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#waxing poetic
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“El día que me quieras”
Rodolfo Parra/Reader
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Inspired by this and the incredible writings of @yeyinde because God their writings are to die for! Title is inspired by the song of the same name by Carlos Gardel! The indented writing is done by yeyinde!
Enjoy!
The ocean is a distant roar beyond the sprawling green cut into the fells. The scent of heliotrope and sun-ripened tomatoes is heavy in the balmy air that pulses around you like a heartbeat.
Your finger taps the porcelain mug on the patio table, eyes soaking in the crystalline shore in the distance, basking in the sun. The warmth. The door slides open. Music from inside drifts out. Los Cojolites. He has a fondness for son jarocho. You can smell the sweet mole he's cooking waft through.
He comes up behind you, hands on your shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles on your bare skin. You lean back, head pressed to his tummy as you squint up at him. He's bathed in ochre from the sun: a halo around him that bleeds into your retinas until all you see his the shape of him. Your pulse quickens.
He smiles down at you, lunar white. Love in shades of vermillion leak from the curve of his mouth.
"Want some company, cariño?"
As if you'd ever say no.
Alejandro introduced you to him.
You were the medic, part of the Task Force 141 that had came to Las Almas to assist with El Sin Nombre. You were dwarfed by the other two men who accompanied you, El Fantasma and Soap who had you tucked into the middle of them, protecting you from harm as you protected them from the Reaper.
"This is Seargeant Major Rudolfo Parra, my right hand man. Ghost, Soap, and Bog." He points to you last, and you give him a smile and a nod and he feels the sun on his face like never before. You were radiant, the stress and trauma gracing your eyes but it didn't stop the rays of hope that shined through them. He almost didn't notice the strange call sign.
"Tengo miedo de los fantasmas." He attempted to joke but got nothing but a flat stare in return. "And...Bog?"
You sighed in exasperation, Soap chuckling and slapping his knee in glee. "Feel free to call me Doc instead, Sergeant Major. Soap is terrible with call signs." And that is where it ended, the conversation going serious as he drove through the streets of his home with the gradual realization that eyes were on him, but they were not vicious.
The name Bog stuck much more easily than Doc, to your dismay he could tell, but he had to admit. It fit you. You bounced back from injuries and stressful situations like the soft ground you were named after, yet you could spew acid at those deserving.
"You be safe huh, Darlin'? Can't be too careful with our good ol'doc." Graves's southern drawl cuts through the comms.
You sighed, irritation and anger apparent in your voice. "It's Doctor or Captain, Commander Graves. I give you respect you give me respect."
"What about Bog?"
"Friends can call me Bog."
"We aint-"
"No."
Soap snickered through the ear piece, Ghost telling them to stay focused before the comms went silent again. You were waiting at headquarters with Rudy and the other members of his unit on standby in case there was any medical emergencies while the others went through the cartel compound.
"Doctor?" He asked, because you certainly didn't look old enough to have one.
You turned with wide eyes, doe like he recalled, before smiling and showing your ID card. "Got it while I was enlisted, then I went to Officer Candidate School and the rest is history."
"Your family must be proud, as should your team to have such capable hands with them." He turned his chair so he was resting his arms on the back, one eye and ear out on the cameras.
"Gaz thinks differently, says I'm a torturer with a needle but that's just because he's afraid of them." Then you put a finger to your lips and pursed them, winking at him so slyly that it made his heart leap into his throat. "But I'm not supposed to tell anyone that."
He laughed, resting his head on his hand and tried to keep the admiration out of his eyes. "You have my word, bonita, I won't tell a soul."
You and him spoke like that for ages, only breaking when the on ground team needed something. Your chairs were significantly closer together than when you had started.
He had become so smitten with you in the small time he had known you that when they were relieved of duty he didn't want to end the conversation. He walked you back to a room just for you, female soldiers weren't common in Mexican Special Forces, talking low and walking slow as to prolong his time with you. You had told him about your home in America, somewhere cold that got snow every once in a while and he had watched as you spoke animated about what you would do with your family.
"What about you Rudy? Any experience with snow?"
"Enough to know I am not built for it," he laughed, "No, my home is by the coast, with plenty of warmth for the rest of my days."
"Oh a beach man huh? Am I gonna get the chance to see you in a speedo?" You smirked at him, stopping at your door and peering up at him through your lashes.
"I am Mexican, Bonita, not European, but..." all of the confidence he had managed to keep throughout the night melted away suddenly. Shaking hands reached for your fingers, just enough for them to curl around your knuckles and you held them twice as tightly. "I could take you, some day, when this has calmed down. You would like it. I will make you so much food and drinks you would not know what to do with it all."
You stepped forward and kissed his cheek, feather light and petal soft but it was enough to knock him off his feet. "Its a date. Good night Rudy."
"Buenos noches, bonita."
He had watched you, passing glances through the time you spent with Los Vaqueros and became entranced. You were intelligent, witty, funny, beautiful, and strong, you had to be to carry wounded from the field but it did nothing to rough up the hands you had touched him so delicately with.
Yet those hands, oh those hands, were sculpted by angels he was sure.
You had patched him up after Hassan Zyani left him for dead and Alejandro, his brother in all but blood, saved him from the building, blood running down his head and barely able to walk he was so dazed. He remembered you laying him down, cold water on his face and you soft eyes and gentle hands on his skin and he thought it was heaven. You barked orders to get medical supplies, but made your voice soft and warm when you spoke to him. He noticed then that you always did that, when it was just the two of you or when the attention was away, you spoke to him as if he something soft and gentle to and by God he was.
He was clay in your hands, clay to be molded and shaped to fit into your shape so that your radiance could heat him and bring him back to life so that he may support you and hold you and keep you safe.
"I think a new call sign is in order, hermosa." He whispered, numb to the pain in his head as he raised a hand to hold your face.
"Shh, Rudy, hold still. I'm almost done." You caught his hand, squeezing it tightly as you wrapped the bandages around his head.
"I think Angel is much more fitting. Eres un ángel, esos suaves toques solo podrían pertenecer a una." You smiled and finished the bandages, looking down at him with fondness as you held his hand to your chest.
"I think you have a concussion."
"Perhaps," he shrugged and used his other hand to grasp your cheek. "Or perhaps I have died and the angels had no other choice but to use your face, although I hope that is not the case. I still have to take you to the coast." He struggled to keep his eyes open as the pain medication you gave him started to take effect.
Rodolfo felt something then, firmer but still soft as roses on his lips. "You better." He heard you say, another gentle touch on his forehead that he couldn't recognize before slipping unconscious.
The next time he would kiss you would be just before you left, Valeria in custody and the plane that would cart you away from him waiting behind you. You take his hand and press an envelope into it. "I'm a romantic." You explained, "Write to me?"
He cradled your face and pulled you close, kissing your lips with as much gusto and adoration he could fit into it before he could lose his nerve. The feeling of your arms wrapped around his neck would soon become a favorite of his.
"I will." One more kiss to your lips and you were away.
It would be another six months before he could hold you in his arms again, swinging you around once you came off the airport terminal and committing the sound of your laugh to memory. He wasted no time in taking you to his villa, one hand on your thigh as he drove and you resting against his arm.
And soon the ocean is a distant roar, muffled by the sounds of his Los Cojolites and the sizzling of breakfast he was cooking. The scent of heliotrope and sun-rippened tomatoes is heavy in the balmy air that pulses in time with his heart. His shirt open and revealing the marks you had given him the night before and that morning and he sees you, sitting on the veranda with a cup of coffee and tour own marks on display. Rodolfo smiles and walks out, settling behind you with a hand on your shoulder and another under your chin as he looks at you with nothing but love.
"Want some company, cariño?"
And he knows you could never say no.
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craycraybluejay · 6 months
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AND DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED on writing erotic povs of 'problematic content.'
I'm sorry, but if you write exclusively as a soulless narrator with politically correct and culturally moral opinions, your writing is boring. Give your narrator some spice! Yes, you can write murder erotically. Yes, you can write a cute wholesome scene like its the most disgusting thing in the universe from the narrator's perspective. You can write a mean narrator that pokes fun at the reader. You can write a weirdly maternal narrator that holds your readers hand and is meant to come off as mildly patronizing. You can write a sarcastic narrator, or an extremely blunt narrator. You can even write a narrator that is some insane political extremist. It's fiction. Creative writing. So be creative.
Write characters who's thought processes and actions are awful and make them look appealing. Write scenes that are relatively normal and make them look scary or strange. Please just write with some shred of creativity.
I need to go to the fucking library and read some good classics before I go fucking crazy. Y'all do not know how to just let go and enjoy the artistic process and it Shows. Everything is a reflection of you as a person. You always feel watched and judged. In the age of the internet, I guess it's understandable. (D'ya see what I did there, sympathetic to a problematic character-- in this case, the audience that wants to kill art for its wild spirit?)
Anyway here's a writing prompt:
Write a narrator that isn't Your Social Face. Bonus points if the narrator is telling the story very differently from how the characters or scenery do. Put your whole pussy into it bro.
And remember. The narrator is a character, too. And that character does not have to be You.
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facelessfinest · 6 months
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I don't like seeing this gif going around because I feel like it really misrepresents the situation, before watching the show, I was wondering why JIgen would be trying to pull one over on Lupin?
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And the longer gif is just so much more intelligible, really, I love having just that clip of Lupin II realizing that, his son's attitude aside, he's not gonna get his way here by trying to pull a power move.
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In the whole of the series, this to me is the moment that Lupin and Jigen's relationship became what it is. The scene where Lupin steals Jigen's heart is great too, but it more so represents the sentiment behind their bond, as well as being their little makeup sesh after Jigen tried to leave and then considered shooting him and all that. This gif right here though, it's so powerful in a much different way. Lupin gets into all sorts of trouble and drags Jigen into saving him, but that's not what this is. Arguably, Lupin II is doing what he has to, to save his kid from Gaucho's plan, and before now, Jigen absolutely would have seen that as the smart option, dragging Lupin away because he's just some in over his head rich kid. He would have let it happen. But Lupin has Jigen's heart now, and that means defending him even when he's not in danger, because he's not protecting some silly kid anymore, he'd defending the way of life and the path he and his partner have chosen, and that's so drastically different. It's also such a good contrast to that scene on the rooftop earlier, where Shinobu stood between Lupin and Jigen, and now Jigen stands between Lupin and his father. The priorities have changed.
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immortalbutterflycos · 10 months
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Regulus Black is probably the most beautiful person James has ever had the pleasure to know and he has decided that he is going to marry that man if it’s the last thing he ever does on this planet. 
Only one problem there: Regulus absolutely <i>despises</i> James. Like, the type of hatred that you can feel blistering on your skin. The type of hatred that feels like a wordless threat that James can feel in the very depths of his soul. 
Those eyes, made of crystal and ice and swirling silver storm cut through him like a keen blade and he feels himself bleeding out in front of him whenever they meet his own. 
And oh how he bleeds for Regulus… 
James would give him every last drop of red within his body if he so pleased. If only it would get him a single smile; just an upward quirk of his lips. And that would be enough. 
Regulus doesn’t hate James. He wants to. He really, truly does. But he's come to the conclusion that not a soul alive could ever truly hate James Fleamont Potter. He just makes it impossible by being… well, himself. 
But he tries. 
Desperately, Regulus tries to cling to any amount of annoyance and dislike and malice he may feel towards him but James simply accepts it all with open arms.  
He takes in his cruel words like they’re a gift. He meets Regulus’ cold gaze and smiles warmly enough to melt it at the source. James is fire and hearth; warmth and safety. He is a gentle hand on the shoulder and a cup of tea on a cold mercury morning. 
James is color and light and all things good in the world and Regulus craves him. 
He hates how desperately he wants him. How fiercely he yearns to allow himself to reach out and touch him; cold fingers stretching towards the last sliver of heat and light as the sun sets below the horizon, drowned out by darkness and night and a scattering of silver stars. 
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rants-about-opm · 1 month
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The You Before You
I find it so funny that we know almost nothing about Saitama's life pre-hero work. We know a few bits and anecdotes tied into how he ended up where he is, but the black haired average office worker he once was is a complete mystery to us.
It ties into the mindset Saitama has, the idea that there was no worth to what he did before, nothing worth mentioning or even remembering. How could he possibly know how to move forward as a person when really, he never allowed himself to become one? Even when he still had his emotions intact, did he ever use them? He had already decided he was dead on his feet before life even hit him.
I don't think there is a future for Saitama until he really sits down with who he is and why he's always been unhappy, something he cant do as long as he is convinced that being a hero is the solution, the problem, and the only answer all wrapped into one.
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omnoramayday · 5 months
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Sunlight, Starlight
Notes: For the @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers October Minific Challenge. I tried to hold myself to the word limit of 250 as a personal challenge to develop a couple skills.
Prompt 16 from the Flufftober 2023 List 2:
Stargazing
Summary: Kitty Section talks about the stars in the sky and the people they love.
Read on AO3 or read below:
Night had fallen on the campground and everyone had laid out blankets on the hill to look up at the unpolluted night sky. Kitty Section had planned a band bonding camping trip to celebrate a few successful gigs.
After they had settled, Rose spoke. "I've heard somewhere that stars in the sky are the people we love." Her voice was soft and reverent as she pointed. "I think that star is you, Juleka. It's the prettiest one and you're the prettiest girl in the world."
They couldn't see her face, but everyone could hear Juleka's spluttering and murmured "Rose you can't just say stuff like that."
Luka chuckled at his sister's embarrassment. He loved how much Rose loved her.
"I think that star is you Mylene." Ivan pointed above their heads. "Small, colorful, and brilliant."
They could hear Mylene's "aww" and a quick smack of lips indicating she kissed him.
Luka hummed and grabbed Marinette's hand. "I think Marinette is like the sun. She graces everyone with her warmth. She is stunning in so many different ways. She is an incredible force. She is often overlooked because she is always there for those who need her. She chases away the dark. She has a natural magnetism that pulls people in. She is every bit as beautiful and incredible as the stars, but it's overlooked because we're lucky enough to have such a close view."
Marinette didn't care what the others heard as she rolled over and kissed Luka into oblivion.
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waywardvulpes · 2 months
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Lay with me in gentle silence so I may feel no fear or anxiety. So I may know true peace in the arms of my love. For your presence brings me comfort in times of trouble.
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I’ve been considering names. I go by Tobias/Toby here, I can’t tell to what extent it feels like “me” tbh but it’s at least enough to make my birth name feel unusual. Not bad, but like if someone referred to you by a username on a site you haven’t used in a while.
I like Tobias because it sounds like a strong, sturdy stone column like my birth name, and Toby is a fun, approachable diminutive with a hint of edge (iykyk 😉). It’s also familiar at this point. A safe haven in the search for myself. Perhaps it won’t be here forever, but I appreciate its security now.
I also was recommended the name Pidge by a friend somewhat recently. It’s more a neutral name, but I like it all the same. I do adore pigeons, and the name evokes the same air of curiosity, tenderness, and beauty that I so appreciate them for. It’s the ideal pet name, I think, like in Lady and the Tramp (pun not intended). How I love delicate and warm pet names.
I have others that I like, and at times feel particularly connected with, but none have stuck quite the same way. Mattias, Todd, Ripley, Hadrian, Jack, Schneider, Hatchet, Eddy, among others. Lovely names, but are they me? I’m not entirely sure.
I’m not too concerned about whether Tobias sticks or not. If it does, that’s wonderful! But if another name feels better, then so it is. My cousin rarely went by his birth name around family and my ex changed his twice. Some names are permanent and some are temporary, and both kinds are perfect.
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toastedpopsicle · 2 months
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I'm never gonna understand people who act like 'overfamiliarity' is some mortal sin. Like of course I act familiar with people. We're all human beings, those are my comrades and sisters and brothers and friends and lovers how can I treat them as anything but familiar. Am I meant not to see myself in you when we're both the same radiant images of divinity?
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solidseater · 10 months
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Hey man sorry i broke your blinds, plunging your room into a near constant state of darkness. If you'd like I could come light up the room with my sunny smile and warm personality
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I saw you are reading Young Men and Fire -- it is possibly the best non-fiction book I've ever read. MacLean has also written other memoirs and short stories that are just as lyrical and beautiful but less harrowing
My god, is it harrowing. I'm kind of reading it because during certain moods, my brain requires dark nonfiction to chew over. It's like grit that absorbs ambient anxiety and keeps it from getting up to mischief.
(Previous reads in this category include Under the Banner of Heaven by John Krakauer, No Visible Bruises by Rachel Louise Snyder, and 100:1 The Crack Legacy by Christopher Johnson. I think most people use true crime for this, but what my brain really wants is stories about systems.)
It's also... strangely, painfully good to read about my kind of place, and the beauty and horrors in it. I'm from hundreds of km north of Montana, but I also grew up moving around that transition zone, from prairie to forest, from flatland to mountain. It's where my heart is.
And a lot of my early... damage, I guess? Is from just how brutal it is, to be so much alone, in the face of all these elements that want to kill you. It actually goes back generations, because my family have all been scarred with their own different ways of coping with it. My parents, my grandparents, their grandparents.
There's a part in James Keelaghan's song about the Mann Gulch Fire (Cold Missouri Waters) that just says: "Too big to fight it/we'll fight it from the ridge instead" that just expresses how it feels sometimes, to know that the enormity of the elements are lining up to kill you, and nothing you do probably matters, but also, your entire life depends on what you do next.
I've never faced anything so intense as a crowning wildfire, but I've had other experiences--cutting my leg on a barbed-wire fence and having to walk home before I could do anything about it, capsizing a boat on a cold May day and being unable to right it and sincerely believing I was going to die from hypothermia--that stem partly from having to know what mistakes will put me at risk of really dying.
And it isn't malice, and it isn't exactly neglect or a failure on the part of the authorities, and you can spend so many years numbly accepting the inevitability of death that when someone says, "Actually, I think this kind of death isn't inevitable, so let's declare these deaths unacceptable and go to war against them" they sound absolutely crazy.
But I've also been on the side of declaring many types of deaths unacceptable instead of inevitable, and been the madman in the wilderness, and made real change. Young Men and Fire is all about that.
It's also really nice to see something that speaks with a long-familiar accent I've never really seen typologized or emulated accurately. A voice that sounds like a bunch of cowboys gathered around a fire as night turns blue, sharing their griefs and woes and philosophies, pulling together Scots and German and Texan flavour to their English, more Chinook Wa-Wa than they realize. It's my second accent, the one I can't consciously switch into, but do when someone at an Edmonton bus station asks to bum a smoke off me and all I have to give is a bus ticket, or when I'm at a livestock show and I want to ask someone if that steer is a Limousin or just a pale Red Angus and I want them to assume I understand about cattle breeds and reply without giving a five-minute preamble on animal husbandry to the kooky city lady first.
It doesn't surprise me that it's an accent shared by woodsmen of the mountains; MacLean's people and mine are not distinct entities, but an intertwined community of people who are trying to live on this land that owns us but is never really ours.
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alifeasvivid · 7 months
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I think about the sailors that didn't want to learn to swim because it would make drowning take longer. What about those that did know how to swim?
How long did they try to keep their heads above water? The indomitable will of the human spirit to live pitched against the indifferent ocean and its gulping deep. Did they pray for a ship that was definitely not coming? Did the seawater they swallowed spill out in exhausted tears? What was it like to know that this was the end? Could they even accept the futility of their struggle?
At long last, when the moment finally came that the human body could no longer carry out the will of its spirit... it must have been the most complete surrender. It must have been sublime relief to sink beneath the surface, to no longer be capable fighting fate.
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facelessfinest · 7 months
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Ok, ok, Lupin Zero fic where Lupin gets shot and just loses his ever-loving mind, crying, doesn't want to be touched, snapping at people and just refuses to be consoled.
And of course Jigen is like, reel it in, rich kid, I get its your first time but you'll be fine, usually nothing gets to you like this.
But then Lupin tells him that it isn't his first time, and he shows him the scar where his grandfather shot him in the stomach when he was six in some ass backwards attempt at teaching him a lesson, and for the first time since getting shot, Lupin smiles at Jigen and just says "I used to think they loved me."
And Jigen wants to feel confused but he knows that "they" means his grandfather and his father, and maybe even Yoko too now, just everyone that chose a path that drove a stake through Lupin's heart.
So Jigen sits with Lupin, and says nothing, and hopes he understands that that means he's felt this too, because if he says the words "Well, I love you", he knows by experience Lupin won't believe it.
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elizabethplaid · 2 months
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Talking to a friend about how each of my old stories is like a time capsule into my past selves.
Sometimes I say smart stuff; sometimes it's smart-ass stuff. Dat's me!
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rants-about-opm · 29 days
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To Lack Heart
There is a disconnect between fans of the OPM webcomic and OPM anime that I think can easily be explained by the amount of effort put in.
A lot of people who like the webcomic don't like the animation of season two, which doesn't make much sense to those who like the show. The art is objectively better in the show than in the webcomic. The thing is that the first season was carefully crafted to capture the energy of Murata's art in the Manga, which in turn was carefully designed to capture the energy of the *writing* in ONE'S webcomic.
ONE has always been a writer. He happens to be a writer who best expresses his stories through visual means, despite not being a professional artist by most standards. His stories are not hindered by this, because his art may be simplistic, but he is a master of emotional storytelling. Murata did not make the story better because he happened to be a better artist, but because he is dedicated to using his art in service of the story, to enhance it, not to replace it.
The first season of the anime was painstakingly animated and written to capture that beautiful balance between Murata and ONE, that elegant dance of wonderful storytelling and expressive art. It remains some of the most fluid and passionate animation to date.
The second season of OPM, to put it nicely, was not animated by professionals. The characters are constantly off model, the anatomy is atrocious, and the fight scenes were so botched to avoid having to animate the movements that the action is almost incomprehensible. It lacked technical ability, but that's not really why it was bad. ONE lacks technical ability, but he has heart.
In every panel, and with every line, ONE carefully crafts his story to circumvent the fact that he's no master artist. He cares deeply about what he's making, and puts his best effort forth to create art so moving that artists and animators are moved to achieve feats previously thought impossible just to capture the beauty of his work. Season one of OPM is still used to prove that fight scenes can be fast paced without sacrificing the integrity of the animation or the story. Murata is basically the gold standard of mangakas, proving that bad anatomy is an artist problem, not an anime style problem.
ONE, Murata, and the season 1 animators set a standard, and season 2 failed to live up to it, not because it couldn't, but because there was no heart.
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waggingtongue · 1 year
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In need of a sheet of paper
a favor most can solve
(and even more pretend to try)
a special kind of paper with an excellent memory to retain and safeguard memories for decades…but also keep secrets if asked
.
Hush and go and write some more
write and loiter and think no more
but don’t forget to
call next summer by four
..
Pen flirty flirts to dandies
metaphors to the crude
popularize snooker tables and beards
for insecure betas
attention craved by huge appetites for affection please notice me just a little would mean a lot screaming to be noticed accepted approved validation for a disorder to qualify as a poet
….
Few choose to poet. We are probably chosen from a pool of misfits to take words that are sensible, and in order, and make them not
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