman who is trying to protect a monster which she believed to have taken on the consciousness of her son after it ate him. The monster has been curiously non-hostile to the woman - she persuades our protagonists to back off, and they agree. Then it abruptly kills her! Oh shit. Fight scene, they kill the monster, etc.

But as they depart, the protagonists are left discussing whether the monster could really have had the son affecting its actions, whether it was just drawn to prey etc. The monster's motivations are left distinctly unclear, and the protagonists conclude there's no way to know the truth. Throughout the rest of the season, the exact nature of the monsters remains an open question.

In both cases, we either know or it is strongly implied that the monsters are fundamentally human, or derived from humans somehow. A certain amount of effort is spared to try and at least raise the question of the monster's subjectivity, and even if a monster has to die, they play it for tragedy.

So, let's return to Frieren. We're introduced to the demon girl. She ate a kid, but she staves off execution by pleading for her mother.

The villagers decide to give her a chance to atone. Before long, she kills the village chief who took pity on her. Frieren's party show up and she does small Shaft head tilt...

She's no longer pretending and talks in a much more level voice. She explains that she wanted to give a replacement daughter to the family of the girl she ate, by removing the village chief, for the sake of living in peace. This goes down about how you'd expect. Frieren goes ahead and kills her. As she's dying, Frieren asks why she called for her mother when demons don't raise kids. The answer she gets:

She is surprisingly forthcoming on this front, and honestly, self-preservation is something like an understandable motivation. The impression you get from this flashback sequence is a being that is amoral, and encountering humans as something alien and, honestly, kinda threatening. Why she killed the girl in the first place is an open question - they explicitly say that the demons don't have to eat humans. Even if she kinda felt like it, you'd think she'd be able to figure out it would be an unwise move.

But as far as the show is concerned, the point of this flashback is to establish one thing: demons are lying liars who lie. Frieren is the only one who knows the truth, which is that you must shoot them on sight.

You might think the show would leave some doubt about whether Frieren is justified in having such a severe attitude towards the demons - is she just prejudiced? But nah we go pretty much straight into the demons saying 'Frieren is right about everything, now let'ss discuss our evil plan'.

Props to this guy (he has some longish German name I can't remember) for making this random bench feel like a throne though. Like on some level he's just soft-voiced evil anime aristocrat guy but he does pull it off.

Anyway, one thing definitely doesn't seem to add up. Frieren says that demons are solitary creatures who speak in a human voice only to deceive, but the demons seem to be pretty happy to natter away to each other when no humans are around and express all sorts of thoughts and even express (fairly reserved) emotions. The boy is arrogant, the girl is protective of her boss, etc. The guy is a smooth liar and manages to wriggle out of being killed by the earl by playing the 'we're the same, let's put an end to this' card. But we're constantly reminded it's fake, he's a lying liar who's ontologically evil.

I think the super-deceptive adversary with no qualms about telling any lie is something that can be done well to create an incredibly paranoid scenario. I can't believe I'm mentioning ratfic again in the space of two posts, but this is something Worth The Candle performed very effectively. Though honestly the fantasy of the perfect manipulator who plays everyone like a fiddle is a recurring device in fantasy.

Here... the acting is strong on our main sussy demon dude. But as a worthy adversary, he's not super convincing. He lets his underling run off and get killed, and his response when the jig is up is to reveal that he's super OP and kill everyone nearby, except the governor, who he tortures. So the manipulation angle seems questionably motivated, like he wants the earl to lower the barrier so the demon army can come in... but you're kind of left wondering why he didn't already just go and kill everyone in the city since nobody who isn't Fern or Frieren can touch him. I guess he's trying to get that low chaos route.

I won't continue the beat-by-beat summary. There is a cool fight scene in Frieren's jail cell though, which has some well-integrated 3D. Frieren totally no-sells the boy's attack and cuts his arms off. Lotta dismemberment in these episodes! The main demon guy has some tasty blood-based powers, lots of monofilament whip slicing imagery (also a thing in Tengoku Daimakyou oddly enough). In general the action scenes in this show continue to be super tight. There is a pretty cute bit where Stark is trying to free the earl and can't cut through the rope holding him to a chair, the earl is going 'leave me', and I was sitting there going like 'why not destroy the chair', and then Stark does. So props for that.

Towards the end of ep 8, we learn that Frieren is actually a suuuuper scary battle mage. She was the one who researched the demon killing spell. OOooooohhh.

Seems our demon guy hasn't changed his style in 80 years lol.

And she did not think it too many.

So we already knew that Frieren was part of the party that killed the demon king, the last living person who knew Flamme, etc. etc., so it's not exactly surprising to see once again that she's kind of a big deal. What we seem to be setting up here - or at least maybe I'm just hoping for something more than 'only our hero is wise enough to know coexistence is impossible and a war of annihilation is the only option' - is to suggest a parallel between Frieren and the demons. They're incredibly long-lived, they love to obsessively study magic, they both have a very cold affect, they're calm under fire. If it turned out that Frieren is a demon that would be a fun angle, but I don't think it really tracks. Rather, the framing is suggesting that, when confronted with demons, Frieren is not so different...

We get a title drop in any case - turns out the anime title is an in-story title for its main character. In Japanese: 葬送のフリーレン Sousou no Frieren. 葬送 is translated by jisho.org as

attending a funeral procession; seeing off the deceased; burial of someone's remains; observing a burial​

The fansub I'm watching translate it (when used for the character) as 'Frieren the Elegy', which has about the right vibe! In the context for the show title, they translate the same phrase as Frieren: An Ageless Elegy which involves a little more interpolation, but I think it works. The official English title is Frieren: Beyond Journey's End, which is very direct but not a bad subtitle at all. Then again, maybe the bar is in the floor since 'Delicious in Dungeon'.

Anyway, after all that setup, we finally get the big fight episode. Because you see, in contrast to the earlier story which skipped over decades in a montage, this arc spans a whole four episodes. It's not badly done, but it's definitely feeling much more like a standard fight-driven show at this point.

We also meet Aura, one of the demon generals. She looks like a youngish girl and has a habit of doing the sanpaku eye smirk.

Her schtick is that she has magic scales that let her dominate people. Then she cuts their heads off and walks their corpses around. This is represented by a big army of suits of armour, mostly rendered in CG. They've done some kind of filter to make the linework less even, but the difference in shading style is quite noticeable.

From there it's a lot of 'my gambit vs your gambit' and 'who has more mana'. The fights are, without doubt very nicely animated, although the CG castle set used for the big camera moves feels a bit... lacking in detail compared to the gorgeous painted backgrounds. Anyway, Stark wins his fight by the power of GUTS and DETERMINATION, and Fern wins her fight by being a fast analytical type who can stay cool under fire and also knows Frieren's special demonbuster spell. Though a lot of Fern's fight is just kind of both participants standing still with impassive expressions shooting either blood or big laser beams at each other or zipping all around the castle.

Of course, the major turning points in the fight hinge on flashbacks to moments with mentor figures. This is an anime, and more specifically, it's Frieren.

One thing that is interesting is that the 'point of view' indicated by internal monologue often moves from Fern to the demon guy. We get to see him try to think through how to beat her, unsuccessfully. By contrast Stark's fight takes Stark's POV. I don't think we're expected to sympathise with the demon exactly, it's a way of underlining just how badass Fern has now become thanks to Frieren's levelling up regime.

I admit Frieren has lost me a bit by this point. It's not that it's bad at being a fight anime, it hits us with a whole series of stylishly composed and strongly animated cuts. Not novel necessarily, but absolutely well-executed. But it's not a very interesting direction to take the story! I don't care about this town, we'll be leaving it in an episode or two anyway, and the only named character in it is the earl. I wanna know more about the demons but what we get is kinda just a succession of Guys With Powers. He can make his blood fly around and stab people. She can copy anyone's moveset. He has a monofilament wire. She has a magic scale that mind controls you if she has more mana.

So how does Frieren beat the magic scales? ez. It's kind of spelled out as soon as they introduce the scales, but they spend a whole episode explaining how she's been using a relentless mana retention regimen for the last thousand years to hide her power level so that demons underestimate her. It kinda belabours the point lol. Like it kinda has to because if it doesn't try to make a big deal out of the mana hiding thing, you're just left with 'Frieren wins because her number is bigger'. But... Frieren wins because her number is bigger.

I don't hate fight-driven anime. They can be a ton of fun. But honestly, after the emotional impact of the first few episodes, taking it this way seems like it's wasting the early show's strengths. But, I hear episode 11 sees the return of Keiichirō Saitō as enshutsu, and it's said to be one of the best episodes in the show, so I'm not gonna drop it! It's certainly more than pretty enough to be worth watching through to the end.

There is a good amount of nice stuff in this last episode. The pseudo-Roman town is a cool depiction of a different material culture a thousand years prior to the main story. The 'field of flowers' magic is called back as a specific invention of Flamme - Frieren's whole deal is to kind of go around doing things to commemorate dead people and it turns out the flowers thing lets her do it twice over! We get to set up some parallels - Frieren could intuit that Flamme was a super OP mage, and Himmel could do the same for her.

We also get some worldbuilding stuff about the demons: they have to constantly display their power level to determine their place in the demon pecking order bc they're soooo individualistic. This seems a little dubious to me - like are the demons really so dumb? Is 'hide your power level' such an incomprehensible concept? It seems like it would lead to some kind of Diplomacy-like situation where other demons would team up to take you down.

Honestly, I think what bothers me about all this is like... I don't like the concept of an ontologically evil monster at the best of times, but the demons are obviously not mindlessly malevolent with no inner lives. They talk and scheme and feel things (such as 'proud of their magic'). They have an honour system. But the narrative doesn't quite seem to be able to acknowledge that this is what it's doing. Besides levelling up their magic, we have no idea what the demons want, still, except that it seems to involve killing humans sometimes.

Anyway! kvin has an article about this section, so if you'd like to read about who did which bit and how they worked together resourcefully and where the storyboard creates imagery of separation and so on, there ya go! It sounds from this article like the manga gets a better handle on what it's trying to do with the demons later on, so I'll hold out hope.

Master Post!!

Hello people!!! So happy you wanted to stop here. The name's El, but you can call me crazy. This blog is mainly TMNT (specially 2k12, but others versions too), but I also love Heroes of Olympus. Here you can find my works and some notes after the cut. Thank you!!! My ao3 here.

TMNT:

The Light

Leo thought he knew what pain was. He was wrong.

My first story written in English, please be kind. There's also a version in Spanish if you want.

The Fire

Leo watched the fire take everything. He watched it burn with such intensity that it forced him to squint. It danced to the intense beat of his heart and climbed up to the dark sky, which that night had decided not to paint a single star.

This is more of a drabble, part of a story that didn't see the light. But I really liked so I decided to post it. Will see if I ever come back to that.

Don't go to sleep, stay with me

What if Leo was conscious when he felt throught the window? What it there was no coma? What if he was still hurt and weak but still aware of what was happening? This is a multichapter on that take and how it would change the Farmhouse arc. *Based on the drawings by @hasello*

This is a multichapter on progess that I hope you like, very angsty, but full of brotherly love. Honestly, I just love to put this turtles into the most horrible situations and them make them comfot each other.

HoO:

Just a little bit sick

Leo knew something was wrong. Not with something around him, which was partly a relief, but rather with himself. There was something wrong with him. It was a common feeling, but this time, also different.

This one is in SPANISH ONLY, but I'm planning to post it in english soon enough, right now is going through an hiatus and I'm really sorry about that, but it is what it is. A story post heroes of olympus, ignoring completely what comes after that, really angsty.

(More to come soon! I promise)

Please let's be respectful, I won't tolerate anything different.

Tcest leave immediately, I don't want any interaction from you. I'm serious.

If you don't have some type of photo or description in you bio I'm gonna assume you're a bot an block you, so be aware of that.

Nothing NSFW please, I don't needed it, I don't want it.

No hate just for the sake of hating, your vibe is off and I don't want that in my blog.

Thank you so much and have a good day/night!

it's a long one but this is from a YouTube comment I made pertaining to the style we used for the animation, some context the person talked about Jojo's anime not being manga accurate.

tldr a lot of the philosophy is be close but follow the vibe cus the style changes too much to just Be Manga Accurate. manga accurate isn't enough info

So the thing about "manga accurate" is there's a clear distinct difference between Araki's style in Phantom Blood and say Stone Ocean. Araki's style has changed since 1987 and even then Part 3's similar style was different from Phantom Blood.

In animation this is a fickle thing to deal with cus animation for the most part is about being consistent, but also easier to animate. There's also the goal of your animators learning the style (this is an issue in the industry cus shows end too early or change the style that they cant learn the style so off modelness happens more often)

DP obviously chose to go with changing the artstyles according to the style of the Arc with Part 1 and 2 being closer in similarity. So it is manga accurate, just not accurate to Stone Ocean. Stone Ocean 2000 is manga accurate but not accurate to Phantom Blood 1987. There's alsothe fact Jojos manga art doesnt have a set palette. Which DP acknowledged but again its easier to pick a palette that looked the best (throw in the color design is a different department from animation, animators cant control what goes on there but of course sailorcrisis and I are our color design department)

Its the same here but for the sake of consistency, sailorcrisis and I decided to go with one character design and stick with it. Naoko has more than one style that we broke down into 4 or 5, mainly based on reprints and book covers. We call them Nakayoshi (1991), Tankobon (1992), Shinsoban (2003), and finally recently Kanzenban/Perfect Edition (2014) as well as the recent full color manga and what's WITHIN the pages. She draws a little different when working with Black and White.

This design is heavily based on Kanzenban for shre but Theres differences in anatomy and even her painting style throughout the years which effects what colors we think are "manga accurate", it effects how we draw the eyes for example. Kanzenban doesn't entirely dictate what we use though! ie the brooch here is based on some old concept Nakayoshi era designs, while in Kanzenban the brooch is gold or silver (kanzenban is even inconsistent). Its not currently manga accurate but we both think it looks good and elegant, like Naoko's tastes. Even the cel shading style we use comes from her anime art but not necesarilly copying what she does but as a means of studying how she uses watercolors, her habits.

Anyway depsite the differences, there are some habbits thats still in Naoko's style, so the best course of action for us was to look at them all, use aspects of them and put it together, like an amalgamation of 20 years of Naoko's art. Even the cel shading style we use comes from her anime art but not necesarilly copying what she does but as a means of studying how she watercolors, her habits. The bonus in making amalgamations is that for manga fans, it's a specific of style for someone. Shinsoban lovers see shinsoban, Nakayoshi lovers see Nakayoshi ect. Cus all the styles are in there in subtle tiny ways. ie the noses are visible which is not the case in Kanzenban or shinsoban, but the skirt's shape comes directly from Shinsoban cus we felt that looked the best with the body shape we used (which also comes from shinsoban and Kanzenban, the bodies are a LOT more hourglass curvier in Naoko's older art)

Its partially why the animation took 3 years, but the design process took MUCH longer! mainly cus sailorcrisis and I prefer different styles! 😂 she likes shinsoban and Kanzenban, i like Nakayoshi and Tankbon (which itself is a broad term since Tankobon and Nakayoshi was around the same time and the names pertain to the series' entire run from 91 to 95. Nakayoshi was the magazine, Tankobon was the home release volume books. but the one I prefer is the style in early chapters i like that one!) but yeah instead of choosing one or the other we mixed it up, and made a single character design out of it. (though we are making changes but theyre small lots of times, we are perfectionists lol)

So.. yea its manga accurate but not necesarilly pertaining to a specific one. It's all about hitting the vibe and understanding what Naoko was trying to go for. Same for Jojo, just a different way of goin about it. Stone Ocean would NOT be the same vibe if it was in Phatom Blood's style. Our way is not the 100% correct way for some people either, and it probably won't work for every manga series. But the philosophy is just "be close but follow the vibe." the vibe kinda being Naoko's elegant and expensive tastes, ethereal and slow motion.

shades of cool

Based off of this post from @docdracula

Steve travels back to the past to change things but finds that some things are inevitable. Like the undeniable attraction between him and Tony Stark.

TW for infidelity and age gap between silver fox!steve and twink!tony

When Tony dies, Steve feels something inside of himself sever, like the fissuring of glass and stone. He watches Tony's eyes go dreadfully blank, the arc reactor flickering before fading out completely, and feels as if he's going to vomit.

The screaming and cursing will come later when he's all alone in the Brooklyn apartment he's called home for the past five years. But for now, surrounded by his teammates and the ashes of their enemies, all he can do is sink to his knees like the rest of them.

He makes up his mind then and there. It's not that this timeline has nothing for him anymore; he has Sam and Bucky and the other Avengers to think about. But a dark, buried part of him can't help but whisper, "Don't I deserve it? A moment of peace?"

Guilt eats at him, corrodes his insides until he feels like he's the one turning into ash.

He hides it as well as he can before anyone can talk sense into him, and for a moment, he thinks he'll get away with it scot-free.

But then there's Bucky. Bucky with that cool, assessing gaze, the ghost of the Soldier at the edges of it.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Bucky asks him one night over a couple of beers. The drinks are merely a practicality. What else is there for two worn-out men to do?

Steve takes a long draw from his Budweiser, wishing that it still had an effect on him. Maybe it would have made things easier.

"No," Steve says, keeping his voice light. "Making plans hasn't worked out for me recently, so I figured winging it was worth a shot, right?"

It's the only confession Bucky's going to get out of him.

Bucky sighs, but it's not just any sigh. It's the "You're an idiot, but I'm not going to stop you" sigh, a relic from their childhoods a lifetime ago.

"For your sake, I hope you're right," Bucky says and downs the last of his beer.

"Can't screw up any worse than I already have," Steve says.

They fall into silence, although the buzzed droning of the other bar patrons more than makes up for it.

Bucky claps a hand, his flesh hand onto Steve's shoulder, and Steve's eighteen again and all alone. "I guess this is the end of the line, pal."

Steve damns him, damns him for his earnestness and his understanding and the tears currently pricking the corners of his eyes. Bucky blinks, and the telltale shimmer of tears is gone.

Steve swallows pasts the knot in his throat. "I'm gonna miss you, but I can't do it, Buck. I can't be here."

"That's okay," Bucky says firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "We'll be okay."

And just to be a shit, Steve throws Bucky's words back in his face. "For your sake, I hope you're right."

It has its intended effect, Bucky snorting before punching Steve in the shoulder. "Punk."

"Jerk," Steve replies, not missing a beat.

"Yeah," Bucky says, smiling now, and Steve allows himself to breathe. "I'm gonna miss you too."

That doesn't stop Steve from leaving 2023 behind for 1947 with a heavy heart.

After much yelling and a few bullets sent his way, Peggy cries when she finally realizes it's him. She's still breathtakingly beautiful with her soft curls and graceful, full lips, painted a striking shade of red he has not seen in years. He hates himself for making her cry. Not once has he seen her falter in all the time he's known her until now.

Something about her eyes makes him tense. Maybe it's their darkness or the length of her lashes, but something about them is off. It isn't until much later that he realizes he was looking for another set of eyes long gone.

Howard welcomes him with open arms, engulfing Steve in a bone-crushing hug. As Steve returns his embrace, Peggy watching them with unbridled joy, Steve vows that things are going to be different this time.

He's going to free Bucky before HYDRA even deploys him on his first mission as the Soldier, and Howard will die old and gray surrounded by his family, not at the hands of someone he once called friend.

And Tony. Tony. Tony is a problem for later. Much later.

Years pass, and Steve spends every waking moment fighting to make things right. Except when it comes to Tony. With Bucky and Howard, he's confident; neither of them deserved the hands they were dealt, but Tony? Tony, who had loved being Iron Man more than life itself? What right does Steve have to take that away from him?

In 1969, Howard introduces Steve to Obadiah Stane, and it takes all of his willpower not to punch him in his grimy fucking face. Howard's no idiot, he knows Steve isn't fond of Stane, but if he has an issue with Steve's indifference, he keeps it to himself.

In this second lifetime, Steve has perfected the skills that SHIELD had instilled in him; it would be so easy to have Stane quietly disappear. But with no Stane, there was no Iron Man. And with no Iron Man...Steve doesn't like to think about a future where he's not fighting by Tony's side.

But Steve is getting older, granted, he may not look it. He only just started getting silver in his hair in the eighties. It's not like he would be doing much fighting by the time Tony becomes the hero he was meant to be. In a way, it's like losing him all over again.

So Steve keeps his distance. The universe needs Iron Man alone more than they need Captain America and Iron Man together, so he figures that if Tony's formative years remain unchanged, everything should go as planned. And if it's too painful to look Tony in his face, so young, not yet worn by betrayal after betrayal, that's between Steve and his conscience.

But Tony is stubborn. Steve should be used to it, but it's been years since he's dealt with Tony Stark's particular brand of bullheadedness. Tony's twenty-one when he corners Steve at a barbecue Howard's hosting in honor of Steve's birthday.

The younger man ambushes him in the kitchen, the rest of their little family none the wiser, just outside lounging around the patio. He's never let himself be alone with Tony in this timeline, so his sheer presence has Steve hot under the collar. Tony's all fire and brashness, and it's so damn familiar Steve can almost pretend they're on the quinjet post-mission, adrenaline and lust fueling their words.

It's no surprise that Tony kisses him. Steve's noticed the not-so-subtle looks sent his way, the ever-present innuendo peppered throughout Tony's words. Tony wants him. And fuck it all, because Steve wants Tony. Steve will always want Tony, even when his wife is waiting for him to return so he can blow out the candles on a cake at a birthday party he didn't even want.

Tony gets on his knees, hands already tugging at the leather belt around Steve's waist. Steve's used to Tony, his Tony taking his time, teasing Steve until he's practically begging for it. This Tony is still so young and inexperienced, so Steve's the one who eventually takes the lead.

Any guilt he feels for doing this to Howard, doing this to Peggy, flees the scene the second Tony takes Steve into his mouth. They make a wretched sight, he's sure of it, with his pants around his ankles and Tony's face buried in his groin.

Tony's lips are so soft, softer than Steve remembers. Stretched around the girth of Steve's cock, they're obscenely pink. He aches for charcoal and his sketchbook to commit this moment to memory, add it to the collection of memories from another lifetime.

Steve buries his hand into Tony's dark waves, longer than Steve's ever seen on him, tugging at the roots the way he knows Tony likes. This time though, Steve's the one with gray at his temples, and a little detail like that shouldn't bring tears to his eyes, but it does. This Tony is gorgeous, but it's still not him.

Tony moans around his cock, just like Steve knew he would, and Steve comes with hot pulses down his throat like he's an actor playing out a scene he's rehearsed hundreds of times.

"Why did you do that?" Steve asks tiredly after they get themselves looking somewhat presentable. The guilt hasn't set in yet. Maybe it will when they leave the sanctity of the kitchen.

Tony just looks at him with those big brown eyes that know far too much and says, "I wanted to make you feel better."

Basic Guide to Clone Trooper Armour

I don’t know about you guys, but I have a hard time keeping the terms for various parts of clone armour straight in my mind. So, I decided to make this Guide To Armour, to make my life easier for those times I’m drawing or writing stuff and need to reference what this, that or the other piece is called, how it’s put on or taken off. (I’ve also tried to include/come up with some casual or slang terms for some parts because you cannot seriously expect these guys to use the Right Proper Terminology for everything all of the time.)

This is based on the Clone Wars cartoons, because that’s what I know best. Also, this is just the standard armour of regular troopers; if y’all want something about the possible additions/variations that you could have then lmk and I’ll see what I can put together I guess?

Note: a lot of this terminology is taken from medieval knights’ armour. Many terms are originally French; alternative names provided where possible. I did do a bit of research on medieval plate armour, which is the closest thing I can think of to clone armour, but I am by no means an expert so if you have any input or corrections feel free to @ me. Likewise, if you’ve cosplayed as a clone trooper or stormtrooper, I’d very much like to hear about your experience wearing this stuff, how it moves and how it might be similar or different to the “real thing” so to speak.

Figure 1: Clone trooper armour, front view. Kix got chosen for this because he’s a vain little bastard and loves to be painted. (ETA: this diagram now comes with a second, funnier version.)

(long post under cut)

Figure 2: Back view of armour.

According to Wookieepedia: The armour is produced on Kamino and has UV spectrum markings visible to Kaminoans. It is made of plastoid-alloy composite, and the plates are attached to the bodysuit via magnatomic gription panels. In general, Phase II armour is lighter, stronger and more ergonomic than Phase I, which has been described as heavy and uncomfortable (Wookieepedia also says that it weighs ‘just under forty kilograms’ which sounds like way too much but eh, I’ll roll with it.)

Body glove/bodysuit – the stuff worn under the armour. Provides thermoregulation, some level of protection from things like blasterfire, vacuum, etc. AKA: blacks.

Helmet – The Bucket. Stuffed full of various tech: tracking device, display screen, comlink… Phase I helmets also have life support capabilities, while Phase II helmets do not, requiring an external oxygen supply*. Helmet crest contains comlink antenna. AKA: bucket, I think Rex once called them sun-bonnets, etc… this is the piece likely to have the most slang terms associated with it. Go wild.

* this is according to Wookieepedia; I’m a bit sceptical but I haven’t yet seen the episode it refers to. I headcanon that Phase II is capable of limited life support for emergency situations, but extended missions require external respirators.

Cuirass – there is some conflicting information on whether this refers to just the front chest armour or both front and back. If both, it consists of breastplate and backplate, joined at the sides and shoulders. Shoulder connections appear to be different for Phase I and Phase II: Phase I has a separate piece covering the shoulder seam, implying that it can be opened, whereas Phase II looks like it has an integrated flexible band; it may or may not be possible to disconnect. Either way, the front and back pieces must be able to separate in order to get the whole thing on.

Plackart – belly piece, wraps around the back to protect kidneys as well. Probably flexible to some extent, has been seen to slide down under belt, as demonstrated by Jesse in Figure 3. Might also have to have at least one open-able seam in it in order for troopers to get into it efficiently.

Figure 3: I have no idea how the lower edge of this isn’t stabbing him in the crotch, but *shrug*.

Spaulder/shoulder bell – also known as pauldrons irl, but that term refers to a different item this context (the pauldrons that commanders, captains and ARC troopers wear), so I feel like it might be better to differentiate between them with different terms to avoid confusion. That’s just my opinion though, you feel free to do as you wish.

Rerebrace – bicep plate. Phase I has cutouts in the back to fit pointy elbows (see below); Phase II does not.

Couter – elbow plate. Pointy elbows in Phase I, unpointy elbows in Phase II, as shown on Figure 4. In Phase I appear to be attached to vambraces in the animated version, Phase II is more mobile. I admit, I’m not a huge fan of this word, I kinda prefer elbow plates.

Figure 4: Phase I and II elbows. Am I getting way too into this that it’s gotten to the point of studying clone elbows? *shrug* who knows.

Vambrace – forearm armour. Has wrist-mounted comlink (see below).

Gauntlet plate – covers back of hand. The 212th absolutely calls these “droid-punchers”, no you cannot convince me otherwise. I think I’ve seen fanon that some troopers sharpen the front edge of this plate to do more damage when punching. Decide for yourself if plastoid alloy would do more damage to the metal of a droid’s chassis if sharpened or unsharpened (and therefore sturdier).

Codpiece/crotch plate – covers the front hip and crotch area. Possible slang term, courtesy of @mockingjay34​: cockblock

Skidplate – covers butt and back hip. A lot of troopers probably just call this piece their shebs, and once again you cannot convince me otherwise. Note that in the clone wars cartoon, Phase I armour is triangular in the back and has a sort of erm… diaper shape, in that the codpiece and skidplate are connected in the crotch (I cannot imagine that being comfortable in any situation, but then again, I have Thicc™ Thighs. Do clones have thigh gaps? Also, I would not want to get pinched by the armour joint between crotch and thigh plates).

Figure 5: Sniper Butts! (Featuring Echo and Fives in quite possibly the only comfortable position in this armour.)

In Phase II the crotch and butt pieces are separated, which sounds a lot more sensible, as well as having better butt coverage – think cheeky panties vs full briefs.

Figure 6: Hardcase kindly demonstrating the new crotch plate alongside some significant gaps in his armour… please get yourself some bigger shoulder bells my dude!

I’d imagine that, given the amount of time these guys spend fully armoured, there should be some way of conveniently opening some of this up or removing individual plates for practical reasons (and if any particular trooper wanted to use this feature for… other things, well, that’s their own business).

Cuisse/Thigh plate – covers thighs. Phase I and II have different shapes in the back to account for skidplate shape, with Phase II having significantly less coverage in the upper thigh/butt area, but I guess better range of motion.

Figure 7: Troopers Hardcase and Dogma demonstrating the Butt Cutouts, or Buttouts.

Poleyn/knee plate/knee pad – important for maintaining kneecap integrity. Like elbow plates, appears to be integrated into greaves in Phase I, but moving freely in Phase II.

Greaves – cover shins, nothing fancy.

Boots – boots. Do not appear to be armoured, are soft enough to bend your toes for walking/kneeling/whatever you need bendy toes for.

Belt pouches/boxes/compartments – A place to keep your stuff when out & about. I’m assuming this is a Pocket Substitute. Clones deserve pockets too!

Comlink – Generally four large square buttons and one smaller one (live action has more buttons). They also have comlinks in their helmets. Wookieepedia mentioned that they used wrist comms in the show so that the audience could clearly see when characters were talking to each other. Possibly used for long-range communication, whereas the ones in the buckets could be for shorter range?

Life support/those box things on their back – I have no idea what they’re actually called but these also have different designs for Phase I and II. On stormtroopers they contain a power pack and a small oxygen supply, and I guess it’s reasonable to assume that they have the same life support function for clone troopers. Also read somewhere that they have comlink scanner for long-range communication?

Thermal detonator – why would they all have bombs on their back? Seems unsafe. Also I don’t think I’ve ever seen one used? Idk. These things confuse me.

more of the mutually assured destruction duo, post-prison this time! this one was really fun, thinking about what this dynamic might be like in the future gives me SO much brainrot, im so excited. this one’s also a little dark, so make sure to read the warnings + tags !! :D 

tw: implied prison abuse, starvation, toxic relationship, touch starvation, manipulation, panic attack, trauma, blood, injury

Dream hasn't been the same since he escaped prison.

And it's ironic, because Wilbur hasn't even been around, has been in hell for fuck's sake playing Competitive Solitaire for nine-odd years, but even he could've seen the self-destruction hanging like a cloud around the other's head from a million miles (and several months? years?) away. Perhaps, he thinks wryly, you can only see the signs when you've lived them, or maybe red flags don't raise alarm when you’ve painted the entire figure in blood, but it doesn't really matter, in the end, because the final result is the same.

Still, it's just a little funny when he's stopped in the middle of his journey through the Nether, not a piece of armor on him per usual and an unused netherite sword slung over his hip.

"Hello, Sapnap." The kid is standing in front of him, eyes gleaming in badly-hidden anger and desperation, smoke rising from the mottled red-black skin on his hands. "Fancy seeing you around."

"You-" Sapnap sputters, unable to speak as his face flushes red in frustration, and Wilbur smiles at him condescendingly. The expression on the other's face is one he's seen before - one Tommy had been particularly inclined to give him in the past, when his emotions raged so heavily that there was nothing for the pressure to do but build, too thick and heavy to force themselves out of his throat. "You're monsters," Sapnap manages, finally, and Wilbur quirks an eyebrow.

At least we're self-aware, he thinks, the all-too-familiar twinge of irritation at Tommy's - and apparently, Sapnap's particular brand of reckless naivety pulsing at the base of his skull. He lets none of these thoughts show on his face as he cocks his head to the side, smiles wider - and Sapnap, just like Tommy, takes the bait.

'Why are you smiling?" He looks achingly young - they all do, really, their expressions and reactions dripping with a sort of innocence and sincerity that dissolved from Wilbur's own face somewhere around the fifteen-hundreth game of poker, and it really does feel ironic, how quickly the outside world can fall apart compared to the unending constancy of the void - but he digresses.

He didn't know Sapnap well before his whole death thing, and as much as he wants to use his partner to get information on the other members of the server, he doesn't really think Dream is really even lucid enough for that - the man clearly hasn't been thinking clearly, not for a long time. It doesn't matter, though, because you learn to read people when your life becomes nothing but running the same broken-edged memories over and over again in your mind and smiling jaggedly over the same few card games - Wilbur had always been a people watcher, and Sapnap's feelings are stamped on every corner of his face.

"Monster, huh," he says, saying the word slowly, rolling it over his tongue like he's tasting it for the first time, watching from the corner of his eye as Sapnap squirms, "Interesting word you've got here. You use it often?"

Sapnap bristles, smoke curling from his nostrils - "It's what you are, dickhead."

Rolling his eyes internally, Wilbur keeps up the act, humming as he fiddles idly with his cufflink. "I mean, if you really believe that," he rocks forward on his right foot, stifling a smile at the way the younger draws back, "But really, it's all a matter of perspective." He twists himself around, pivoting around his heel, beginning to walk in an arc around Sapnap's left side, watching as he spins around, shoulders drawn up to his ears. "What do you think?"

"I think that you're full of shit," he says, voice flat, and Wilbur laughs. It's genuine, really, because well - Sapnap's different. He's fun; the entire server is, after so long in the void. You can only spend so much time with the same two people before they drive you a little up the metaphorical wall, but Sapnap's reactions are fresh and new and different, still saturated with vitality that hasn’t been leached out by the same deck of cards in the same scarred hands shuffled and reshuffled for eternity. He's interesting, and new, and most of all, predictable.

"Say, Sapnap," he continues, blowing over the other's anger, knowing that it'll only make the frustration build more. He lets his hair flop lazily over one eye, lets his smile grow wider, lips pressed together in amusement, turns his face so that it's lit eerily by the lava lake beneath them. "If we're monsters for, I don't know, setting off a few stacks of TNT," he waves his hand flippantly, watching the muscle of the other's jaw jump in poorly-hidden rage, "What does that make you for what you did to Dream?"

Sapnap's eyes go wide, and Wilbur knows he's struck the jackpot. He lets his lips part to reveal bared teeth, jagged and glinting in the light. "I'm sorry, did that hit a nerve?"

The kid's mouth opens- closes- emotions warring on his face, fists curling and uncurling at his sides, lip trembling. "We- we had to-" his hands come to his face, palms digging into his eyes, and while he's not looking, Wilbur draws his expression back a bit, becoming softer, more welcoming. When Sapnap looks back up, his eyes are shining, hands shaking still; he steps forward, then rocks back on his back foot like he doesn't know where to go. "What do you mean?" he throws the words like they're meant to be a threat, but by the end his voice has devolved into something high-pitched and keening, overflowing with desperate grief that Wilbur latches onto like a starving man (ha) with his last meal.

"I'm sorry, it does seem rather insensitive for me to assume," he resumes pacing around the other, voice lilting, soft, "I just mean, it seemed pretty obvious, don't you think? I don't think I've ever seen someone so skinny, really, but I guess that is what happens when you get starved,"

"Shut up-"

"Not to mention the whole panicking thing, I mean, he's like Tommy sometimes with all of the fucking shaky breathing and mumbling around like creepers, not that I'd know what all of that's about," he watches Sapnap through half-hooded eyes, darkly amused, "and pickaxes, oddly enough, but oh well. Who am I to judge?"

"Shut up-"

"And all of the scars - I thought they were from you, honestly, he told me about the whole 'taking his last life' thing, but then he jumped into lava one day - I guess there wasn't much to do in that cell, huh? He didn't even scream, it's really pretty fucking incredible - I thought I'd actually have to break him down a bit, but really, you've made my life so much easier-"

"SHUT UP-"

Wilbur watches with a too-wide grin as Sapnap finally, finally charges, a netherite sword appearing in his hand as he races blindly ahead, tears shining on his cheeks, his words more pain than thought as he brings the blade down-

A blur of purple, the sound of crumbling netherrack and metal meeting metal, flesh hitting flesh - Wilbur moves smoothly out of the way as Sapnap crashes to the ground, an armored figure bearing down an axe against the shield he's raised between them.

Dream, hair tangled and long, wearing armor that is far too heavy for his skinny frame, every inch of him shaking in panic, should hardly be a threat - but this is Sapnap, weakened by Wilbur's sharp words and crippled by the shock of seeing his former best friend's face again, eyes still unfocused from the rage and tears that had clouded over them moments before, so he can do little but raise his shield as the netherite slams into it, again and again. Not a word falls from Dream's lips, but he brings down the weapon at a ruthless pace - ever since he's been free, his attack style has changed greatly from the defensive style he used to favor, even to Wilbur's untrained eye - there's no skill, no art to the way he attacks anymore, just the fearful ferocity of a dog trapped in a cage for far, far too long.

He finally kicks Sapnap down the netherrack cliff that they're on, the other man left to nurse his wounds below them - Wilbur doesn't bother sparing him another thought; Dream's far too weak to cause any permanent damage. Instead, he approaches his partner, weapon, with a smile, watching, satisfied, when he whirls around with a manic expression.

"I'm alright, see?" he croons as Dream's shoulders move up and down with his heaving breaths, eyes fever-bright, teeth bared. He brings a hand down on the other's shoulder and watches as he flinches at the movement, breath hitching, every muscle freezing, knuckles pale on the handle of his axe, before moving again, stumbling forwards, hands reaching for Wilbur's head and stopping halfway. Wilbur tips his head forward, lets the shorter brush his face with trembling fingers, checking his unmarred skin for blood through the purpling bruises already forming on his cheek, and thinks how powerful he is to have a god at his beck and call, a perfect attack dog brought to heel, death itself obediently at his side.

Dream hasn't been the same since he escaped prison, and as Wilbur runs his hand up and down his back, feeling the way his spine arches at the touch, at the fluttering pulse under the skin-and-bone wrist under his fingers, he thinks how fortunate he is to be the first to notice.

Movies I watched this week - 39

I spent over 50 (!) hours on the sofa this week, (enjoying myself 85% of the time)...

Sløborn, an ominous Danish-German TV pandemic series, very much like Soderbergh’s ‘Contagion’ and in ‘Black Mirror’ style. Normal life of a small island community between Denmark and Germany breaks down and completely collapses when it is hit by a lethal bird flue like virus.

It was extremely prescient, as it was shot in 2019, before Covid! Conceived as Si-fi, it looks today like TV, because the series was able to capture everything that happened around the world after January 2020 in accurate details.

With Roland Møller (of ‘Riders of Justice’). 7+/10

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My introduction to “The grandmother of The French New Wave”, Agnès Varda (Hard to believe that I never saw her films before!):

✳️✳️✳️ “Inspiration, Creation and Sharing...” Varda by Agnès, my first Varda is her last 2019 auto-biography, in which, at 90, she shared footage and stories from her life and work. The first sample clip (of meeting her Uncle Yanco in Sausalito) won me over, and the rest convinced me to catch up on everything I’ve missed through the years. What a wonderful artist!

✳️✳️✳️ Cléo from 5 to 7. A feminine film about female identity - a new favorite! A beautiful singer must wait 2 hours for the results of her cancer tests. With a magnifique mid-film scene (at 0;38) of the heartbreaking chanson 'Sans Toi', marking the beginning of her quiet transformation.

✳️✳️✳️ Vagabond, a story of a lonely, young woman, an unapologetic drifter, unglamorous, aimless, independent, desperately lost. Dark and nonjudgmental exploration of the refusal to conform to anything. 8+/10.

✳️✳️✳️ (For Sammy - Per our conversation). The Gleaners and I, "The eighth best documentary film of all time”, per ‘Sight & Sound poll. Derived from the famous painting by Millet. Simply wonderful!

✳️✳️✳️ One Hundred And One Nights, 100 year old Michel Piccoli “Monsieur Simon Cinema”, hires a young girl to reminisce with about the history of cinema. An unsuccessful Meta-film that nevertheless is a love letter for cinephiles. Populated by 3 dozens of Who’s Who of French (and World) stars, playacting in this symbolic, Fellinisque fable that draws upon the classics. Mastroianni, Depardieu, Belmondo, Alain Delon, Catherine Deneuve, Jeanne Moreau, Anouk Aimée, Fanny Ardant, Gina Lollobrigida, Jane Birkin, etc, etc..

(Photo Above).

✳️✳️✳️ The Young Girls of Rochefort, the wonderful, colorful, sentimental musical by Varda’s husband Jacques Demy, with the most beautiful woman in the world and her sister. Romantic eye candy set to music by Michel Legrand. A year later Deneuve would do Belle de Jour, and Françoise Dorléac would die in a car accident, 8+/10

✳️✳️✳️ Even better, The Young Girls Turn 25, Varda’s 1993 behind the scenes documentary and return to small town Rocheford, to show how it changed the town and left an impression. 9/10

“...The memory of happiness is perhaps also happiness...”

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The other Jacques Demy modern opera The Umbrellas of Cherbourg knocked me over all over again. Catherine Deneuve’s angelic beauty in this film made me cry for the duration like a baby. And not only at the train station when they say goodbye forever.

10/10

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Night moves, a tense thriller by Kelly Reichardt, about three radical environmentalists who blow up an Oregon dam. Slow and tense, and like her ‘First Cow’, watching it filled me with constant, low-level anxiety. The off-screen sabotage is placed at the exact mid-point of the movie: The first half is the preparation for it, and the second half shows the aftermath of the act. 7+/10

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2 unexpected Small Town gems by Miguel Arteta:

✳️✳️✳️ The good Girl, an odd and surprising mismatched romance between 30 year old Jennifer Aniston and Jake Gyllenhaal (22) as employees of a Texas big-box store that is always empty. Her voice-over reminded me of True Romance’s Alabama Whitman. 7/10

✳️✳️✳️ Ed Helms, a sheltered insurance salesman from the backwaters of Wisconsin, goes to an convention in the big city of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. The nearly conventional story arc has some genuinely heartfelt funny moments. With Maeby Fünke, as Bree the prostitute and Sigourney Weaver as the ex-teacher he balls. Also a surprising drug party, where he smoke crack cocaine and loves it. 5+/10

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Same theme of people prostituting their own ‘morals’, the notoriously-prudish 1993 Indecent Proposal didn’t age too well. “Billionaire”-porn that asks the question ‘How much would you pay for one night with Robert Redford?’ Gratuitous semi-naked Demi Moore included.

Related: “Stop hitting the button!”

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Wildland (Kød & blod = Flesh and blood), an uncomfortable and claustrophobic Danish gangster thriller about a 17 year old girl who moves in with the criminal family of Sidse Babett Knudsen, her estranged aunt. 6+/10

“For some people, things go wrong before they even begin”

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Jim Jarmusch‘s Broken Flowers, a touching road film with Bill Murray, as an old ‘Don Juan’ who receive a pink, unsigned letter from an old lover, letting him know that he has a 20 year old son he never knew about.

Loveliest film of the week.

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The 2 films directed by Tom Ford:

✳️✳️✳️ A single Man, a sad and lonely gay professor, closeted in 1962 Los Angeles, is preparing to kill himself with a gun, after his boyfriend / love of his life had died in a car accident. Mute and haunting aesthetics in the fashion designer’s debut film, based on a Christopher Isherwood novel.

The ‘Stormy Weather’ dance scene between Charley and George. 8/10

✳️✳️✳️ Nocturnal Animals: Amy Adams is an unhappy owner of a fancy art gallery who receives a disturbing book manuscript written by her ex-husband, which symbolizes their relationship 20 years prior. Rarefied visuals and distinctive style.

Starts with an astonishing scene of obese old ladies dancing naked at Amy’s gala event. Michael Shannon rules as a dying Texas detective! 6+/10.

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Jean Vigo’s 1933 classic Zero for Conduct was so blatantly anarchistic, it was immediately banned in France until after WW2. In silent film style, it tells about a group of mischievous kids who rebel against the authorities of their old-fashioned boarding school. Part-inspiration for Truffaut's 400 Blows.

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Anatomy of a murder, Otto Preminger’s 1960 courtroom drama, with opening credits by Saul Bass. Crisp black & white cinematography, and with rape victim Lee Remick playing it as an outgoing loose girl of ambiguous morals, a modern floozy. 7/10.

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Blush, a wondrous, spectacularly-animated, wordless short by Joe Mateo. What starts as a riff on ‘The Little Prince’, ends up like the opening montage from ‘Up’. The obvious realization that this is a personal metaphor makes the story even deeper.

I watched it twice back to back. 10/10

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If You're Not in the Obit, Eat Breakfast - 95 year old Carl Reiner asks a bunch of charming nonagenarian friends how they manage to live so well for so long. Their answers may (not) shock you...

Spry Dick Van Dyke (92) and half-his-age wife end the film with a lovely rendition of “Young at heart”

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Hi-school-level adaptation of Thomas Piketty's book Capital in the 21st Century. A breezy discussion of how slave economy and colonialist military repression 300 years ago turn into extreme capitalism of inequality & tax-avoidance today. America is now similar economically to what England was in the early 1800s. A tiny percentage of society controls almost all its wealth. (Full text of the book here).

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Ride the eagle, a flat new indie about a guy whose estranged hippy mother leaves him her cabin at the lake when she dies, but only if he complete a certain list of tasks. Could be so much better, but the actor playing the guy was just so terrible. Unlike JK Simmons who had a small role. Best detail, when he discovers that all the cabinets in the house are full with pot.

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Old, my first, (and possibly last), M. Night Shyamalan. The seductive premise of a secluded beach at a fancy tropical resort that ages everybody who comes there, turns into an unconvincing Twilight Zone bore.

...”(Gurgling sounds)”...

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First watch: I never saw (any) Planet of the apes before, and in spite of my misgivings, gave it a go. 100% anthropomorphic, it couldn’t visualize a universe different from the American mindset of that period. Preachy and very Rod Sterling-like. "It's a madhouse in here”. Pass!

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The latest Veritasium YouTube video about bowling current technology. Always interesting.

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Throw-back to the art project:

Planet of the Apes Adora. 

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(My complete movie list is here)

…the ugly. SYAC: The Master Review 4

Last post I covered much of what I consider the good or passable strips of SYAC of the pre-Dobbear era. What I have admittedly not covered yet, were three certain characters of the strip that exist beside Dobson.

Persistent Pam

 Curmudgeonly Carl

And… this guy I am not even sure has a name.

No, seriously. He shows up in like the 61th strip of the series for the first time and yet I never see his name mentioned once

All I know is that he is an accountant, who pities Dobson (for good reason)

And despite Dobson not liking alcohol, they regularly meet up in a bar as if they are some late 80s comedy duo

Funnily enough, he shows up way before Pam, who would have her premiere in these strips

 And despite only showing up in a few strips after her premiere (mostly to make “fun” of overbearing and snarky commissioners I suppose…)

 She actually managed something no other character or series by Dobson managed to get: A fanclub

 Not that she would really be of any major importance afterwards.

As for Carl, he is supposed to be something like an antagonistic embodiment of Dobson’s “old” art teachers and people being stuck in old ways, who shows up for the following strips forming a sort of arc.

In addition, it is very obvious, that Carl is supposed to be a mockery of people flaming Dobson. Not helped by the fact that THIS character sheet of him made by Dobson assures us, that there were quite a few even less “endorsing” things he wanted to name the character.

Yet funnily enough, Carl turned into such a popular character with readers, Dobson was essentially “forced” to make him reappear in other strips. Not of the “classical” SYAC strips, but he showed up as the “antagonist” to Tenku in the storydriven multi pagers. Though even antagonist is a strong word, as he is essentially more of a jerkish art teacher and college advisor who is harsh on Tenku, but actually has his best interests in mind. To the point he even offers him to be his “harsher” art critic in the years till he enters college, because he wants to see him grow artistically.

 However, Carl was also more of an “accident”. Cause when it came otherwise to tackling criticism or things that irked Dobson (and were not anime related) he would end up more or less creating strips that painted him in a manner where he would supposedly always look like “the better” compared to his opposition or mock it. Which is where a lot of the irk Dobson would earn over the years eventually comes from.

Now to be fair, I do not want to call every comic in that regard “strawmanning”, nor do I want to say that Dobson doesn’t have the right to also mock to a certain extend the mentality of certain “snobs” and so on. For example…

On one hand, I know there are people out there who think they are “special” by having the best tools at their disposal. When in reality you can achieve good results also with less expensive stuff. So mocking that sort of attitude is fine to me to some extend

BUT, when you also make down the line a comic like this…

… essentially making yourself come off as a “better” artist or person than others because you have “chosen” the better mass produced crap (btw, that is coming from someone who types this review on a Mac that runs Windows) , then the hypocrisy ends up to be rather strong with you.

 Which is also essentially the biggest issue with the strips I am about to show. The hypocrisy of Andrew Dobson. And no, I do not mean the tumblr blog by that. I mean the simple fact, that the content of some of the soon to follow strips gets kinda muddled when you take into consideration some of the things real life Dobson had said and done either at the time or in the years to come. Well that and the way how he tries to mock issues people have with his work, not realizing how he is essentially just reassuring those “silly critics” in their opinions while making his flaws more obvious to people that may have been previously unaware of them.

But enough talk, let me just show you in quick succession examples to confirm said point.

Considering Dobson’s longterm disdain for DnD you have to wonder what the joke really is outside of him portraying DnD players as ugly nerds, supposedly too geeky even for him. Which is hilarious in hindsight as he would years later become a fan of TAZ among other things.

Less hypocritical but the set up is kinda flawed. Like, you are obviously at a convention trying to sell stuff. Why would some old dude not interested in “kids crap” be at the convention anyway? Is he just bringing someone there and just wants to go, but first needs time to belittle your life choices?

 Rather hilarious in hindsight to me. Cause for someone claiming he has ideas that last for a life time and who seems rather distraught on the idea of others giving their input, he turned out to be so in need of ideas. Alex ze Pirate e.g. became from 2015 onward only defined by Dobson talking about the sexualities of his characters (and not even in comic as by that point it was discontinued, but rather in tweets and so on). Formera, which ran heavily on cheap shonen anime tropes ended up cancelled after two volumes, Cabin Rest was a failure after 20 strips, 2019 he relied primarily on cheap comics about Miraculous Ladybug and his understanding of certain genres is so bad, he can’t even think up the most basic ideas for a magical girl story.

Weirdly enough, that pitch of a garbage truck driver who fights crime? I think that could make for an enjoyable short story about a vigilante a la the Punisher or Sin-City.

 The way Dobson perceives criticism, while also essentially giving a quick rundown how he appreciated criticism in his childhood way better than in adulthood. Yeah, because criticism by your parents as a kid was always VERY constructive. (looks back at certain drawings from own childhood) brrr. And sorry Dobson, but sometimes criticism by strangers is better than criticism from friends. Cause friends may mince their words. Plus people have over time given you quite some insightful criticism aside “U SUX” when it comes to comics. You were just never willing to listen

Hey Dobson, you hear that? That is the sound of your career, dying and no one caring.

Yeah, I think someone who made such “brilliant” comedy as in these comics, totally has the right not to listen to what seems to be solid theoretical advice.

BTW, that Talus comic… I swear to god the worst “joke” Dobson ever told.

 Wow. You essentially make a point why you suck at drawing. While still not trying to change.

And as someone else once said: Don’t play with fire if you can’t deal with the heat, BLOCK-son!

This is not how I perceived your shit over the years. See, on one hand it is true that Alex ze Pirate e.g. has its own webpage to read the comic for free. HOWEVER most of his comics Dobson would hide from the start behind a paywall. The idea being that he would e.g. put a small reading sample of 10-15 pages up somewhere and then expect people to buy his comic for full price to get the rest. And you know, if you are e.g. a professionally published writer, that is fine. But when your average art output looks like THIS

And you expect people to pay more than 10 dollars for something that is only around 70 pages long while most people can get 200+ pages for the same amount of money that look like this…

 You can frankly go and screw yourself.

On one hand I get that the joke is meant to be, that as an independent content creator you may find yourself in a weird spot where your “child friendly” work may be put in a palace between edgier stuff other creators sell at conventions. On the other hand, I find it rather insulting in hindsight, that self declared feminist Andrew Dobson portrays such competition as either psychopathic murderers or stereotypical cartoon bimbos. If modern day Dobson saw the same strip by any other person, he would be insulted on behalf of the female that she is portrayed as a bimbo, when she could also be a very smart and attractive woman who knows how to tell brave and sexy stories.

Also, I have read your “child friendly” stuff, Dobson. I would call Atea or Alex abusive bitches who like to bully orphans but child friendly? Not to forget that your work is so basic and shallow in depth, it’s like the someone tried to create a chimera out of some of the worst traits associated with Dora the Explorer, 80s toodler cartoons and the Fairly Oddparents.

I frankly hate this theory on comedy. It is true, a lot of comedy can be deprived from conflict, misunderstandings etc. Looney Tunes, Tom and Jerry and other cartoons as well as screwball comedies such as Rat Race can depend on it. Heck, one of my favorite comedians of all time is Christopher Titus, who based his entire career on the misery and absurdity of his life.

But comedy is not just defined by misery and conflict.

There are for example also the following theories when it comes to comedy…

And to get back e.g. to Titus, yes, he has build a lot of his comedy on the bad stuff that happened in his life. But he is also someone who in his comedy has build a lot of punchlines on the absurdity of certain situations he has been in life but which in a way have enriched his life positively.

 What I am trying to say is, comedy (and entertainment in that regard) does not just have to be defined by misery. And all things considered Dobson, you could have really tried to also just make comics wherein either you or your characters are just happy with their situation in life.

For example, this page from an Owl House fancomic?

I think it holds more entertainment value than your “joke” right here, despite not even telling a joke.

Simply because as a page overall, it tries to convey a positive emotion. Which is more than I can say about the strip.

Because of a lack of different level of thickness regarding your lines, which would trick people into perceiving depth, the fact that the fill bucket and shade layers can only do so much to cover for the rather monochromatic dull nature of your comic, the fact that your characters are not really all that complex and look rather simplicstic even compared to stuff from a comic like this…

And that is just coming from the top of my head as someone who never studied art. If any reader has something to add, I am willing to listen

And considering you could in later years never keep up to any release schedule, which among other things resulted in only three SYAC strips in total being released in 2016, I say go fuck yourself. Not to forget that even some of the worst newspaper comic strips out there tend to actually find a decent following and good jokes eventually, otherwise they would not manage to stay popular for years, if not even decades.

As someone who has worked internships a lot in life, I just want to say fuck you in all our names. Glad to see you having just as much respect for interns than any other scumbag on the planet. Probably even less respect, cause you know, in some places interns tend to get paid.

Also, there is supposedly an entire real world story going on about Dobson having worked at his former university at the time the comic came out and Chaz is based on a fellow intern.

Things are unfortunately rather vague in that regard and only hold up by demonstrative evidence such as the name of Chaz showing up in certain pages of the university and Dobson’s internship being mentioned somewhere.

Well, would you look at that: People have different opinions on your stuff.

There are ways to draw memes funny and then there are ways to fail at them

 You failed.

Funnily enough, that comic rings a lot truer to text than you expect. Considering how Dobson would often emulate certain aesthetics in his comics of shows that were rather passee by the time he published his stuff, plus how he will obsess over certain trends and games for years to come (like Skyrim or his Quiet Hate Boner) while also being unaware about current trends (how do you e.g. not have heard of My Hero Academia by 2018 at least once by accident?) Dobson has always been kinda late to the party. Missing the “zeitgeist” of nerd culture and as such never quite finding an audience.

Yeah, what Pam says. Not helped by the fact that yes, the floating eyebrows are real. Look at some earlier sketches or “professionally published” comics by his and you will see that each time characters get excited, their eyebrows will suddenly split into sets of three and float higher than Pennywise’s victims.

Ironically, that fits real life Dobson at the time and later on even more so than this comic version did. Sorry, but what am I supposed to call a person who has an hate boner on anime for years for superfluous reasons, made Danny and Spot a “gaming webcomic” deliberately to piss on non Nintendo fans and has admitted in some by now deleted youtube video, that he kept a list of usernames from an old forum just to remember even years later the people that were mean to him online?

 Fuck both of you. I do not expect the Sixtin Chapel in the background, but something to filll up the empty space behind you is at times needed.

The comic here is actually called politics. … ironic how things changed once a certain reality show host turned president.

Jesus Christ. I am not even that much of a Transformers fan (Prime fan for life however) but even I know that this is not supposed to be what you design the head of a Transformer like. Not even if they ever produce the Transformers equivalent of Teen Titans Go.

Too bad you still can’t stand the heat, otherwise you wouldn’t have completely disappeared last year.

When you know you are in a no win situation, and still manage to choose an even dumber option to escape. I really don’t get it. I just think the Portal reference makes the comic dated and Dobsn’s attempt at a smug face looks so stupid. Like his cheeks are falling in and his mouth is about ready to get raped by a garden hose or something.

Yeah, considering Dobson’s later constant need for safe spaces and to be in control of a situation and the narrative, which led to so many blocks over the years… if you know anything about Dobson, how this comic becomes harsher in hindsight is rather self explanatory. I just want to say one thing: There is a difference between genuine agoraphobia and just wanting to be by yourself. And I think Dobson just prefers the later on average. Which is okay, but humans still need to interact with other human beings in one form or another, even just for the sake of keeping their mental health stable. Why do you think are so many people getting depressed in times of covid lockdowns, despite many having all sorts of technical gimmicks at their disposal to at least keep boredom at bay?

And by putting himself into a bubble like that, I think Dobson has deprived himself of some of the most basic human interaction, which was likely a severe factor in his mental degeneration over the last years.

It is still a valid suggestion! Just draw some cartoon characters or a nice fantasy scenario on a mural and earn yourself some bucks. Just be sure they are not by Disney or the Mouse will tear down the school!

… Just google up the words Andrew Dobson and Samus Aran commission by ED and you will see how this comic just further shows how much Dobson seems to actually be proud of being an unproductive asshole.

 And by the way, I know that any form of artistic work takes time. Just writing these review posts takes a lot of time for me. But that doesn’t change the fact that people should post and create stuff in a timely fashion, especially when there are e.g. deadlines to hold up too. And by the way, Sloth’s don’t have fingers, they have claws!

And that is it.

Sorry if I missed anything folks, but I just saw how many pages in word this is already filling up, so I call quits for this part here right now. I think I made my point about how Dobson trying to badly deflect arguments people may make against his art and work ethics via jokes clear enough, while also showing some posts that are either harsher or hilarious in hindsight.

Next time we will however address one certain issue about our main character, that has been not directly addressed here. In the meantime, have a little fun video that shows hopefully how entertainment and a certain amount of comedy can be gained NOT via misery.

I've started remaking my first One Piece OC, Luna. Mostly, it was about the color palettes, but I also thought she deserved to be drawn in my new artstyle. Especially since she's from my MS Paint era...

Please click on the image and see it in full scale

Base by Destinys-Heart on DeviantArt + kailnaiorsolya and We Heart It on Pinterest

So here she is in her pre-timeskip appearance. She's a moon spirit which is where she got the wings from - plus a little bit of magic. That magic is what got her the cracks on her eye and hand - her own powers backfired because her body had not yet fully matured and was unable to withstand them. The scars are from various battles she has gotten into for the Straw Hats. Moon spirits aren't supposed to fight. They're very vulnerable. But Luna wants to fight not only for herself but for her friends.

In case some of you are wondering: Yes, Luna does molt. It's a completely natural thing and part of her species' maturing process. She grows at the speed of a normal human, but her wings don't grow like her hair or nails, even though they're made of the same material. That's why she has to molt. Whenever her wings got too small to carry her, she has had to molt, rendering her unable to fly for a few weeks. Luna has already molted about ten times. Her growth spurt was a pain because that meant the molting intervals got smaller - and molting is exhausting! Being 18 before the timeskip, she hadn't gone through her final full molt yet. That started happening during the Sabaody Arc, to her dismay. It was also the main reason why she made no attempt to fly off the island she was sent to. She couldn't. Notice I said full molt. After a tought battle, she usually sheds a few of her feathers because they got damged. Thankfully, they grow back very quickly.

Her feathers, as you can see, are pretty big, especially her primaries which has led to some interesting quirks among the crew. Each of her crewmates keeps one of her feathers like a friendship bracelet. Luffy has only a small one that he keeps tucked under the red part of his hat. Zoro has it tied to one of his katana. Nami's is her most prized quill that she uses for drawing her maps. She may have picked up more than one and have a habit of sticking aroung Luna during fights. Just because the feathers can't be used for flying anymore doesn't mean Nami can't use them for writing. Some of them aren't badly damaged at all, they just annoy Luna. Usopp has a very practical use for Luna's feathers. He cuts them into pieces and attaches them to some of his ammunition, like the the feather part of shuttlecocks. There's a single long feather, one of the primaries, that he keeps in his workshop on the Sunny. Nobody knows where Sanji keeps his feather. But it's definitely somewhere very safe and he worships it. Chopper has a mid-sized feather tied to his backpack. Robin always finds a way to incorporate her feather into her outfits. Franky keeps his feather attached to his gold chain. Brook has the feather openly displayed on his hat. Luna is very touched by the gesture, even though she thought it was odd at first and admittedly got embarrassed about her molting, thinking it was annoying that there would be feathers lying around.

Post-timeskip

first time with tachihara scenario? bonus points if s/o is a virgin and has no idea what to do

This took me so long I’m so sorry ;;;;  n.sfw | smut                                              _________Downpour paints Yokohama silver. Rushing, heavy drops of rain continue to pelt the city as the night drags towards morning. Bars close down, the sound of final call ringing through the streets until the crowds dissipate quickly looking for shelter from the cold raindrops. Tachihara watches from his window one leg thrown up on the sill elbow wrapped over it. His other foot taps off beat on the wooden floor. He always found a subtle calming aura in the rain and the silky mist it left on the city’s floor. Hordes of black umbrellas disperse over the sidewalks like little floating orbs stuck in a misty grasp. Eventually the street below clears and his only entertainment falls to the neon signs going out one by one.

His apartment should be considered small by the standard of which he’s paid, but it doesn’t bother him. His money is sunk in shit that shouldn’t matter but it does to him. A decent baseball bat; two of them. A guitar that cost too much for the brand. A bed far too big for just him and he was rarely home to use it anyway. It’s why he purchased a studio apartment to begin with. He didn’t plan on staying long and with the way things turned out….he somewhat regrets not buying a bigger place now that his permanence in the mafia was sealed. The one thing that makes the apartment worth staying in (other than his lack of enthusiasm to move again) was the location. The view of the city from his window took his breath away. Dark evenings like this, early in the morning when he was just coming home in the stench of blood and gunpowder. Nothing beat the view. Tachihara finishes his cigarette slowly holding on to the nicotine longer than usual.  He liked the dizziness that sometimes fell over him when he hadn’t slept enough or eaten yet. It helped him sleep. In the time that passes he wonders if you’re back yet. You always complained about going on missions outside of Japan. Missing home; he’d tease you for it. Tell you to quit whining. You said once a few months ago you liked the sound of his voice--muttered it into your crossed arms at the bar, actually. But it stuck with him. Now, after everything, he could finally admit to himself that his true personality had flourished in the mafia. With the Black Lizard. The barrier could be lifted, but where would it lead? He wasn’t entirely sure and he’d never let himself think in that direction. But now.. His head snaps to the door when he hears an inconsistent knock. Habitually, he picks up one of the guns strewn on his nightstand and walks to his door. Sweatpants hanging low at his hips. Nobody outside the mafia knew where he lived, and the others wouldn’t bother coming to his door now. They knew it would be bad for both parties. Tachihara exhales loudly and drops the gun from your head, opening the door a bit wider to lean on. “Shit ____, you could have warned me it was you. I almost blew your head off.” He huffs resting the gun on his thigh. It takes a few seconds for your appearance to hit him properly. Pale, more tired than usual, you looked like you’d been through shit. “Hey...what is it?” There is no hesitancy when you lean your full weight into his body arms scrunched up on your chest. Tachihara walks two steps back and shuts the door, tossing his gun on the small table with his keys so he can wrap his arms around you. “______, are you okay?”  “I almost royally fucked up..” you mumble into his chest. You’d been thinking about him since it happened. Out of all the people you’d grown close to in the mafia Tachihara was the single individual that kept running circles in your head. He left a permanent mark on you from the moment you two met. The way he spoke, his deep voice and commanding authority, the way he didn’t take shit from anyone. There was an endearing and conflicting attractiveness to his street attitude. One that normally didn’t work well in the middle ranks of the mafia. Especially with his habit of talking back to Hirotsu. “I’m such a fucking idiot.” Tachihara sets his chin on the top of your head wondering where this affection came from. If he remembered correctly you hated him when you two first met. Called him an opinionated asshole. It wasn’t wrong but fuck it made him wanna throw you to another section of the mafia all together. You pissed him off. Always rolling your eyes when he told you the plan was changing and reminded you that you were an add on to the Black Lizard when needed. Your skill was useful but combat wise he was far superior. Secretly, or not so secretly to Hirotsu, he liked throwing that in your face because of the scrunched look you got. It was cute. Like two children fighting on the playground as Hirotsu called it, his version of flirting, he supposed he could admit that’s what it was now. “Well you didn’t so you’re fine right?” His voice vibrates against your chest. You shiver, but not from the cold rain that had drenched you on the walk over. You already felt his shirt soaking but he didn’t seem to mind. Yet. Tachihara keeps his arms around you as he walks further backwards, getting you more into the apartment to feel the heat and step away from the door where the draft came in. “You’re soaked.” “No shit.” Tachihara frowns and pulls back a bit to look at your face. Realizing how close he was has your heart leaping into your throat. He looked tired, but the frown on his face was making the outline of his lips much more obvious. A pout without meaning to appear. Shit. You shiver a second time and tug at the collar of his shirt. “You’re soaked now too. I didn’t meant to interrupt..your..whatever the fuck you’re doing I just...felt like a fucking moron.” You exhale through your nose shoulders slumping a bit. Tachihara snickers, lips curling into a smirk that has your heart jumping up to your throat. Moments of silence inch by. The echo of raindrops surrounding the tiny apartment. Tachihara keeps your gaze as his head tilts. You watch in slow motion. The subtle movement draws him closer. Your heart begins to pound in your ears.  His hand secures itself at the base of your neck fingers spreading to thread in your hair. They were softer than you’d imagined. with how often he handled a gun you expected something much more rough. Your eyes flutter shut. He’s gentle, at first, but the rivalry persists even in this moment. You kiss back, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip. Fuck, Tachihara thinks, feeling the goosebumps that trail the sensation of your teeth in his flesh. It’s a pleasure that drives him to pivot and push you against the wall, slotting his knee between your legs pinning you against it and his body. Despite the soaking wet clothes you felt warm. Smelled like rain and gunpowder with a hint of vanilla. Tachihara groans hands roaming under your shirt exploring the soft skin over your ribs as his tongue rolls against the roof of your mouth. He smirks when the vibration from your moan tickles his lips causing him to pull back just enough to let you breathe. Addicting. That’s what this was going to become. He could feel it in the way you launch at him pulling him back into a rough kiss that has his knees turning to puddy. Almost taboo given he was technically a higher rank than you and both of you butted heads during working hours. Strict but merciless. Like this, though, you were anything but rigid. There is a fervent, feral desire that drips from your skin bleeding into his making it impossible for you two to separate from each other. You tasted like whiskey and burned like a shot down his throat that warms his entire body from head to toe. You grip his shoulders forcing the white t-shirt to stretch around his collar before you rip it in half at the back. The laugh that echoes from his throat makes your skin tingle. Moan soft as it leaves your lips and his mouth travels down the hollow of your throat. Red marks. Love bites. Dark bruises. Your chest arcs head tilting back to give him more access, more of the biting you craved. Tachihara teases the spots that make you tense and jolt. Little nips that blossom to hard bites. Your nails leave crescents in the round curve of his shoulders down to the blades. Toned muscle tightens under your touch. The drenched shirt on your torso ends up in tatters along with his and the brick is cold against your back. “Fuck.” Tachihara groans as his hands make their way up to your chest grabbing the supple flesh and rolling his thumbs over your hardening nipples. Electricity zips up your body. Impatience grows. You push off the wall and walk Tachihara backwards towards the bed nearly getting him to fall but he twists at the last minute letting your back bounce off the mattress before he ends up on top of you. His hands are back at your breasts squeezing the flesh, pinching your nipples into hardness as his mouth descends. Your fingers wind up in the sheets twisting crimson fabric up into bunches that rise off the bed. His sweatpants end up tossed somewhere in the corner, hands gripping your hips with rough ownership, mouth finally reaching you nipple to suck and bite just hard enough to have you moaning as loud as the rainfall. Your legs lock around his ribs tight enough to feel the heat from his body seep through your wet pants. Drops of water soak the sheets beneath your hair, thunder rattles around the small apartment but the only vibration you feel is Tachihara’s teeth moving on your skin. He switches to the other nipple giving it the same attention as one hand slinks down to flick the button of your pants open. When he raises from your saliva soaked nipple to give a smirk you shoot up and shift your weight on to his torso using the muscle in your legs to flip him beneath you with ease. You return his smirk. Tachihara feels his cock twitch. Seeing you on top of him, hair wet and falling along your shoulders dripping cold water onto his bare chest has him never wanting to leave this position. His hands remain on your hips, thumbs digging into the bone holding you still as he ruts up rubbing his hard cock between your legs. A groan of pleasure escapes your mouth, breath hot and heavy despite your attempts to cover the growing arousal in your body. Bending your torso brings you close enough to taste his skin. Smooth, soft. Red blossoms under your teeth and his neck becomes adorned with ruby marks framing crescent edges. Tachihara’s back arcs off the mattress pressing his chest towards yours. His moan sends goosebumps racing down your spine. “Shit..” Tachihara moans again, voice deep and smoky. His quick fingers pull at the soaked material clinging to your legs but his impatience gets the best of him--a pile on the floor somewhere in tatters. You laugh at his haste and he returns a smirk that shoots your heart into your throat. A flick of his wrist and your panties meet the same fate. Tachihara kisses you roughly but lazily. Biting at your bottom lip just to dip his tongue back in your mouth during the surprised gasp, the moans that follow his playful kisses. His hands drag circles up your back starting from the center of your spine to the expanse of your shoulders. Had there been paint on his fingertips there’d be angel wings left on your skin. Thunder claps loudly, brilliant white light flashing right behind it brightening the navy sky for a split second. You break for air and to watch the sharp outline of his face snap with halcyon. He’s breathless, a tint of pink on the high points of his cheekbones. Enchanting--fuck he made your knees weak. A simple movement has your chest flush with his kissing him hard fingers tugging at the thin red strands framing his face. Tachihara groans against your mouth arching into your touch, using one hand slapping around one of the nightstands barely reaching into the drawer with the tips of his fingers. “Already?” You ask, holding his bottom lip between your teeth. Tachihara chuckles and sets the condom on the pillow flipping you onto your back planting both hands on either side of your head. “I’m not that fuckin’ selfish.” Tachihara grins, sliding his hand between your leg, thumb pressing down on your clit rubbing it in soft circles. Electricity snaps up your spine as he drops smooth kisses down the side of your throat. Laying on your back like this, though, wasn’t enough. Your knee lands on his hip keeping you open for him but letting you have some control as your bodies flip to the side. Hands in his hair he follows your tug with a devious smirk before your teeth meet his lips. Sweat and beads of rainwater mix along your skin, heavy downpour becoming forgotten under the sound of your moans and his. His thumb continues to circle your wet clit middle and index finger sliding inside you to scissor and stretch your walls. Tachihara’s rhythm picks up in speed once he’s found that spot deep inside that makes you see stars. The pads of his fingers rarely leave the bundle of nerves until you’re cumming on his hand with a wanton moan of ecstasy. Tachihara smirks against your throat nipping at the skin wanting to feel the vibration of your moans against his lips as you cum. He works you through your orgasm with slow thrusts of his fingers ensuring you’re wet enough--enjoying the results of his work dripping down your thighs. You exhale feeling your fingers tighten around his hair unable to stop the twitching of your hips. The consistent friction of his fingers inside you during the fallout was making your head spin. “Fuck--tease.” You grit through your teeth. Tachihara laughs and flicks your clit with his thumb murmuring against your neck that you seemed to like what he was doing. Fucker. Before you can flip him Tachihara already has you on top of him one hand holding the condom wrapper so he can rip it open with his teeth. Your brow arcs in question, to which Tachihara merely shrugs. “I like the view.” He states with a bit of his smirk returning. You adjust and rise up so he can roll the condom down his hardened cock watching the vein pulsate, fingers digging into his chest in anticipation. “Seems you do too huh?” Tachihara licks your arousal off his fingers, eyes flicking down between your legs then back up to your face. “Shut up.” You huff, hovering over his cock and dropping down slowly. Eyes rolling back when his cock slowly stretches you out, the burn always felt so fucking good, and Tachihara was no exception. “Ff--fuck.” You raise up and down on your knees before completely letting him bottom out inside you. Tachihara’s hips rise off the bed to meet your drop, his own moan hitting the air, hands cementing themselves on your hips as he begins to thrust up hard. You gasp and cinch his chest with your nails not expecting him to retake control so quickly. The pace has you breathless and unable to do anything but try and meet his rhythm. The mattress creaks beneath your knees sound succumbing to the moans echoing in the small apartment. Tachihara’s right hand follows the new curve of your back to bring your body closer to his, the other keeping it’s place on your hip. He flattens his feet on the bed changing the angle to pound into you deeper, harder. Crimson lays in stripes over his shoulders, in petal shapes on his neck. Marks of lust, of control, that won’t be easy to hide at work tomorrow. Tachihara can’t keep his lips off you, treats your skin like an addiction he can’t fight. Between the sound of skin slapping skin and the bed pounding into the wall the thunderstorm outside is all but muted. You moan into his neck pushing your hips back to meet his thrusts toes curling when the swollen head hits your g spot with expertise. Your hair twists in his fingers, his hand keeps you low enough that he can suck on your lips, bite down on your neck, whisper dirty words in your ears. “Fuck, fuck ______.” He pants, pleasure clear in his voice and the way he can’t catch his breath. “You’re--fuck, so good.” You pull off a smirk that Tachihara catches, his teeth dig into your bottom lip roughly and in a split-second move he has you flipped completely on your back again. “Oh?” He pants cinching his hands around your thighs pushing your legs down and apart. “I know that fuckin’ look. You’re good, but I am too. Look at your pussy.” He slips his cock out fully letting the tip rest at your entrance before slamming back inside you watching your face twist from shock to pleasure. “Soaked.” Tachihara throws one of your legs over his shoulder wanting to keep the distance minimal and the angle deep. He stares enamored with you for a moment under another enormous clap of thunder and lightning, admiring the way you looked completely breathless. Covered in sweat and rain. In his bed. The kiss to your ankle catches you off guard, sweet, before he begins a rough pace that has your hands twisting the sheets near your head. Your back bows off the mattress moans growing in volume and pitch as your high draws near. Tachihara holds your knee over his shoulder keeping the other leg spread open near your ribs letting him hit as deep as possible. He tilts his hips to stroke his pelvis against your clit and the sensation has your voice cracking between curses and praises. You clench when his balls taps your ass making him choke and stutter between your legs. “Fuck _____.” He hisses rolling his hips into you. You smile up at him and clench again watching him shiver and bite at your ankle. “Like that?” You purr, pulling him forward with the leg now wrapped around his neck. Tachihara lets himself fall forward, catching his weight on both hands, bending your leg back down with him. That smirk, again, shoots your heart to your throat. Tachihara presses into you deeper, rubbing against your g-spot with quick snaps of his hips. Your hands return to the back of his shoulders gripping them hard as he starts to pound you into the mattress. His forehead rests atop yours sweat clinging to his brow and rolling down his toned arms from the back of his neck. His abdomen rubs your clit in rough jolts sending shocks of pleasure through your body. You moan against his lips kissing him sloppily feeling the knot in your stomach tighten with each hard thrust. Tachihara keeps his pace rough and fast snapping the chord in your stomach with a few more thrusts. Your entire body tightens lower back arching high off the bed head thrown back in pure ecstasy. Tachihara dips down biting and licking the middle of your throat, fucking you through your orgasm hard and chasing his own high. Your body shivers thighs shaking around him, the tingling from your orgasm drawn out from his cock pounding into your g-spot. “Fuck!” Tachihara moans loudly pounding hard into you twice before he cums. Face falling into the crook of your neck more moaning and curses falling from his lips, breath short and heavy as his hips stutter in the fallout before he completely collapses on top of you, flipping to his side shortly after and letting your leg fall around his waist. The apartment is quiet, rain tapping in gentle drops on the glass fogging the city lights into splotches of gold and white. He gently kisses your cheek then down to your lips, eyes fluttering shut arm draped loosely over your waist. “Fuck….” he murmurs. “Yeah..fuck..” you repeat, curling up a bit against his chest. What was supposed to happen now? Despite the comfort of his arms the thought still steamrolls its way into your head. Tachihara pops one eye open watching you under the gentle shadows of the night. Even you knew that he could read you despite the control you had on your features. He always said it was in your eyes and the micromovements of your lips, the twitches, the subtle frown. “Don’t worry about it right now.” He knew what you were thinking, at least the line of it. He wondered too for a brief moment but it was easier for him to let shit like that go in the moment. You had a habit of clinging to stupid shit. “Stay if you want.” He says with a yawn reaching down to pull the condom off and tie it in a knot before tossing it into a trash can across the room. “Practice?” You quip. He sighs and flicks your shoulder but pulls you in tighter to his chest. “Shut up.” He grumbles back tugging the covers up over you without bothering to open his eyes. You watch him for a bit--he could fall asleep anywhere. Standing up against a wall waiting for an order, curled up in a box before an ambush, literally anywhere. And quickly. He looked peaceful when asleep, not bothered by Gin’s odd actions or irritated by Hirotsu’s slow build up of attack. Timidly your finger traces the line of his jaw then up to his cheekbone and to his lips. Gentle. Soft, softer than you’d imagined. Supple. Talented. The rain’s sound lulls you to sleep wrapped in Tachihara’s arms, tapering off leaving only the sounds of soft breathing by the time the morning light begins to set a warm glow along the city’s surface.

Ghost of Tsushima and PlayStation Prestige Storytelling

There is an unspoken, yet constantly spoken, expectation that exists in the game industry that demands that games change over time. That they evolve. Yet, it is an expectation that is demanded hypocritically, or perhaps misguidedly. 

When I started writing about games I remember holding a firm stance that Call of Duty was actually garbage, because it was all just recycled gameplay with minimal facelift year-to-year. There is this unspoken standard in games, it seems, that demands a distinguishable improvement over time. Yet, it never seems to quantify its own qualifications. What does that improvement entail? Surely graphical and mechanical improvements, yes? Do those expectations also include things like gameplay evolution? Does Last of Us II need to feel different than its predecessor or is it possible to just build on the framework that its priors have already laid?

None of these questions seem to have answers. At least I have never seen anyone take the time to sit down and build a more specific set of guidelines with which one can view a game’s…”uniqueness”? See, I even struggle to find the right word for the concept as a whole. 

So let me start over, if not for you than for myself. 

When I sat behind my desk to start playing Ghost of Tsushima, I was immediately confronted by a feeling of familiarity. I knew how to play this game already. Combat was simple, light and heavy attack, parry, counter-attack. It all felt very Assassin’s Creed 2, or perhaps even Arkham Asylum. Truthfully, I haven’t played the game in close to three months, but the mechanics are so easy to pick up that I have no doubt it would be a breeze to return. 

Ghost of Tsushima, for the last AAA exclusive release on the PS4, is largely a summary of the genre for the last generation and a half. It’s both extremely appropriate and - in a sort of way - unavoidably disappointing. See, Sony has realized its version of what we call Prestige Television. Allow me the short diversion to explain myself. 

In 200, 2008, and 2010 AMC discovered that it could deliver a version of television that bordered on the production value of film, but also allowed its storytellers the ability to tell a story over ten or twelve hours. Mad Men, Breaking Bad, and The Walking Dead all established that television need not only be a procedural drama focused on serialized formulaity. They established that building a prolonged narrative arc could pay off, and draw record viewership in the process. Were they the first to do this? No, of course not. The Sopranos, The Wire, and before them the likes of Hill Street Blues, or Wiseguy. But see, the difference between the latter examples there and the former, is the accessibility. Hill Street Blues airing on NBC and Wiseguy on CBS. The Sopranos and The Wire continued the tradition of stellar television but on a far more exclusive stage. HBO wasn’t and still isn’t in most households. Then, at some point in the late 2000s, cable television stepped to the plate, and prestige television reemerged, and this time it propagated outward in every direction. Now nearly every network wants its own prestige show. 

But what does any of this have to do with the Ghost of Tsushima and PlayStation? I think that Sucker Punch is another studio swallowed up by this generation of Playstation Prestige Storytelling. If swallowed up sounds a bit negative, that is on purpose. Last of Us started something, and after seven years of AAA exclusives focused on telling mature stories, Tsushima feels like the perfect bookend to this generation. A generation of exclusives full of prestige storytelling but not particularly full of unique or revolutionary gameplay experiences.

Look at both Last of Us titles, God of War, Uncharted, and Horizon Zero Dawn. It’s hard to find better single player experiences over the last 8 years. Each game is well written, expertly acted, and smartly directed. I deeply enjoyed each one. But over time it was hard to not realize one similarity: PlayStation exclusives don’t really push any boundaries outside of delivering highly manicured story and stunning visuals. 

The toughest part about writing this is making clear that my opinion, despite sounding critical, isn’t. I own my PS4 for these titles. I lap them up hungrily. I feel I’ve just recognized what they are for me. Beyond a way to stay relevant, they act as a window into some of the best writing in the industry. 

Ghost of Tsushima is a beautiful game complimented by an equally beautiful story. That story resides in the most refined version of recycled gameplay mechanics I have ever seen. And what’s more? It absolutely works. Tsushima is the summation of open world games for the last decade. It does very little new, but everything it does, it does markedly better than its predecessors. Arguably its most unique feature is its navigational breeze. Removing the non-diegetic quest marker and dotted-line trail for a more diegetic system that draws the breeze to guide you. The flourish of foliage is stunning almost always, and by hour three I had forgotten that it was a mechanic completely, and felt it more as a system of the world’s design. 

But the combat is Arkham, the exploration is Assassin’s Creed, and the stealth is Assassin’s Creed and Splinter Cell. But the cutscenes. The attention to detail in exposition and composition is deliberate and masterful. In the opening moments Jin finds his family katana in a dark room. After a flashback, showing you his first moments learning under Lord Shimura, he unsheaths the blade over his head. The high moon shining through the torn walls casting a brilliant silver glare on across the folded steel. He positions the blade in a Jodan Kasumi stance, flaring the light of the moon across his face. This extremely good shit is painted across every scene in this game. 

As much as I found myself quietly laughing at the novelty of a game made of a generation of parts, it wasn’t long before I absolutely didn’t care anymore. 

That’s the trick. The conceit. Prestige television ostensibly didn’t change what film had been doing for decades. Rather it took that formula and drew it out, carried it over to a different medium, and used viewers’ desire for a good story to leverage their attention. God of War takes the Dark Souls formula for combat and boils it down, hones, and tunes it to its purposes. Uncharted is Tomb Raider with a heaping spoonful of Indiana Jones. Last of Us is almost literally apocalyptic Uncharted. Bloodborne is, well, Lovecraftian Dark Souls. You see the point. PlayStation’s story based exclusives, have built upon what has come before to hone something truly special for each of its games. Just not unique.

Podcasting and writing about games independently means you play a lot of games to stay relevant. A lot of games. I end up putting at least a dozen hours into most releases. When I like a game it generally means mainlining it to make way for the next game. I put 110 hours into Valhalla in the month and a half since it has been out. Playing that much means that when games are similar it can start to drag on you. It almost impacted my enjoyment of Ghost of Tsushima. 

I started extremely critical of Tsushima’s willingness to borrow. I thought it cheap and lacking imagination. The story even immediately impacted me as a bit of a general take on very mainstream ideas of Japanese culture. I saw the combat and, though thoroughly enjoying it, kept reminding myself that it is just recycled mechanics. The first five hours of the game I tried so hard to convince myself that Ghost of Tsushima was too much of a copycat to be enjoyed. I’m honestly not even sure what it was that changed my mind. All I know is, around hour six, I realized what was really going on under the hood of Tsushima, and I fell in love with the notion of paying homage to what has come before. And that brings me closer to my point.

Ghost of Tsushima is Assassin’s Creed 2 made better. Logical visual update afforded by the passage of time aside, it’s combat is smoother, systems more diagetic, design more nuanced. It’s the culmination of a generation of games striving to be more. But it’s not the end of that pursuit. While Tsushima is incredible it’s not perfect. There are small flaws. Some persistent, some one off. 

But it’s another step forward. In the journey of PlayStation Prestige Storytelling it is a logical step. An investigation of further leaning on established systems as an avenue for improvement. Expect future titles to do the same. We are definitely getting a second Tsushima game. Count on that. We also know we’re getting another God of War. 

PlayStation exclusives refined themselves this generation. They are heightened storytelling experiences with a tremendous amount of good writing, jaw dropping visuals, and reimagined mechanics. Have they been a consistent wellspring of innovation? No. But then neither has prestige television. It’s a familiar system, twisted and turned, made to look fresh. And it’s perfect, and learning. 

@LubWub ~Caleb

Seductive Touch

Fandom: Mr. Love Queen’s Choice

Pairing: Victor x Reader

Warning: NSFW

You’re standing in his kitchen, bare legs poking out from underneath the billowing hem of one of his dress shirts, body swaying to some internal melody. Your hair whispers against the collar of the shirt - his shirt; he can't get over that - the way your hair dances between your shoulder blades. Victor stands on the threshold to his office, transfixed.

The way you move, light and lithe, your body bending and curving about the obstacles of furniture and appliances like you’ve been doing it forever, hypnotizes him. The tips of his fingers itch with the need to touch you, to feel your smooth skin under his hands, but touching would mean moving and he's not ready to give up his vantage point just yet.

He loves watching you when you’re unaware of his gaze. Catching you in small moments of intimacy that fill him with warmth, making his breath catch in his throat. Moments that remind him that you’re real and here and his. The way you run your fingers down the empty sleeve of his jacket when you place your own next to it in the closet, a private smile curling the soft edges of your lips. Your habit of turning the pages of a novel with a dampened fingertip, tongue trapped between your teeth. How you kiss his jaw when you think he's asleep, body warm and pliant next to his in the dark.

Your hips rock in time to the clink of metal against porcelain as you stir your coffee. The shirt rides up your thigh when you lift the cup to your mouth, lips pursed to blow at the swirling steam, exposing the rounded swell of your ass and he pushes off the door and walks quickly toward you, the need to touch overtaking the desire to watch.

"I was wondering when you were going to give in and come over here," you murmur as he steps up behind you, pressing his lips to the warm plane of your shoulder blade.

"You knew I was watching?"

"I did, Victor," you laugh. He nudges into the spill of your hair with his nose, planting a wet kiss to the base of your neck. "You’re not as covert as you like to think."

"I need to work on my spying skills?"

"Or just stop staring at me creepily from across the room."

"So I should stare at you creepily up close then?"

"Are you going to speak in anything other than interrogatives today?"

Victor nips at your ear, hands curling around your waist. "Do you have any idea how hot you are, standing in my kitchen at six a.m., wearing my shirt, and using words like 'interrogatives'?"

You sigh and lean back into his chest, the coffee cup thumping heavily on the countertop. His lips dance down your neck, the subtle scent of yesterday's perfume on the tip of his tongue. You grip his hands and tug, pulling his arms around your waist. A moan rolls through your chest when he pops open the single button holding the shirt closed and scrapes his blunt nails across your stomach, “You like that?”

You hum, your head falling back onto his shoulder. "You know what I like."

"Do I?" Victor switches the positions of your right hands, laying your open palm against the soft skin of your stomach, his palm pressed over the back, fingers filling in the spaces between yours. "Why don't you show me?"

Turning your head, you catch his mouth, coffee flavored tongue gliding over his bottom lip. Your joined hands slide up your stomach, your arm flexing and twisting under his. He breaks the kiss and watches, your hand swallowed by his, only your fingers visible as they slide up your chest, through the valley of your breasts. You cover his left hand with your own, fingers slipping between his as you push, moving your hands down to run over the outside of your bare thigh.

"You like it when I touch your thighs, ______?"

Nodding, you pull both of your right hands down to your other thigh, digging your fingers into your own muscles. His back bows when you reach down as far as you can, caressing your outer thigh before sliding in and dragging your fingers back up the inside. You slip through the crease where thigh meets torso with curved fingers, nails scraping over your skin. Victor mirrors your movements with both of your your left hands, sinking his teeth into the curve of your shoulder. The difference between the sensations under his hands - one covering so much of yours, the other barely connecting - fascinates him, making him hyper-aware of just what he is and is not touching.

Your hands move over your body slowly, dragging across your hips and stomach, cresting the arc of your ribs, fingers slipping into the dips between them. You guide them to your breasts, cupping yourself in your right palm, kneading your fingers into the flesh, whimpering softly when you tug on your right nipple and he follows with your left.

"How wet are you?" Victor paints the question onto the curve of your neck, tongue darting out to accent the stroke of his words. Your hips rock rhythmically against his, tiny circles that he meets at random intervals, pushing himself into the curve of your ass.

"Don't you want to feel for yourself?" You ask, turning your head toward him, eyebrow cocked wickedly. Fuck, he loves when you play along with his games.

"Do you want me to?"

With a laugh, you pull both of your right hands down to your stomach, gripping your fingers tightly around his left hand, holding it in place on your breast. "Very much," you whisper, hand slipping down over the soft curve of your abdomen.

You draw lazy patterns over your hip, fingers brushing lightly against your skin. Victor rests his chin in the crook of your neck and casts his eyes down. He watches you use your joined hands to map your own body, drawing closer and closer to the apex of your thigh with each sweep and circle of your fingertips.

"Are you teasing me or yourself?" He growls the question into your ear, tweaking the nipple still in his hand and smiling at your soft gasp.

"Mostly me," you answer, abandoning your grip on his left hand and sliding your fingers into his hair. "That it seems to be working on you," you grind your ass into his very obvious erection, "is just an added bonus."

His chuckle turns into a groan as you part yourself, dragging both of your middle fingers through your arousal. You circle around your clit once and slide back down, pushing into your palm. Victor presses hard against the back of your hand and you groan, hips grinding into the pressure.

"You like that?" He curls his fingers between yours, increasing the force of his palm. "Is that what you want?"

The fingers in his hair fist and you nod, slipping your middle finger slowly inside yourself. You pant out his name as he loosens his grip around your fingers, sliding his hand slowly away from yours. "Victor. Touch me."

"What if I just want to watch?"

Yanking his hair, you twist your neck, biting down sharply on the corner of his bottom lip. “You want to know what I like?” He nods, lip still trapped between your teeth. “I like it when you touch me.” You flick your tongue over his lip and release it, your lips skimming over his cheek as you continue.

"I like the way you groan when you feel how wet I am for you." Your damp fingers wrap around his and pull him back to your dripping heat. "The way you touch me like it's the first and last time you'll ever be able to."

You press yourself down into his palm, using your fingers to push him into you. He groans as you stretch around him, wet and hot, your hips rolling to the cadence of your words.

"I like how your fingers feel like you're breaking me apart. I love that you want to know what I want." You crane your neck and catch his gaze, eyes blazing. "And what I want right now, Victor, is for you to fuck me."

The tight ball of desire floating in his chest explodes at your words, flooding his body with heat and need. Growling, he bites at your lips, pushing his fingers further inside you. He catches your cry with the curl of his tongue, swallowing your desperation and letting it feed the flames burning in his stomach. You grind down into his hand, your body curling in on itself as you push back against him, your full weight slamming into the cradle of his hips.

Bowing over you, Victor leans you both forward, pressing you into the counter. You gasp when your breasts brush across the cold granite, body bucking underneath him. Your fingers leave his hair and you brace yourself on the counter with your forearm, hips twisting against the rough push of his fingers. Victor wraps his left hand around your waist, holding you steady as he pumps his hand between your legs.

He bites down on your shoulder when you beg him for more, curling his fingers inside you until you’re grunting out his name on every thrust, your body arching violently as you strain for your orgasm.

"Do you want to cum, _____? Is that what you want now?"

"Yes," you groan, the single syllable tight with a desperate need.

"You want me to make you cum?"

"Please," you beg, your hips pitching wildly against his hands. "I need - I need - I-"

"What? What do you need?"

You pant your answer, the words shattering as soon as they trip off your tongue. "You. More. You. Now."

Victor leans down, drawing a wet line up the side of your neck with his mouth, pulling your earlobe between his teeth, “Are you sure?”

"Yes."

Pulling your hips tightly up against his, Victor slides his left hand down, slipping two fingers in between his right palm and your body. With a twist of his wrist, he flicks his fingers over your clit, feeling you clamp down around him, the intensity of your orgasm almost crushing his fingers. You groan out his name, your nails scrambling for purchase on the counter, body rigid and spasming. Victor slows his fingers, letting you work through your high, your body slowly going limp.

Panting, you collapse on the counter, pressing your cheek against the cool stone. He releases you and straightens, stretching his legs gingerly as he runs a flat palm over your back, the shirt rasping softly against his skin, "You okay?"

You nod, your sweaty cheek squeaking against the granite. Slowly, you stand and turn to face him, the gaping shirt slipping off one shoulder. Silently, you grab his hands and lace your fingers together, and start to walk backward out of the kitchen.

"Where are we going?" He questions.

"To bed."

"Why?"

"I want to know what you like."

"You do?"

"Mmm-hmm," you give him a sultry smile and his heart flips, his body humming with anticipation. "And I'm very interested in discovering how quickly I can get you to switch from interrogatives to exclamations."

MLQC Masterlist

Arrows of Alodia

Japan, 1500 AD

The walls of the castle glowed pale yellow before the face of the setting sun, with blue shingles sparkling on stacks of curved roofs. This radiance conferred the semblance of a tall gold crown encrusted with lapis-lazuli gems. The castle sat atop a wooded hill, overlooking the fields, forests, and scattered peasants’ villages like an emperor surveying his rural domain.

A young woman hiked a series of stone steps that zigzagged up the hill’s northern slope, cradling in a yew chest her arms. Her hooded waist-length kimono and trousers, both dull green like the trees sheltering the path, protected her both from the evening’s damp chill and from any eyes spying on her. Not that the woman had noticed anyone giving her a second glance so far, but nobody in her line of work could afford to let their guard down.

She reached the summit of the hill, strolled across the short bridge over the castle’s moat, and paused to gaze over the sprawling countryside. The verdant beauty of the Japanese landscape would never leave her eyes entirely, yet years of experience had scraped away much of its allure. She knew that underneath its lush and tranquil veneer lay a cutthroat and lawless world of cruelty and treachery.

This would be her last evening in the land. The next day, she would set sail for civilization.

Among the irregular mass of rocks building up the castle’s base was a rectangular slab, as tall and wide as a man. The woman inserted her fingers along its edge and pushed it aside as if it were a regular sliding door. Ahead ran a narrow corridor lit with paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling, a small courtesy she had not expected.

Underneath the more pleasing scent of the cherry blossoms, the stink of dead flesh leaked through the chest’s lid. The woman hugged it against her breast, a queasy nausea swelling in her stomach. Grisly as the odor was, it was only part of the price she had to pay for her upcoming escape.

She followed the passageway through the base until it led into a series of rooms, the walls built of white paper with wooden frames, a building material she had always thought strange. Back in her native Alodia, along the Nile to the south of Egypt, people built almost everything from sturdier materials such as mudbrick or stone. For a race that constantly warred with their own, the Japanese could have stood to fortify the interiors of their homes better.

After sliding open a succession of paper doors, the woman found the Daimyo Takeshi awaiting her in his study. She greeted him with a bow of her head while laying the chest before the tatami mat he sat on.

“I see you already had the way in lighted for me, my lord,” the woman said. She pulled down her hood to reveal her dark brown face and braided black hair. “Very kind of you.”

“I have good timing.” The old Daimyo croaked a chuckle as he laid his hands on the chest. “I trust this is Hiroshi himself?”

The woman nodded as she unslung her bow and quiver. “I took him out in the dead of night. Nobody suspected a single thing. Suffice to say he won’t trouble you anymore.”

Takeshi pried the chest open, releasing the stench of its contents in a full wave. Inside lay the half-rotten head of Hiroshi, once his vassal. The Daimyo’s cackling made the woman feel even more sick than the morbid object.

“Excellent work, Maia of Alodia,” he said. “I see you more than deserve your reputation.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice, my lord.”

Maia glanced around the study for a bag of coins, yet she could find none. The only gold she detected in the room was the paint on some serpentine dragon illustrations on the walls. “Now, where is my payment?”

The Daimyo’s smile vanished. He pulled a curved scabbard from his belt and slid out the katana sword within. “You didn’t really think I would let you go with my vassal’s blood on your hands, did you?”

Maia’s pulse kicked into a thumping panic. She held her bow close to her. “Why not? None of the other daimyo I’ve served had a problem with that.”

“Then they were fools. Think, Alodian, of what would happen were you around to blurt out the truth, in whatever circumstance. The world would know I was behind this all, and I’d have even more insolent subjects to contend with than before!”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t pay anyone to take out your critics, O Daimyo.”

Takeshi stood and drew back his sword, his once pale yellow-brown face flaming red. “Unless I can take you out in turn!”

Maia ducked beneath the slicing sweep of his katana, dodging it by less than an inch. She hopped across the room and swung her bow at him as if it were a sword. Its bottom tip slashed across the back of the Daimyo’s blue silken vest. Despite not drawing blood, he fell over with a yelp and a groan, his sword flying out of his grip and rolling over the floor until Maia picked it up.

Maia strutted over to where he lay and pressed the tip of his katana into the nape of his neck. “I could easily kill you as I killed your vassal, Daimyo Takeshi. But I’ll give you one more chance than you gave him. Pay me the gold you promised, and I’ll leave your hide unscratched.”

“Never!” Takeshi swept his arm aside and banged into Maia’s ankle, tripping her. He snatched his sword back in a springing leap. “I still have tracks to cover up.”

After wheeling away from his next few attacks, the Alodian shot her foot into his shin. He growled a hideous curse and repaid the blow by slashing across her hip.

The cut burned hot through the flesh of her leg. Her rage blazed so much hotter that it drowned out all pain.

Again the Daimyo charged, brandishing his blade with a bloodthirsty roar. Maia sidestepped and swatted him in the skull from behind, throwing him across the room until he crashed through the wall, tore through the paper and splintered the framing. From a leather sheath under her belt, she grabbed a curved dagger and flung it into his spine. After one last guttural croak, the Daimyo Takeshi lay without movement other than the blood flowing out of his wounds.

Signing a cross into the air, Maia whispered a prayer that her God show mercy on the poor sinner’s soul.

“How could you?”

A young woman in a scarlet kimono burst into the study, her hair tousled and her face wet with tears. She knelt sobbing by the Daimyo’s body.

“I’m sorry, was he your father?” Maia asked. She lowered her hand to touch the other woman’s shoulder in consolation.

“No! I was his beloved wife, Ichiko.” The Japanese girl slapped the Alodian away and tore the katana out of her fallen husband’s grip. “Now you will pay for your crime, barbarian bitch!”

Yanking the dagger out of Takeshi, Maia thrust it to parry Ichiko. Sparks erupted from the clashing of blades until the Alodian’s smaller weapon broke in half. She lunged to stab her opponent’s thigh, but Ichiko kicked her into the room’s opposite wall.

Maia had carried half her dagger, and the Daimyo’s widow showed just as much agility. Maia carried only one weapon that would give her any advantage in the fight.: the one she had used on the vassal Hiroshi.

What she needed was more space between she and her target.

After chucking a stick of shattered wood into Ichiko’s face, Maia scrambled to retrieve her bow and quiver. She hurled herself through the hole, over the Daimyo Takeshi’s body. She had an arrow drawn the instant Ichiko launched herself into the air, katana raised overhead for a downward cleave.

Maia fired. Ichiko fell in mid-arc onto Takeshi, the arrow through her heart seeming to pin her onto her husband’s corpse, uniting them in death as in life. It was a bittersweet way for them to go, Maia admitted to herself.

Through her labored breathing, she heard the shrill wailing of an infant.

Hurrying out of the study, the Alodian stumbled into a room, where three flat cushions rested like low beds on the floor. The first two were adult-sized, for the Daimyo and his wife. The third was only big enough to support the naked, wailing baby that lay curled into a ball on it, bawling with frightened distress.

Throughout her career, Maia of Alodia had taken many lives. Some were daimyo rival to the ones who paid her, whereas others were insubordinate vassals like the one she had taken at Takeshi’s behest. Still others had been guards and soldiers she fended off when her missions went sour. It was her way of earning what she needed to survive in a ruthless country. Never had she imagined she would feel guilt or remorse, until she saw the tears glistening on the baby’s face.

He had no mother or father anymore. No one left to comfort or protect him. Instead, he lost them to the cold bite of steel, much as Maia had lost her own mother and father when she was a girl. This time, though, Maia’s own steel had robbed him of his family.

She could not leave him there. Either he would die young in this merciless land or would grow up forever ablaze with hatred for her and perhaps all the people of Alodia. Maia could not blame him one bit for that.

She had to make it up to him, to give him what she had taken from him.

Maia picked up the baby in a firm embrace, murmuring soft words to soothe him. “I shall name you Isaac, sweet one. Don’t cry, you shall be safe with me.”

##

The castle of the late Daimyo Takeshi, once a brilliant pale yellow, turned a luminous white before the moon and stars. Down the hillside steps Maia descended, holding the sleeping Isaac under one arm while hauling the yew chest in the other. Instead of a human head rolling within it, the chest now jingled with plundered gold coins, more than enough to buy Maia a sailing trip away from this beautiful yet deadly land.

Where could she go next? She didn’t know. Her family had fled Alodia when it fell under attack by the Muslim Funj, and doubtless they would have taken the kingdom over and replaced its Christian religion with their own. Perhaps Ethiopia, another African kingdom still faithful to the same God as Alodia, would offer sanctuary. Or maybe Maia could sate her appetite for adventure elsewhere in the East, perhaps the jungle kingdoms to the south or the steppes to the north. Even the empire of China might hold promise, as they enjoyed more unity than the Japanese.

Wherever Maia went, she would carry Isaac with him. She would nurse him, raise him as her own, and teach him how to shoot arrows like a true Alodian.

This and other short stories can be read in my self-published collection Beasts & Beauties.

the okay ones

select entries from ffxivwrite2020 that DON’T make me want to shrivel up and die from embarrassment

they are still really rough though and not proof-read so please please please ignore the sloppy, of which there is a lot

here’s a gdocs link for easier reading,probably, since tumblr kinda sucks at this

#1 Crux

The table is arranged for one. The parasol casts perfect cover and is adjusted every bell to keep it so. From atop this hill there is a view of the house, and a view of the sea. It is a scene from a painting, one you’ve seen before. It’s been some time.

You set the tray before him, though it is not your job to do so. That which is favored is put within reach: cherry tomatoes, caramelized pears, the yolks of hard boiled eggs. The tomatoes disappear first. He pops the skin with his incisor, sucks it dry, and swallows.

“Does it disgust you?”

The two of you have not discussed it yet. A sneer in his voice is nothing unusual, but this one, you can tell, has purpose.

“No more than it does you.”

Obscurity does not thrill him. Aggression does not suit him. If the tangerines still had skins to peel, he would do so vigorously.

“How mercenary.”

Now he is laughing. You do not share in the humor, but you will grant him his shield. That he told you, and that you still remain - it does not need to be said plainly. For you, there is something greater.

#5 Matter of Fact

“Don’t give the tarts to Mrs. Patsy, she hates sweets and you’ll upset her stomach.”

Lauda frowns at Mrs. Patsy. Mrs. Patsy smiles back, ever joyous.

Lauda moves the plate of tarts to the other side of the table. She holds it between the nails of her thumb and forefinger. Setting it between the teapot and the fruit basket is a precision art. She is careful not to disturb a single piece.

“Pour her some tea, Lauda. Be careful not to splash any on her dress this time, she was awfully down about that, for a whole sennight too.”

It feels a terrible waste to serve fine tea to toys, but that is not Lauda’s concern. The tea is still hot - it must be - and its miniature container is painful against her fingertips. Not a single drop astray. She returns the teapot to rest, and waits.

“Won’t you offer her some cream and sugar?”

“...Mrs. Patsy does not like sweets.”

“Silly Lauda, it’s only polite. She’ll decline and then you can offer her cheese and crackers, which I am sure she will like. But make sure you put those between her and Ms. Glorygold, she always wants some of whatever she’s not having.”

#7 Nonagenarian

He can smell her from the threshold of her room. Amidst the dark he can see her hand, the last branch of a dying tree, gnarled and giving way to rot. Her chest rattles with every breath. The weight of the linens seem enough to snuff her out entirely.

Eamon cannot see her face from where he stands but her fingers twitch, pulling at the sheets with paltry strength. Her rasps grow deeper. Eamon plants his feet but the weight of her call is too much, and she pulls at the roots he grows in vain.

His mouth is dry. As he grows close, rasps turn to mutters. Thoughts spill into broken words, ruined by lips too feeble to drink. She looks him in the eye and speaks in slurs. He hides the tremble in his hands behind him, and hangs on to every word in the hope the next releases him.

#9 Lush

A clear memory: you find her in the gardens, and she tells you she is with child. The hibiscus are in full bloom. Recent rain has weighed down the grandest of them and you watch moisture seep into the hem of her long skirt, her long sleeves. Marian pulls a flower close, jostling droplets from its leaves. It seems a comfort to her as she watches you sideways, an unsure smile on her lips.

She is blooming, brighter than any seed might grow, you are certain of it. With a smile you congratulate her and relief raises her shoulders. Why should she worry? It pulls at your chest but you dare not speak it.

You watch the sleeve fall from her wrist. You ask: “did you tell him?” 

“Yes, I did. In the morning, when I was certain.”

You push her further. “And?” It stresses you to press, but you cannot place her unease.

A blush rises to her cheeks. The memory brings her joy. The sight of it puts a twist in your stomach, painful and pleasing both.

“He was happy, very much so. And relieved. It seemed all sorts of things, really.” 

Marian smiles up at you and her eyes do not match it, yet there is no break in her expression otherwise. What she fears she will not speak, and you will yourself to be content with it.

“Good,” you say. She reaches out to touch your forearm, her palm smoothing down to your wrist. Her skin is cold. She squeezes to reassure herself, yourself, and you watch the falter of her smile, the pale line of her neck. You daydream your fingers at the base of her ear, the soft skin at her jugular, the ridge of her collarbone. Is she not cold? Would she shiver, if you touched her?

She jostles your wrist. “Oliver? Is something wrong?” She leans to the side and her smile grows wide, playful. “What are you thinking?”

Red hair spills over pale shoulders. An urge to chase them bubbles within. The memory grows unclear.

#11 Ultracrepidarian

It’s a Mhachi relic, he says, no two ways about it. A silk cloth covers his grubby little mitts as he turns the piece over, as if it might be dangerous. Etchings on each face of the fist-sized cube catch the light as it rotates. The auctioneer becomes overzealous in his motions, and pretends to let slip the silk as he catches himself with a nervous chuckle, and his eyebrows waggle in a suggestion of near-danger. Swyngeim snorts. It is a convincing display, if nothing else.

“What are its origins?”

“It came into my hands by way of an old associate - one who has dealings with adventurers. Why, he’s grown so bold he camps himself outside their popular jaunts and greets them on their way out, ready with offers!” The thought is humorous enough for both of them, he seems to think, and so he laughs twice as hard. His cheeks split wide open, turning sickly red.

It’s a hard task to look at him. Swyngeim focuses on the Meracydian relic. It is old, very pretty, but sadly useless. She thinks to tell him, to see if that face of his can grow any more red before it bursts.

“My Lord might be interested,” Swyngeim says. She holds a hand to the back of her neck and pops it loose. The plush bed awaiting her at the inn calls to her. “I’ll speak with him tonight, and we’ll see about the price in the morning.”

Nodding his head near off, the auctioneer returns the relic to its box, still careful not to touch it. He chuckles a few ‘oh hoo hoos’ and rubs his sweaty paws together. “Of course, of course my good woman! Do be sure to ah, warn him about the demons inside!”

#14 Part

“Why did you leave her?”

Oliver returns to his body. Trails of incense climb to the ceiling in loops and arcs and he watches, transfixed, as the smoke merges into scented spirits, and dissipates. The woman - he’s forgotten her name - lured him into his tent with dice and fortunes, bone etchings and stones painted with symbols of the twelve. He hears her shake them in her hand, spill them, listens as they rattle and come to rest.

“Leave who?” The woman’s tail brushes against his leg. Her living quarters are small, cramped, better than his. Home now is a damp hammock on a darker ship. It is nothing like it was before. His limbs are tired and sore from a long voyage and it drains his thoughts. Oliver does not think he will move from here for a long time.

“The woman you’re thinking about,” she corrects, “you were thinking about.”

Oliver looks to her backside, all that is in view, obscuring the ministrations of her private ritual. Her form is liquid metal: copper hair running down her back, bronze skin naked beneath her trailing nightgown of silver silk. Candlelight glints off golden bangles, earrings, as she removes each piece carefully, sets them down on a cloth at her side.

Oliver thinks about her now. He will again, into the night. Why did he leave? Where is he going? The clamor of his crewmates beyond her heavy tent dies down. The women outside have all gone with them.

“What are you doing?” Oliver asks.

The woman kneels at a small mythrite altarpiece she keeps at the foot of her bedroll, an icon of Nymeia, and prays in a low hum, in a language he does not recognize. It draws out the tenor of her rich voice, coaxing, promising, and when she stands up and turns to him there is a little more grace in the movement of her hands, the turn of her hips.

“Sorry for the wait,” she says, “I’m ready now.” She tugs apart the silk ties of her gown and perches on top of him. He takes her breasts in his hands and closes his eyes.

#15 Ache

I still feel it around my neck.

It’s long gone, Frida says. The bite in her laughter soothes the memory; she distracts me with curious things, disorderly words, riddles to unravel. There’s no harm in lying about one’s home, she says, it makes no difference in the now. She laughs and laughs and only in the quiet do I see the spectre of her misery: a far-off look half-lit by campfire, calloused fingers smoothing over the strap of her belt. Frida is right to keep it hidden away. I cannot help but wonder. Could I hold it in my palms slick with oil and sear it into my flesh? I would smear the remains on her cheeks and see her laugh, see her tears wash it away and take my hands in hers.

#18 Panglossian

“Do you think there will be any offers? For my hand, that is.”

The blush that blooms across Marian’s cheeks sets my stomach to churn. It’s not that it should happen, but that she should look forward to it. Marriage. How trite. A dead man with little money to impart was all it afforded me, and it would be wrong of me to hope much better for Marian. The twelve saw fit to bless her with sweetness but no sense to accompany, and even less coin to offer up in compensation.

“Oh, enough from you! You’ll set yourself up for disappointment - a girl with your breeding shouldn’t expect one within the week, let alone from a man of sound mind and body, or age, or any kind of means.”

“Oh.” Marian’s shoulders droop. She quickens her pace and comes up alongside me. The dirt trail leading from our home is damp with rain, and her pale blue slippers and hem are already stained with mud. “Well, that’s alright. I won’t burden you for long, Fanny, there’s always honest work to be had in the city. I could try my hand at the botanist’s guild, you know how I love to be in the garden.”

My nose wrinkles. “What nonsense! You’re still young, plenty of time to ensnare some simple-minded man willing to take care of you.” I sneer. “Work.” What a distasteful thought! It’s bad enough to consider their family being so debased by such a thing, more so to imagine Marian being depended upon by anyone. “Do you want to end up an old maid?”

Marian sighs. Her arms swing back and forth as she walks. “No… I suppose not.”

The post box comes into sight. A cover of thick morning fog obscures it - from the neighbors too, by the looks of it. I slow my pace with less reason to worry.

“Good, I thought so. If you don’t wish to burden me you ought to work on your conversation, it was dreadful to listen to you the other evening, it really was. Oh I thought I’d faint for sure!”

“If you say so. But some of the boys were very poor at it too.”

“It’s not their job to charm you, Marian. Will you not think of your position?”

“I’m sorry, Fanny.”

The moss growing about the post box dampens the sounds of it opening. Once the mail is in my hand I retreat back home, lest the fog clear, and the neighbors see. There’s more than I expect alongside the familiar texture of bills, the yellow ribbon of Seedseer business.

“Here’s a letter for you, Marian.” I squint at the seal, all flowers and fancy lettering. “...From that Eglantine boy. He did arrive after all, didn’t he?” I’m more surprised that I ever agreed to invite him in the first place. What a journey it must have been for him, for a girl so… bereft.

Marian snatches the letter out of my hand and skips ahead. “Ooh I wonder what it says!” She giggles and tears it open. “We danced together you know!”

“How charitable.”

She gasps. “His penmanship is so beautiful!”

Hers might be beautiful as well, if she had the mind to work on it. “Don’t get too excited, it’s a thank-you note for the invitation. It’s what’s popular among those types these days. What a useless sentiment! Copied by one of his sixty servants, no doubt. Oh yes! How generous of you to invite me to some farm girls’ debut! How thrilling it was to mingle among the commonfolk for a few bells, thank-you, thank-you! I tell you--”

“He says he means to marry me!”

“Don’t interrupt! Oh, these fantasies of yours-- stop skipping ahead Marian, I wasn’t finished!”

#19 Where the Heart is

Fire strikes the night sky. A thousand sparks skitter through ink before flickering into the black empty of the sea. Every light reflects in its calm surface: a mirror to the other side. All the city is alive with noise. A river of people pass behind you, the both of you, on a bridge overlooking the bay. Its current sweeps up your company, done with deals for the eve, leaving you at the edge of the way out and on the cusp of a decision - to retire, to remain.

It takes less convincing to get him in the local garb than it did when you first arrived. What was good for business now served utilitarian, starched cloth propping up weak shoulders, hiding sickly-thin limbs. With judging eyes now gone he loosens its grip around his neck and you can see the rounded peaks of his vertebrae. His grip braces white against red railing and you step a little closer.

A cold wind blows from the sea and you, the both of you, watch a parade of lanterns float through the canals and spill into the deep, a slow march at a pace neither of you can match. The fireworks’ finale phases him not, gaze glued to the horizon where hot embers stain the sea. A mirage of wine red hair swimming beneath, white hands adorned with jewels ebbing on the waves, beckoning you home.

#20 Extra Credit

I watch them from a distance. The boy (the rat-faced weasel, the base miscreant) asked to be alone with her and I denied him, as is proper. He was annoyed, that much was certain, but I do not intrude, as is polite, and he really couldn’t ask for much better, could he? He already has enough, and there’s a sharp glint in his eye that I do not like, not at all. Who knows what he might do to poor, sweet Marian, behind closed doors, with no supervision? The girl is so stupid.

Marian sneaks glances at me. I really wish she wouldn’t. The boy distracts her with a present from his pocket, a small box, and opens it for her, showing her what’s inside. It must be very nice because she slaps her hands to her mouth like some common idiot and makes noises that are distinctly not-speech. The words come after, all ‘ooh’s’ and ‘oh my’s’ and ‘thank you,’ there it is, finally. How embarrassing. The boy looks uncomfortable and I’m sure he’s thinking as I do, but I won’t let him walk back his mistake if he's smart enough to see he's made one, and dull enough to say so.

Marian reaches for whatever it is, I have to squint to see it, a necklace by the way she holds it. I can see the pendant but not the chain, which is either very fine or my eyes have gone worse. Perhaps both. The boy offers to put it on for her - does he even know how? - and she turns, all aflutter, hands at her chest, tears in her eyes.

“Please don’t cry,” says the boy, and he sounds like he means it. Marian spares us both.

#29 Paternal

The weight should be crushing him by now. Even twenty ponz more would be a burden on his frail frame. He’s much too weak. Kent could sprint to the mouth of O’ghomoro and back and yet have the strength to snap that bony back over his knee.

He doesn’t want to move. His body does, and his mind knows it’s best, but his eyes-- Pleading with me as I approach. Can I move something without disturbing it? He always asks the impossible.

“I’m in a fine mess.”

I stop in the doorway. “I can see. Anything gone numb?”

“Not yet,” he lies.

Both feet, his left hand, travelling up to his elbow. She’s positioned in an odd way. He must have shifted her while she slept, only to delay the inevitable. A wet spot blooms on his shirt. There’s a wince in his eye as he turns his neck. I commit it to memory.

“Shall I move her?”

His hand at her head, the shift of his legs. “Not yet.”

100 followers special post: KorraSami Book 1

Today’s entry (sort of a little extra for 100 followers) is rather short and admittedly just the tip of an iceberg I want to tackle later on, as it relates to a certain issue with Dobson in general when it comes to his “support” of the LGBT community. In addition it is not a comic I want to talk about, but rather a picture. To be more precise this one:

Titled “Out of our way” and released around summer of 2015, this picture is obviously fanart in relation to KorraSami, the ship of Avatar Korra and Asami Sato, which unlike other ships in certain fandoms became even canon according to “Word of God” and some post tv series material. Now personally my opinion on KorraSami is a bit “complicated”. I do not hate it nor do I really think it is as “groundbreaking” as many, including Dobson, make it out to be. Reasons for that I am willing one day to discuss in detail, but not now.

And like with KorraSami, my opinion on the picture is also a bit complicated. To paraphrase John Cleese from a famous sketch: I may not know much about art, but I know what I like. So when it comes to things such as posture and linework I can not give too many critical details.

However, even I see from a technical point a few irksome details. Like how Asami’s hips move a bit too much perspective wise to the left, making it look like she would soon slip off the wheelchair, the sparks on the ground looking more like someone inserted shitty fries via MS Paint in the picture and Korra’s face looking like it was hit with a frying pan at least once. But honestly, I think it does not look that terrible and it is at least colorful.

That said, I think it highlights a certain issue with how Dobson perceives the ship.

Independent of my thoughts on the ship, I think Korra and Asami are pretty neat characters personality wise. They are both not flawless (in fact, Korra at the start of season 2 felt like any character development from last season was missing and don’t get me even started on how she would have almost started a world war because she was a whinny ass) but they are pretty strong and independent characters who went through a lot both as friends and as individuals over the course of the show. Well, that and they boned the same guy.

The thing with Dobson is, any time I see him do something with those two, that sort of badassery is not really on display. Instead his KorraSami fanart tends to be just whimsical fluff as seen e.g. here

And don’t get me wrong, I do not think fluff is bad. I like cute pics too and hey, the following two pics in regard of KorraSami by Dobson count for me as decent fluff, even if from a technical drawing point there are likely still flaws in the pic. Mostly because they are also related as pics to the world of the show they are part of, with the first one even showing interaction with someone other than the ship.

 But I also think that just because you ship two or multiple characters, doesn’t mean you can’t also draw something of such characters as a power couple so to speak. In case of those two, perhaps something like fighting a group of Equalists, showing Asami building and working on something with Korra at her side metal binding something according to Asami’s instructions etc. You know, something that is both “cute” because in a way they do stuff as a couple, but also badass because it is about two characters doing something they were born for. Or not even necessarily badass. Just something that shows them in a situation that isn’t just mindless fluff or feels like you just randomly insert the characters into whatever you can think of, thinking that in itself makes it already shipping art.

 Bottomline, Dobson when tackling KorraSami only focuses mostly on the mindless fluff of the ship. Which in my opinion is in so far an issue, as that it reduces this so called “groundbreaking LGBT representation in animation” just further down into something cute and rather shallow Dobson can adore. The characters are not appreciated for their personality, but fo their looks and how cute they look together. And frankly, can something be considered “good representation” when it is just pretty shallow on closer look?

This at least is one of multiple issues I have with KorraSami in general, but also in relation with Dobson. Others I can address later on someday. I also bring it up here mostly, because this “shallowness” is indirectly on display in “Out of our way” once you know a bit about why Dobson drew this and how it may even be a bit insensitive. Not for any living creature, but the character of Korra actually.

See, here is the thing: The inspiration for the pic was two things: A clip from an anime called Gekijouban To Aru Majutsu no Railgun (which I admittedly never saw in my life and do not necessarily intend to) as seen here

 And the fact that Korra spends some time in a wheelchair over the course of the show. And considering that the scene from the anime is actually meant to be funny (as it actually ends with both characters crashing in the gras in a hilarious position), what sort of cartoonish antics resulted in Korra temporarily being in a wheelchair? Did she slip on water during waterbending? Break her leg in some heroic fight but took it in strife and even made fun of her situation? You want to know?

Korra was kidnapped, tortured, poisoned with mercury and almost killed by a group of four terrorists, resulting in her being physically crippled for a long time and suffering from mental trauma, depression and PTSD.

……..ehhhhhhhh….. Funny?

 Yeah, on a technical level I do not think the picture is the worst, but as “fanart” when you consider any canon context involving wheelchairs and Korra… yaiks. I mean, tone deaf is a bit of an understatement.

 And I am not making this up. The plot of season 3 of Legend of Korra involved a group of four elemental benders trying to kill Korra, because their leader thinks that if he kills her he can break the Avatar cycle and that in turn will bring in a new era where people take their lives as a whole in their own hands, instead of the fate of the world depending on a few chosen ones like the Avatar. To do so they kidnap Korra and poison her with mercury, which they forcefully bend into her body. This results in her going full avatar mode and fighting the main villain Zaheer, only to get her ass handed by him thanks to the poison and him almost suffocating her by bending the air out of her lungs. Korra was in fact closer to death than any other character I have seen in the show, including Aang. And the aftermath of Zaheer’s actions were horrible. Season 3 ended with Korra still recovering from the poison (which had been bended out of her body again), by being stuck in a wheelchair and it being obvious she needs to get through rehabilitation. And while she did put on a brave face in front of everyone, the final shot of the episode is her at a ceremony celebrating the air nations rebirth, a single tear going down her cheek, indicating that in a way she is broken. The hotheaded and overall determined Korra at her lowest point.

 I will openly admit, when I first saw that scene, I was taken aback a bit how bittersweet if not outright depressing the ending was. Begging the question, how by the time season 4 would roll in, Korra would have recovered. Turned out, not well. Not only was season 4 set three years after the events of the last one, but the first two episodes showed among other things how Korra went through rehabilitation in those years, how she was on more than one occasion on the brink of giving up and how she essentially went into hiding, not wanting to meet her friends again, abandoning her duties as the Avatar. She was not a sobbing mess, but she was broken. Not considering herself worthy of the title of avatar for the longest time and still suffering from physical and mental trauma because of what had happened to her. In fact, one of the better aspects of season 4 is how Korra tries to overcome her own trauma, in order to be strong enough to take on the fight against Kuvira before she can turn the Earth Kingdom completely into the Third Reich and take Republic City over.

 In short, the picture of Korra in a wheelchair has a pretty significant and dramatic meaning for the character and the show as a whole. It is an important aspect of te shows storytelling and Korra’s final part of her character arc. Something with gravitas a lot of fans acknowledge. But Dobson sees it supposedly as something that gives way for a “badass and fun” pic with his favorite ship. And again, in my opinion, that is just tone deaf.I am not saying you can’t make a KorraSami pic with the wheelchair, but I think something with that motive should out of respect for the actual canon and its characters also be more somber than what we got here.

Which brings me back to how Dobson handles the couple in a shallower manner than it needs to be. Cause if he wasn’t just out for whimsical fun and fluff with his two favorite lesbians from Nickelodeon and would Korra and Asami consider more than just something to fawn upon based on looks, he could have drawn something more meaningful that genuinely showed how both are a decent representation of an LGBT-couple and interesting individuals. Cause being a couple when everything is fun and sunshine is one thing. Being there for each other when things are hard? THAT is the challenge and shows how much you really love someone.