#what is pugilism

[age-of-moonknight]

“Hunter’s Moon,” Vengeance of the Moon Knight, (Vol. 2/2024), #4.

Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Alessandro Cappuccio; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit

[askvectorprime]

Dearest Vector Prime,

What do you know of Cybertronian martial arts? How do they differ from one another? You must have encountered more than a few unique styles and practitioners in your travels.

Dear Jet Judoka,

Ever since the first construction crane robot used its crane boom to deliberately knock over another robot eons ago, martial arts have been an integral part of our history.

You might assume that the warmongering Decepticons were the first to codify these disciplines of pugilism—and indeed, the brutality of their attacks and strategies gave them the edge at the outbreak of war. But the Autobots, who had lived as engineers and laborers, were able to disguise their training: every step, every turn of a wheel, every act of physical labor could be a secret technique, practiced thousands of times per cycle, until they had mastered the perfect move with which to surprise their adversaries.

Under Autobot schools of thought, there are two basic elements of physical combat: “Piston” and “Gear” motion. “Piston” is a direct, linear force: delivered by punches, rocket-powered fists, or other inbuilt ballistics. By contrast, “Gear” is a deflecting, rotational force: swiveling at the waist, or rolling, to create a “transmission” of the opponent’s energy into advantageous movement. In time, this framing came to influence Decepticon disciplines, until both groups were using the same terminology.

As the conflict between Autobot and Decepticon continued, fuelled by an escalating arms race to develop esoteric weaponry and enhancements, some chose to eschew ranged combat and instead specialize in martial arts based around stealth and melee. After sneaking into the enemy’s midst, a single warrior trained in this way could quickly dismantle those unprepared soldiers who relied more on their armament and abilities. Being a direct reaction to the highly technological mindset of both factions, it’s perhaps unsurprising that martial arts came to be spoken of using increasingly spiritual terms. Those trained in Circuit-Su turned inwards towards the personal energy of the spark, which practitioners of Metallikato would learned to channel through their weapons, striving to embody the “Ultimate Warrior” of legend. Meanwhile, followers of Yoketron’s Eightfold Path formed an understanding of self based on eight specifications: SPR-INT-SPD-END-RNK-CRG-FRB-SKL, each a separate aspect of Primus.

Other disciplines were influenced by offworld cultures. Crystalocution was developed by medics and structural engineers, after they observed the way Rock Lords would target their opponent’s fracture lines in hand-to-hand combat, and adapted the technique to focus on joints or brittle crystalline components in Cybertronians. The loose assortment of non-lethal forms commonly termed Diffusion, popular amongst the Autobots, are descended from a pacifist fighting style practiced amongst the Circle of Light.

Although these styles have been broadly recognised and adopted by countless fighters, it mustn’t be understated how deeply individualistic the martial arts can be: even within a single style, no two fighters are alike. An exceptional master may try to pass down their techniques, but the unique talent, ability, and perseverance of each student will inevitably transform these teachings into something new. Take, for example, the Turtler School.

Turtler lived as a hermit on an island, on Earth. Having felt undervalued by the Decepticons, he enjoyed the solitude this lifestyle afforded, living in peace from his Seacons. At some point in the distant future, a young simian Maximal arrived on a flying surfboard, wanting to learn martial arts in order to fight in the “Be(a)st Under The Heavens Tournament”. Turtler reluctantly took him on as a pupil, and over the course of several years, put him through a highly unorthodox training regimen. Some examples of the feats he had the Maximal perform included:

Climbing a mountain to catch a bird

Climbing a mountain again to catch a bird, but this time with Turtler strapped to his back in alt mode

Outrunning and outswimming Cybershark in a race

Painting Turtler's home (this one in particular was very unpopular with his student)

Eventually, the young Maximal proved his purity of heart—which wasn’t actually something Turtler had cared about in the least, as he really had just needed a few chores doing—and asked to learn the secret of Turtler’s ultimate technique, the King Poseidon Wave. Turtler, not quite understanding, assumed that the Maximal was talking about his laser cannon. He fired a shot to demonstrate—and to his surprise, the Maximal copied him, pressing two open palms together, and somehow firing a large energy blast! Before Turtler could even process what had happened, the Maximal hopped onto his surfboard and sailed away on a cloud, forever grateful for the good times he’d had with the old hermit over the years.

[makapatag]

Forgive me a moment of kahilas, but let me tell you why you'd want to play Gubat Banwa for your next Tabletop RPG Fantasy campaign (or kandu, as we call it!) instead of the other prospects out there! Long post ahead~

1: You want a fantasy setting that doesn't have a foundation in modern and western paradigms. This one is the easiest one to pitch. This is not just for those that are tired of European Medieval Fantasy: this is for those that want to look at the fantasy genre through new lens

It's one that doesn't have "adventurers" as an inherent fact of the setting. It doesn't accept "defaults". It doesn't romanticize monarchism. It is built from the ground up for tactical fights and the complicated contexts that surrounds those fights. "Combat as storytelling"

It centers us, in the Southeast Asia. So there are some things that might not be as common as in the West:

- oversea and river travel is much more common (and let's be honest, easier) than pure overland travel.

- Honor and Debt are huge parts of the game's social systems (and if you do some reading on medieval societies, aren't even unique to Southeast Asia at all!)

- There's no single dominating culture or empire: it's very diverse, and we don't use any one culture as the default

- You can adapt any Fantasy style campaign you have really, though it is a paradigmatic shift! You'll have to let go of fantasy defaults and imagine a wilder and more vibrant world

- There are no elves or orcs or whatnot--for us those are chaining things, binding things. Gubat Banwa is the wind. In fact, the closest thing we have to "humans" are strange bamboo people - Anything in normal fantasy has a fresh take: Knights wear moonstone armor and ride upon omen bird steeds, "berserkers" are holy martyrs ready to die for Goddess, sorcerers are mantra and mudra masters and utterers who have an enlightened will sharpened into a blade, archers are zen-daoists who have suffused into their surroundings and achieved minor enlightenment

2: You want a game that's specifically built around war drama and martial arts combat and the kinds of stories that entails. There's a section in the book that covers "What kinds of stories you can tell" with the GB System

These genres are the kinds of stories i love to partake in and consume: stories of wandering martial heroes, or of complicated political warring, or of grand gods and sorceries a la Ramayana, or of small stories of warriors protecting their community

dungeon delving is not even inherently against the feel of this game, though of course sacking a grave is looked down upon by most religions in the isles. they are functionally replaced by "Raids" which is much more widely applicable! You can even Raid Heaven and Hell!

3: You like complex buildcrafting, tactical combat, and martial art fiction. Instead of the classic "Hey we're a bunch of scrappy mercenaries that wield a sword out of necessity", you play as Kadungganan who inflict violence by choice, philosophy and will

"Martial Arts" here is every kind of way of inflicting violence, or of perfecting one's self. Elementalist sorcery? Combat healing? Pugilism? Mantra utterances? All martial arts in Gubat Banwa's purview.

This feeds into the buildcrafting: you start with a "Discipline" (a martial art), and each Discipline has a number of Techniques within it. Whenever your Legend Grows (level up) you gain 2 Techniques from ANY DISCIPLINE, keeping in mind prerequisites

This has led to some genuinely flavorful builds: like a priest from beyond the dead crocodile rider, a sniper that launches stolen demon seeds, a folk healer who practices flower necromancy and swordmancy, and even a Knight-Monk that is constantly dancing between stances

All of this is built upon a tactical combat system that (similarly to PF2e!) has three actions as a base, and you can do anything with those three "Beats", lending to the martial arts fiction being invoked

And you start off with pretty limited options, so most of your build is pretty emergent: creating a Kadungganan is easy, since you can't choose from a huge pool of options, but advancement is exponential

It's all on a tactical grid too that has important considerations such as Elevation, Terrain, and even Weather! All to create slick wuxia-esque scenes!

4: You want an endlessly iterative setting. Gubat Banwa is a trichiliocosm, which means it has three-billion worlds. Each one might have your table's version of the Sword Isles. The Sword Isles is a gigantic archipelago, too many islands too count, too many kingdoms to track.

Everything you can think of will fit into the islands of the Sword Isles, just know that it centers Southeast Asian paradigms. A wandering adventurer from a far off land will be the exception, the norm. But endlessly interesting cultures and campaigns can arise from the Isles

And so much more. If you're already interested, take a gander at our itch page:

Also we have a discord where i run games back to back like a goblin: https://discord.gg/8h7ZrU6353

[theradicalscrivener]

The Life and Tinies of Trevor: OnlyGlans

I started this fic aaaagggesss ago. Like, you can carbon date the first draft by the fact that it references the Jack-O challenge. I'd been wanting to revisit Trevor and friends for ages, and I was in a hardcore micro mood this past month, so I dusted this off and finished it.

(P.S. Ya boi's got Linktree and Bluesky now)

[First Chapter] || [Next Chapter]

                Simon glanced up from his homework and over at the far side of the desk where Trevor was positioned in front of Simon’s cell phone – which at Trevor’s two-inch height was far larger than Trevor himself. The cell phone was mounted on a stand which kept it more or less upright so that Trevor could watch it like a movie screen, but Trevor seemed more interested in participating in what was going on on the screen as opposed to just watching.

                “… what in the wide, wide world of sports are you doing?” Simon asked.

               Trevor hopped up from his position and shouted up towards his colossal boyfriend so that Simon could hear, “It’s the hottest new meme,” he explained. “People all over are mimicking this fighting game pose.” He then leaned back down so his booty was in the air and his chest was down on the ground.

               “Looks uncomfortable. If I was gonna mimic a pose, I’d probably stick to something like The Garfield Power Coma pose or something,” Simon commented.

               Trevor once again hopped up and faced his giant boyfriend. “How boring! You won’t get any likes like that!”

               “Oh? That’s your game? Gonna be internet famous? Might need to put some pants on before you go posting to TikTok, though.” Simon teased and gave Trevor’s exposed midriff a playful poke with the eraser end of his pencil.

               It was supposed to be a soft jab, but with their current size disparity, it was enough to send Trevor tumbling onto his ass. After all, the pencil was bigger around than Trevor’s whole head! Getting poked with one of those was like getting bodied with a pugil stick.

               However, the sudden tumble barely slowed Trevor down. He quickly hopped back up on his feet. “I… uh… guess I got a little too used to not wearing anything around the house. I didn’t even consider the clothes thing…” Trevor said with a bashful chuckle.

               “Well, I for one am not complaining,” Simon said with a sly wink.

               “Yeah. You would enjoy it,” Trevor replied back and returned the wink.

               “TikTok might not allow you to leave the goods out, but I’m sure some other sites would be more than happy to show all of you.”

               “Ha! Yeah. I can get me an OnlyFans and become the world’s tiniest porn star!” Trevor laughed.

               “Then you can finally start paying rent,” Simon teased.

               “Sure! I’ll only pay for the portion of the apartment that I actually use though,” Trevor replied. He then paused for a beat and asked, “Do you think you can break a penny?”

               “A whole penny? You must really be expecting to rake in the big bucks,” Simon teased playfully.

“What? You don’t think I know how to work it? Get that camera rolling, and I’ll show you what I can do!”

               Simon smirked and cocked an eyebrow skeptically. After a moment he shrugged and then tapped the screen of his cell phone a few times and adjusted the angle so now the screen showcased the tiny Trevor standing atop Simon’s desk.

               “Well? Go on. Don’t keep your fans waiting,” Simon said.

                 “The site is called Only Fans for a reason! I’m nothing without my audience! So, you tell me what you want to see!” Trevor called up to his towering boyfriend.

               “Well, I already see a lot that I like. Why not show that to the audience?” Simon replied with a smirk.

               Trevor glanced up towards his boyfriend’s huge smirk which loomed far above him. His gaze stayed a moment at his boyfriend’s cute face and then slowly worked a path down the seeming miles of Simon’s shirt.

               “You know… if I’m going to make a name for myself as the world’s tiniest porn star, I should have a partner for comparison!” Trevor said.

               “Oh? Did you have someone in mind?” Simon replied playfully. He played dumb, but even without being asked, he began to undo the buttons on his shirt letting his toned chest and abs come into view.

“Take! It! Off! Take! It! Off!” Trevor cheered as Simon continued his striptease. Once his shirt was fully unbuttoned, he then shimmied his tight jeans down along his slender thighs before stepping out of those. Soon he was clad in nothing but his full open-fronted flannel shirt and a pair of bulging boxer briefs.

Simon started to reach down and slip his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, but Trevor quickly shouted for him to stop.

               “Wait! Wait! I have an idea!” Trevor shouted.

Simon cocked an eyebrow questioningly but waited as Trevor scampered across the desk towards the large keyboard that Simon usually worked from. Trevor crawled up onto the wrist rest before leaping across the gap to the keyboard proper. Once there, Trevor knelt down and slammed his palms down on the track pad as if he was putting his prints on the Hollywood walk of fame.

               Simon admired the view as Trevor took up a pose very similar to the meme pose he was trying earlier. Trevor had his legs spread wide so that he had a foot planted on one of the two mouse keys. Trevor had his two hands placed together almost as if he was trying to guide a Ouija puck. Trevor had to lean all the way forward so that he had most of his body weight balanced on his two hands in order for the track pad to even register his weight enough for him to move the cursor. The pose put all of his goods on display. His ass was raised high and held in such a way as to give Simon a clear view of Trevor’s tight, tiny hole, and his balls and dick swung beneath. Simon couldn’t help but ogle Trevor’s fit, firm backside as the tiny guy worked away at the computer. Each time Trevor needed to shift the cursor, he had to put his full body weight behind the push which caused his tiny cock and balls to swing heavily between his miniature quads.

               Simon was quickly getting beyond chubbed up as he watched his tiny boyfriend flex and wobble with each shove of the trackpad. Simon wished it was physically possible for him to plow that firm ass, but even before Trevor had been reduced in height to the size of a Lego figure, Simon’s impressive rod had been too much for his boyfriend to take. That wasn’t to say that Simon was dealing with blue balls, however. Despite his tiny size, Trevor had a seemingly boundless wellspring of energy and an even bigger imagination. In fact, the only reason the two of them weren’t going at it like rabbits every day was because Simon often needed to rest between rounds, and there were also those pesky classes and homework and a job that kept Simon otherwise occupied.

               Simon was so fixated on his fit, tiny boyfriend that he wasn’t even watching what was going on on the monitor. Trevor had already logged into the app that controlled the webcam and was adjusting the angle of the video.

               Calling it a webcam was probably a bit of a misnomer. It was a higher quality camera than one usually used for face timing, and it was able to be remote controlled. This camera and the touch pad mouse were two of the items that Simon had installed to give Trevor a way to keep in touch with him if he was out of the apartment for any reason. The camera was able to zoom in on the less than two-inch tall dude so that Simon could clearly see his pint-sized paramour at any time of day. Today, however, the camera was fixated on Simon’s package.

               “Chin up! Trousers down!” Trevor said into the microphone that was attached to his little control center.

               Simon blushed beet red. He had been mostly joking about having Trevor film the two of them together. Trevor was the outgoing one. Simon was often just along for the ride. However, he couldn’t deny that he was excited by the prospects. Simon wasn’t naïve. He knew his cock was huge, and his dick was just going to look even more massive when placed alongside a dude who was crotch high to a G.I. Joe!

               Simon once more slipped his fingers into the waistband of his tight boxer briefs and shoved the soft garment down along his hips until his huge, fat cock spilled out onto the desk before him. His impressive meat landed on the cool, wooden surface with an audible whump. The tremor from the impact was such that even Trevor, who was a good foot away from the point of impact, had to struggle to maintain his precarious pose.

               Simon watched in awe as the camera zoomed in to focus on just the head of his huge cock. The soft, supple flesh of his spongy cockhead filled up almost every inch of his extra wide monitor. His pre-dribbling slit made it look like his desktop background had been swapped out with an off-brand rendition of the eye of Sauron.

               It was strange staring at an image of his own cock like this. The glans appeared larger than his whole head! The slit appeared bigger than his own mouth! Was this what it looked like to Trevor? On some level, Simon started to feel a little jealous that this is what Trevor got to experience on a daily basis! But even as these thoughts flooded his mind, he knew that he was lowballing just how huge his dick looked to his tiny boyfriend.

               Once satisfied with the camera position, Trevor stood back up and stretched the kinks out of his back and shoulder before hopping off of the mouse pad and scurrying across the desk over to where Simon’s massive meat awaited him. Trevor was already rock hard before he even left his workstation which gave Simon an amusing and erotic view of Trevor’s tiny rod swinging and dripping from side to side as the little guy jogged across the desktop.

               Soon, Trevor was staring down the beast. Trevor was so small and Simon was so hung that the massive, spongy head of his semi-boned cock completely dwarfed Trevor’s body. Just the glans of Simon’s fantastic cock was the size of an igloo! As Trevor stood there staring down Simon’s massive, fleshy, one-eyed monster. Trevor felt like Chrono standing face to face with the planet-devouring parasite. However, unlike Chrono, Trevor was more than happy to let this beast erupt all over him.

               Trevor leaned up against the tip of his boyfriend’s colossal cock. No matter how many times he did this, the sheer size of it always took his breath away, and the surreal sensation of the massive, soft, spongy tissue against his tiny hands made it feel like he was petting some kind of massive beast. Trevor had never pet an elephant before, but he imagined it would probably be a very similar experience… at least if he was doing it at his old size, anyway.

               Trevor glanced over his shoulder and marveled at the image on the screen behind him. It was strange seeing himself as a giant! Everywhere he went, he was surrounded by people that completely dwarfed his tiny form. Some part of Trevor’s mind pondered for a split second what it would be like to be the big guy in a relationship, but he’d never want to trade places with Simon. Trevor loved having a skyscraper-sized boyfriend, and he knew that Simon absolutely adored having a pocket-sized lover as well.

               Internal thoughts aside, Trevor was pleased at what he saw on the screen. He and his boyfriend’s cock were framed perfectly in the shot. Trevor flashed a sly wink to the giant figure of himself on the screen (and by extension to the fans watching at home) and turned to face the beast. Now that he was in position, he wasted no time. He pressed his body against the tip of Simon’s fully-engorged cock head. By this point, Simon was rock-hard. His dick-tip was as puffed up as it could get. Pre flowed freely from the huge slit.

               Trevor began to rub his whole body against his boyfriend’s massive cockhead. He rolled his entire body like a Gogo boy doing body rolls in a cage above a dance floor. With each thrust of his hips, his own cock rubbed against the drooling lips of Simon’s massive slit.

               Simon shuddered and moaned. He struggled against himself to keep himself from cumming so quickly. Sure, he had been busy with class lately, but he hadn’t thought he was so backed up! He was ready to cream, and they had barely even started! He could feel Trevor’s tiny dick rubbing against his oversensitive slit! He could feel Trevor’s tiny hips rubbing against his over-engorged cockhead! Simon was so close to cumming just from the sensations on his cockhead, and it didn’t help that he could see the entire spectacle of his tiny boyfriend grinding against and licking and suckling his own cockhead in HD on his large computer screen. 

               Simon’s cock head gave a flare. His dick lurched violently. The motion nearly sent Trevor toppling flat onto his ass, but Trevor was not about to be shoved aside even if Simon’s meat was so massive that even the head of the fat cock could easily eclipse Trevor’s entire body. He was determined to stand his ground. He didn’t want to let go of his boyfriend’s cock for even a moment, and he definitely didn’t want to disappoint the fans at home. Not to mention, that being able to make the titan which loomed over him tremble with just the movement of his hips, drove Trevor wild!

               Trevor glanced back over his shoulder to make sure that his audience still had a clear shot of what was going on. He flashed another playful wink, and then returned his attention to his titanic boyfriend’s shuddering cockhead. Trevor got down on his knees so he was now staring down the dribbling slit. The scent of cock sweat and pre filled his nostrils. The sheer heat emanating from his boyfriend’s meat was astounding. It was like just the head of his lover’s cock was overwhelming all of his senses! But Trevor was not so easily cowed. He leaned in and rubbed his face against the pre-drooling gash of Simon’s monolithic cock. Simon’s slit was so huge that Trevor could get his entire face into it as if it was one of those face pillows on a massage bench, but the sides of this pillow were far warmer, softer, and wetter than any spa pillow he could have used.

               Simon slammed his hands down on the desk to stabilize himself. He was now shaking like a leaf. His breath was coming in ragged gasps. Simon’s cock was so sensitive that he could feel Trevor’s tongue against the inside of his dick tip. He could feel Trevor’s nose brushing against the walls of his dick. Trevor really knew how to get to him. Trevor was far smaller than even just Simon’s cock, and yet Trevor could easily make the titan collapse with bliss, and the sensations were only amplified by the video displayed on Simon’s monitor.

               Simon could see Trevor kneeling down before the camera. The video gave a clear glimpse of Trevor’s tight, tiny hole. Simon was leaking so much that his pre was completely coating Trevor’s tiny body. Trevor’s body glistened in the light of the desk lamp. Simon watched as Trevor moved a hand away from Simon’s sensitive cockhead and reached back towards Trevor’s own firm butt. Simon was so horny that his throat felt so tight that he could barely swallow. All he could do was struggle to remain upright while he felt his tiny boyfriend grinding against his cock and watched the incredibly sexy show on his screen. He was struggling to keep his cool and his load, but he nearly lost both when he saw Trevor reach back and slip two pre-soaked fingers into his own tight hole.

               Trevor was using Simon’s own pre to finger fuck himself! Trevor was so tiny that Simon had long since given up getting any part of himself in that dude’s cute hole! Trevor was so small that Simon couldn’t even slip his pinky inside! Yet watching Trevor finger himself with Simon’s juices sent Simon spiraling into a new stratosphere of hot and bothered.

               Simon’s cock trembled and lurched so hard that the force of it sent Trevor tumbling backwards. ! In actuality, Trevor had only slid a few centimeters, but at Trevor’s small size it was as if he had slid a few feet! The pre-soaked shrunken stud slid across the desktop as if he was in an ice rink.

Trevor knew it was time for his hard work to pay off. The sound of the giant’s moans was like music to his ears. Each labored breath that escaped the titan’s lips made Trevor hornier and hornier. Trevor was ready to cum right then and there, but he was determined to hold off until Simon had found release.

               Simon was so horny that he didn’t even have time to wrap his hands around his fat cock before he started spewing. The first rope of jizz arced into the air, completely missing his tiny lover.

               Simon struggled against his own arousal and orgasmic bliss and forced enough of his body to listen to him. Simon was so addled from his own climax that he wasn’t entirely sure why he was struggling so hard. Did he want to put on a good show for the camera? Did he just want to completely coat Trevor in his cum?  Whatever the case, on some level, he knew that he needed to get his dick back in the shot.

               Simon reached both hands around his fat cock and angled the cum-spewing tip down towards the desktop. Simon was so hot and bothered that he could barely keep his eyes open let alone focus them, but between gasps and spurts, he watched in awe as the image of his own cock was magnified several times on his computer screen. Jizz erupted from the slit like a geyser. The burst of cum crashed into the tiny figure that stood unsteadily before it. The torrent of jizz was so powerful that it sent Trevor flying backwards as it collided directly with his chest.

               Trevor had been blasted clean out of the view of the camera. Now the computer screen only showed Simon’s spewing cock head. That image was incredibly hot even by itself, but even as his senses were overwhelmed by his own climax, Simon refused to take center stage on what was supposed to be Trevor’s special production. Fortunately, a blinking red light caught his attention.

               Simon had never stopped recording on his cell phone! The device was positioned camera-side down, so all it had picked up so far was noise, but it was still running!

               Simon quickly reached over. He scooped up his phone in one hand and his pint-sized lover in the other. He held Trevor up to the tip of his massive cock and held the phone unsteadily above and recorded the last few spurts of cum. He watched in hormone addled awe as the screen of his cell phone lit up with the image of Trevor’s shrunken form getting buffeted by shot after massive, messy shot of hot spunk! Simon’s load had been one for the record books even by his standards! His load completely flooded his entire palm! The thick spurts had left Trevor so soaked in spunk that he looked like a victim of the Staypuft marshmallow man!

               “y-you ok…?” Simon gasped breathlessly into the phone as he zoomed in closer and closer on the shrunken figure which now lay buried in spunk in the palm of his hand. His question was answered by a pair of two emphatic thumbs up emerging from beneath the muck.

[First Chapter] || [Next Chapter]

[nostalgicamerica]

To any Canadians (and Brits?) out there, Happy Boxing Day!

*Full disclosure: I don't even know what Boxing Day is. I envision either pugilism or packing up dirty socks and underwear and sending them to neighbors for a lark. But I could be wrong.

[probsnothawkeye]

Okay I had a very long and busy and bad day but it's finally FINALLY time to talk about @eelerschoice !!!!

Spoilers for episode 1 below but if you want a non-spoiler review: it's incredible. Listen to it. This is not a request it's genuinely so fucking good and you have to listen

The logical part of my brain knew the eels had to be big. That said, when they were describing how big the eels were my brain went "Oh!! Eels BIG!!" as if I didn't assume that

The discussion of how the eeling economy worked (from the eelers to the bone appraisers and the people who actually like sold the meat of it all) is really really interesting both in terms of world building and also in terms of me wanting to know everything about the big eels

When they said that the eels are caught with 2 boats and only 1 came back? My heart sank. Real effective shorthand for "hey. Big eel dangerous." And also allowed for introduction of religious ideas in the world. Lighting candles, talks of funerals, little things that make the world feel big. All of it is so fucking good

And then there's Ran and Pugill who are just so good right off the bat

Rae Lundberg and B Narr did incredible jobs with these characters and im already in love with them both

I love Pugill's pining and the fact that he's in a gang apparently and his friendship with Ran

And Ran with their big aroace vibes and bigger dreams and desire for a better (if not more dangerous) life

The last line being their desire to start eeling? Iconic. Inspired. I'm sure terrible things won't result from it in this maritime horror fantasy show

Lastly we gotta talk about the song because holy shit the SONG

Hauntingly beautiful and everything you want a sea shanty to be

I forgot about the musical aspect of the show and was very :0!!

It will be stuck in my head forever

Please put it on bandcamp I'll pay human money for it

Eeler's Choice *is* joining the list of podcasts I'm annoying about when they release episodes that's just how this is gonna go

Lou and Daisy have made one hell of a show and I can't wait to see what comes next from it!!

[channelsurfer02]

Slayers Pokémon Teams: Amelia Wil Tesla Seyruun

Lo and behold, Amelia’s Pokémon team! One thing you’ll probably note about this team is that half of the Pokémon aren’t fully evolved. This was an intentional choice on my part to show how Amelia, as the youngest member of the Slayers crew, still has some growing to do.

Arcanine: This one represents Amelia’s love of justice, as its hidden ability is justified and the Arcanine line is often used by officer Jenny in the anime.

Lokix: One might question what a dark type locust is doing on Amelia “lives, breathes, and eats justice” Seyruun’s team. However, one thing you should remember is that Lokix is based on Kamen Rider and Sentai heroes which Amelia is canonically a huge fan of, or at least the Slayers equivalent thereof. I could totally see Amelia practicing her posing with Lokix, trying to balance on the tallest available object while holding a suitably dramatic pose for as long as possible.

Hitmonchan: This one is obvious. Amelia punches stuff, Hitmonchan punches stuff. Easy choice, really.

Nidorina: Now we come to the unevolved Pokémon. In this case, nidorina is meant to represent Amelia’s status as a princess, though come to think of it, is that her actual title? I mean, Phil is a prince but he takes on more duties of statesmanship that princes usually do, which kinda makes him a king in all but name. Hmmm. Well, either way, I envision this Pokémon as being a gift from Naga, what with poison types being more her thing than Amelia’s.

Clefairy: Hey, I had to add a cutesy Pokémon here somewhere. Plus given the utility moves the Clefable line learns, it serves as a symbol of Amelia shrine maiden magic, which is largely support and healing focused. Also, it evolves with a moon stone, like Nidorina, which I thought was fitting considering Amelia’s sort-of love interest is Zelgadis.

Steenee: This is another Pokémon that evolves into a more royalty focused Pokémon, which I found to be fitting. Also, the Tsareena line fights with its feet, which I thought would be fitting for Amelia with her penchant for pugilism and close-quarters-combat.

[thehat-taheht]

Boxers of Yesterday Today and Tomorrow

Storytelling in Sports

A normal person otherwise devoid of any specific purpose finds their raison dêtre in training for the martial arts.

This single sentence storyline is a fundamental story type in many Asian stories. You find it in Chinese Shaolin Temple epics, Japanese and Chinese rival school epics, Thai action films, Spanish and French sword-fighting fictions, and even American dramas and comedies. Rocky is the most notable example of an American version of this story type. In every example, the storytelling rarely focuses on the action and instead puts the onus on the relationships the character has with the world.

The most notable Japanese examples are Samurai films and combat/sports manga. In most of these examples the protagonist is relatively normal, allowing the audience to relate to them. Then the narrative introduces a reason for the character to evolve during exposition. The main character then is introduced to a mentor, not unlike Joseph Cambell’s example path of the Hero’s Journey. In sports narratives this mentor is usually in the form of a coach or trainer and they are uplifted from normal person to a superior athlete.

In sports manga and other sports fiction, the answer to all problems is always the same: Training.

Discipline provides confidence and training provides strength. Both of these are held together with ‘guts’ or determination. The athletic hero is confronted with stronger and stronger opponents and continues to train until he can defeat them. This type of ‘superiority through training and determination’ is a cornerstone of most Japanese stories. Many deal with an argument between skill and talent as well. In most cases learned skill defeats natural-born talent after enough training has occurred.

The lessons taught in these stories are almost always the same:

Nothing good is achieved without effort

Trust your friends and family

Strength is the product of discipline

Determination will give you victory

In this essay I will be focusing on three Boxing stories from Japanese culture. We will explore their meanings and narratives, the lessons taught, and the importance of their stories on culture.

Joe Learns to Box: Yesterday’s Tomorrow

Pugilism has a long history of nobility and violence. Boxing is enjoyed the world over as the world’s most basic of martial arts. Everyone can do it, but few can master it. Despite the sport’s organization being mostly from a European base, the United States has become the de facto home of the sport. It spread across the world and entered Japan in 1854 and became popular despite Japan’s dominance in the martial arts world.

Post World War II anti-American sentiment led to a lull in the sport, but boxing matches continued. As Japanese classical art like Emakimono evolved into Manga, artists struggled for meaning in a post nuclear world. One particular author found this meaning in the story of a prize fighter from the slums of Tokyo. Asao Takamori under the pen name Ikki Kajiwara teamed up with the artist Tetsuya Chiba to create their seminal work, Ashita no Joe. The story captured the spirit of Japanese determination and also their desperation in the face of their defeat of WW II and the subsequent reconstruction period. Joe’s redemption and anger belonged to the youth of the day and inspired other authors, artists, and aspiring boxers to try their best to grow and learn what it means to be strong.

Using this story as a lens to view other anime and manga you can see its influence everywhere you look, from popular to obscure. Notably Takamori’s story inspired a renaissance of boxing fandom in the late 1970’s. Despite there being several titles going to Featherweight and Welterweight champions in Japan during the time, boxing was relatively unpopular due to its association with the US. Ashita no Joe, or “Tomorrow’s Joe” captured a moment and helped to move its fans forwards toward a brighter tomorrow.

The titular character Joe Yabuki, is a tough-as-nails drifter that wanders into a shantytown and runs into an alcoholic boxing trainer, who sees a bright future hiding inside the brash youth and attempts to coax it out of him. Because of his terrible attitude and criminal behavior he is instead put in jail. Joe redeems himself (somewhat at least) and pushes himself to become a professional boxer. His story can be seen as a successful transition from an economic outcast into a functional member of society. In this case, society can be said to be the true villain of the story. Joe has either rejected society or society has rejected him, he has either turned to violence or been rejected due to his reliance on violence to solve his problems. Similar story origins can be found in gangster movies but also in stories like Rambo: Firstblood.

Classic and contemporary gangster films have characters that as children are shown a violent way of life, either by design or necessity. These children then grow into violent adults, full of anger and contempt for society and view the world as a thing to be possessed or conquered. Society ultimately rejects them for their violent and destructive natures. Stories like Rambo on the other hand, have a well liked child grow into a life of violence for a noble cause, but are ultimately unable to separate this violence from their personality. They eventually reject society as they cannot find a place and the violence in them serves no purpose.

Yabuki is a bit of a mystery as we have no context to put him in, but as with both other character types, his violence serves no purpose. He is defined by his violence and it colors all of his actions towards others. Joe is a fundamentally unlikable character, full of anger, bitterness, and child-like pettiness. His relationship with those that eventually come to care about him serves to instill societal norms in him in an attempt to turn him into a better person.

Instead of society itself, I propose that poverty is the real enemy of Joe and his friends. Every day is a struggle for all of them in San’ya. Economic disparity is on parade throughout the narrative, from the driftwood houses along the Namida Bashi (Bridge of Tears) to the sky scrapers and mansions of the mega-wealthy. Joe is carted around the world boxing in various countries, but he never really grows out of the slums in his mind. Joe is obviously a victim of his own stubbornness, but he was made that way because of lack of economic opportunity. This is one of the primary stumbling blocks on display in gangster stories, but instead of becoming an enforcer and earning a living in the underworld, Joe becomes a homeless wanderer, evoking the Japanese concept of a Ronin. A skilled fighter, disgraced and masterless but clinging on to his own moral code as he wanders from town to town.

While Joe is a product of his time, his story is no less poignant for modern audiences. I enjoy Ashita no Joe for a variety of reasons, but one of the best is its lack of focus on form. Chiba’s art is almost romantic with emphasis on Joe’s inability to care about the world, and Takamori’s rambling narrative is like a daydream at times with no obvious focus or form. If I had to compare it to music, Joe’s story is like a free form jazz with some repeating phrases and a theme, but mostly feels disorganized and yet is familiar. Joe has emblazoned himself into the minds and hearts of Japanese artists and athletes for decades and will continue to guide hearts, minds, and fists for decades to come.

Ippo Steps into the Ring: Yesterday’s Today

In sharp contrast to the unlikable character study of Joe Yabuki, we now come to possibly the most likable character in all of Japanese sports manga. Makunouchi Ippo, the titular character of Hajime no Ippo, has a boundless optimism that is almost never extinguished and his ability to win through sheer will power is incredibly inspirational. When I meet people that do not watch any anime or read manga and they ask me what to start with, Ippo’s story is always close to the top of the list. Of the three stories explored in this work, Ippo is my favorite. I have watched Ippo's road to fight against Date Eji more times that I can remember.

As with Joe, Ippo is a product of his environment and time. He is an example of modern boxing theory and technique tempered with lessons from the past. The origins of boxing are represented by the retired boxers in the narrative and the techniques of famous modern era boxers are on display in this love letter to obscure boxing styles. Ippo is the son of a fishing boat captain whose good naturedness causes him to forgo friendships and childhood distractions to help his mother operate the fishing boat business that supports them after his father's death. He is bullied and taunted until a chance encounter with a professional boxer saves him from a group of wannabe hoodlums underneath a bridge. Ippo awakens to find himself in the world of boxing and puts all of his considerable determination into making himself a professional licensed boxer. He manages this and continues to help his mother without complaining or losing his intoxicating optimism.

Makunouchi is meant to be a representation of the perfect son in Japanese culture. He is mannered, self-effacing, and always does the right thing. Conceptually, Ippo is almost as far as possible from Joe as a character. The world that Ippo exists in is also just as opposed to Joe’s world. While economics do factor into the narrative a bit, it is not a focus of the story. In this world the common everyday experience of Japan’s average citizen is on display. The manga is in full swing with shonen style comedy and slice of life stories, Ippo’s life is beset with heartache, rivals, highschool life, and bad dating advice.

The thing that really sets Ippo apart is the illustration of effort and power in the art of the near constant boxing and sparring matches. Although the art is a bit dated, it still communicates emotion and drama in a way that no other sports show has ever done in my opinion. Some of the later fights continue to give me chills and despite knowing the outcome of every fight, I still find myself cheering on Ippo. The color palette for everyday life is somewhat subdued but still contains a range of colors, but the fights are incredibly bright with flashes and huge blast lines. Usually this style of art would be a turn off for me in other mediums, but somehow Hajime no Ippo gets away with it.

If Joe’s story is Jazz, then Ippo is a Rock Ballad. Guitars scream at times, but other times the story is whimsical or romantic. George Morikawa’s skillful blend of emotions bring you through a chord progression of inspiring notes building to larger than life crescendos, that crash down upon you in a hail of pummeling fists, and knock you out with the power solos that are the crowd pumping championship matches. The drama conveyed in Takamura’s face while he attempts to control himself from opening a refrigerator while dieting to make weight, and the joyful head nod that Ippo gives when he defeats the first villain of the show are highlights that play on an loop in my mind drenched in squealing guitar riffs and the roar of the crowd.

One of the craziest things about watching the show for me is the effect it has on my exercise habits. If I ever want to get motivated to work out, I put on the first season of Ippo. Just as Ashita no Joe’s world is meant to capture the desperation of the downtrodden and the realism of his world, Hajime no Ippo seems to look at the world through Ippo’s guileless naivete. Ippo’s world is both very realistic and simultaneously extremely exaggerated. This offputting juxtaposition is difficult to navigate at times when you are wondering what is real and what is imagination.

Junkyard Dog Bites Mankind: Today’s Tomorrow

When writing about the future one of the things you have to ask yourself is ‘what will X be like in the future?’ Yō Moriyama, Katsuhiko Manabe, and Kensaku Kojima asked themselves, what would boxing be like in the future? How would people fight in the age of machines and artificial intelligence? Gearless Joe is the answer, or rather the inverse of the answer as he is essentially an anti-hero forgoing the future methods of robotic-assisted carnage, for old fashioned human-powered beatdowns.

If Hajime no Ippo is Classic Rock and Ashita no Joe is Jazz, then Megalobox is Industrial HipHop. It is hard, but rhythmic, artistic and catchy. By far the most polished of the 3 examples, it is an extremely fun watch and is effectively a stylized re-telling of Ashita no Joe. The nameless protagonist chooses the moniker ‘Joe’ meaning a man with no real name, but also an obligatory hat-tip to the source material that inspired them. Originally self-named ‘Junk Dog’ is employed to fight in fixed matches in the underworld that our original Joe eschewed. He feels trapped by his life and while attempting to force change, ends up essentially trapping himself even worse. Through a twist of fate, he is forced into the world of professional legitimate boxing in which if he loses he will die. In this brutal and vicious dog-eat-dog world, Gearless Joe shines as a likable anti-hero.

Unlike Ashita no Joe, society is not the big bad guy. There are of course real bad guys in Megalobox in the form of gangsters and fixers and hustlers, but the true villain in the story is greed. The story paints a nasty picture of corruption in the slums and then opens up the world into the bright lights of the legitimate world. With every turn you see another sign of economic elitism, not the least of which is Joe’s lack of personal identity. He is a non-person in the society and cannot even be allowed into the city, there is of course a blackmarket answer for everything and Gearless is allowed to come into the futuristic world of the Megalonia tournament and fight for his life.

His trainer sets up their gym under a bridge bearing more than a passing likeness to the same Bridge of Tears from Ashita no Joe. His team and Gearless Joe are the only desperate ones in the narrative, so unlike the feeling of inclusivity that Yabuki’s gang felt, Gearless Joe feels isolated.

An Abridged Story of A Bridge: Tears to Cheers to Fears

Dieting and sweat, training and bruises, bright lights and cheering crowds. There are a lot of things that the stories share due to the sheer concept of boxing, but one thing that stands out the most to me about the similarities is the geography. Ashita no Joe and Hajime no Ippo canonically occur in Tokyo whereas Megalobox occurs in the fictional ‘Administrative Zone’, but a common point with all stories is their reliance on a single feature of the landscape, a bridge. The bridge in Ashita no Joe is a famous one called Namida Bashi or the Bridge of Tears. It got this name due to the requirement that future prisoners of Kozukahara penitentiary would have to say their goodbyes to their loved ones on that bridge as you had to cross the Omoigawa river to get to the prison. The river was moved and the bridge doesn’t exist anymore, but in its time it was a symbol of loss and heartache and of loss of agency. It was no small symbolism for Joe’s trainer Danpei to open his ramshackle gym under the bridge. Joe’s relatively brief stint in prison and their constant struggle for survival, coupled with Joe’s incessant need to cause trouble always lead to loss, heartache, and usually a loss of agency. Many of Ashita no Joe’s most important moments occur in and around the bridge, borrowing context from the bridge’s reputation. Each of these events is usually a precursor to a major event in the context of Joe Yabuki.

Even though the bridge is now gone, the area around the bridge’s location is close to the Tiato and Arakawa districts that have several rivers that run through them with modern bridges that look remarkably like the one that serves as a setting for many of the critical plot turns in Hajime no Ippo. We see the entire storyline of Ippo’s relationship with Umezawa (Ippo’s school bully that is turned into his greatest fan) unfold under and around the bridge. Ippo manages to catch the 10 leaves that teach him how to jab next to the bridge, and several key conversations and character introductions are in and around the canal next to the bridge. I don’t feel that this use of the canal next to this particular bridge is random and suspect that if it isn’t just an icon from the author’s youth, it is an homage to Ashita no Joe’s use of the Bridge of Tears.

Ippo’s story doesn’t revolve around the same themes, so the bridge being similar but different is important in my mind. Being under the bridge, where Joe and Danpei were, is when Ippo is at his weakest and most vulnerable. The wise tree nearby becomes his first teacher and Ippo learns that he can grow stronger through dedication and training. This causes the bridge to become a symbol for growth and hope for a better tomorrow for Ippo. Even Umezawa crosses the bridge on his way to become a better person. Like Ippo is the inverse of Joe, the bridge in Hajime no Ippo is the inverse of the Namida Bashi. Everytime a character crosses the bridge they are stronger than they were before.

Megalobox as a revamp of Ashita no Joe also has a bridge, and of course they have their ‘gym’ underneath it. The symbolism in Megalobox is missing however and the bridge takes on a different meaning. Joe Yabuki and his trainer Danpei are poor in a community of poor people and they have a community to help them make their gym a home. Gearless Joe and Gansaku Nanbu have no such community to help them and must toil essentially on their own. The bridge and the river are essentially signs of the reality of illegal squatting, evidence that they do not belong in the world they find themselves in. As Gearless Joe and Nanbu rock the boat in entirely different ways than Joe Yabuki, death at the hands of the corruption of the city is their motivating factor instead of prison and poverty. The bridge over their heads instead becomes a symbol of cover, of hiding in plain sight. Not unlike the nameless boxer’s decision to choose the anonymous name of ‘Joe’.

To my reckoning there are a lot of examples of symbolism in all three stories, but none are shared so visibly and with as great an impact as the bridges over the heads of heroes while they train and live life outside the ring. Plans are formed, strategies devised, and history is made under these bridges, while clueless people stroll above them not knowing what extreme determination and strength of will lies beneath.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Fair Days

Fandom: The Artful Dodger Pairing: Hetty/Jack Rating: T Word Count: 2092

Summary: Jack's troubled by questions of love and fairness. Hetty knows something of both.

Jack says “fair” and it sounds to Hetty the way Prof’s Latin looks. She knows it has a meaning, and she’d have to look it up to understand Jack’s particular usage: “fair” as in “fair, how is any of this.” She can’t be angry with him. It’s actually a sort of miracle that he can still ask the question when she knows enough of where he comes from (a place where he was cold, a place where childhood wasn’t) and what he was there (desperately, cyclically poor).

She knows that he’s afraid, and that “fair” and “fear” are never far from one another. “Fair” is the colour of pages containing notes in a language neither of them can read, the colour of some people’s skin. “Fair” is the colour of linens that get thinner without getting much cleaner because you scrub them and scrub them but can’t afford proper soap. “Fair” is almost meaningless, certainly thin, and not really that attractive next to the gilded things that only seem fair, like spending however much time, performing however much research, opening up however many cadavers, to save the life of the golden-haired governor’s daughter while a dozen others lie in the wards, waiting to even be looked at, let alone looked after.

Hetty cares for Belle. Belle’s brought ideas into the hospital, where they’ve become real. Hetty can confidently say that, since Belle inserted herself, there has been less suffering and more lives saved. Belle herself ought to be saved. Maybe any other outcome would be unfair.

But Hetty doesn’t know every shade of fairness, just the one on the linens that got thinner without getting much cleaner. She remembers watching them flap on a line above her head as the meek sunshine poured through, her little sister’s head on her lap as she darned her knee-high socks the way Hetty showed her. She’d been wearing them when she’d tried joining the race the older boys were having and tripped, tearing a hole in the rough wool. Their brother stood on the other side of the gap between the tired houses, practicing pugilism against his shadow in the pale-yellow light Hetty could pretend looked as luxurious as cold butter if she squinted just the right amount.

“Like that?” her sister asked, swinging her arms up to present the sock below Hetty’s nose and then dropping them again before Hetty could really look.

Still, she said, “Exactly, my dear,” and smoothed a hand across her sister’s forehead.

“Going to tell me I shouldn’t have let her run?” their brother puffed, intimidating the clapboard with fists that miss it by inches.

“No,” Hetty promised, “only that you should’ve realized that’s what would happen when you took her along.”

“She should know better. Since that cough she had last winter—”

Hetty pillowed her sister’s head in her apron. The way it covered her ears might’ve been an accident.

“You are fourteen, she is four,” Hetty singsonged, parroting their mother. She was sick, you are well.

Hetty remembers, still, seated on Jack’s bed, the terrible coughing that battered the second-floor set of rooms her family lived in. How it was wild, like a trapped bird that was trying to escape and kept colliding with the walls. How her mother arranged for her to stay with the rich people whose children she minded (how “stay with” meant “do light work for,” changing white bottoms and laying silver rattles out straight on a tray). How she was brought home again when her sister’s suffering had eased enough that their mother and father felt the danger of Hetty catching it too had passed. How she would sit her sister up at night before the soft tickle could become a hacking that would wake their exhausted parents and slip in behind the beginning-to-wake three-year-old, letting her fall back to sleep propped up by Hetty’s own body, her hot back to the front of Hetty’s nightgown—linen worn thin.

Her brother’s still hands marked his contrition. No matter their ages, at eight, Hetty was the boss of them both, counted upon to stitch up her sister’s socks before the littler fingers knew how and, just a week previous, her brother’s cheek when a boy up the street had decided punching the air was an invitation to get punched back.

He started to move his feet instead, somewhere between the action of the sport he was so taken with since sneaking into a match a month ago and dancing. Their father had shown them that and Hetty hadn’t forgotten either, even though it had been a while since their father last danced.

“What do you think—”

Hetty shushed him.

From the second-floor window, their parents’ voices sang down. They were arguing. Her brother heard it too, which was why he didn’t protest being silenced.

“What’s ‘manumission’?” her sister wondered, but Hetty didn’t answer, and she went back to work on the sock.

Too rare. That’s what manumission was, according to their father. It was a word that didn’t come from any of their own histories. Hetty’s mother had been born free in England; her father had been born into enslavement in Haiti, seven years into the revolution, six years before its end. Both halves of Hetty’s parentage had their heritage in West Africa. Her father had named Hetty’s brother George (after the king who’d ascended to the English throne in the year of his birth) and Hetty’s sister Adelaide (after the next king’s queen) because, as he’d told them, those names were powerful. Her mother had given them their middle names—George Kayode, Henrietta Nkechi, Adelaide Bola—because, as she’d told them, those names were powerful too.

The argument, from what Hetty could hear, head resting back against the side of the house, eyes on the waving linens, was about her father’s impatience, her mother’s bid for safety. He was deeply involved in the abolitionist movement; that was one word they had all heard many times. There was always more that could be done, and now he wanted to do it abroad, to go to America where people were still enslaved.

“What about your children?” Hetty heard her mother demand.

“What about theirs?” her father shot back. “In America, the children of the enslaved continue to be born into the institution!”

“Your children, here, have the chance to have a family. A mother and father. If you leave them, how would that be”—and here it came, whooshing through the linens, the word forever dyed their colour— “fair?”

“My love…” Her father’s voice lowered, but she strained to hear. “…fairness for one family is not fairness.”

In Jack’s room, Hetty tells him that to love is to peel the skin off your heart. Her father, the child of revolution, did it when he sailed for Massachusetts. Born into upheaval, he was always restless. He went from Massachusetts to New York. Dangerously, to Maryland. Worse, to Georgia. He spoke at abolitionist events, printed pamphlets, taught people to read. He knew how because he’d learned alongside George—George, who adopted a solemn sense of responsibility when their father kept delaying his return, going north for work in order to send more money home. He wrote to them, and they could see that it peeled the skin off his heart to be away from their warmth. Hetty stayed with their mother and sister, becoming a nurse. An opportunity arose to do good in Australia, and to do it with perhaps more dignity than she was afforded in England. Hetty felt the blade’s edge inside her chest as she left her home and took her powerful names.

When her mother died, Hetty was surprised to be written to and told, not only this hard news, but that Adelaide was choosing to follow Hetty rather than George, after whom she’d always trailed as a child. Her sister, still a teenager, was coming to the colony under the protection of a friend of their mother’s. Except the journey by ship was so long. Except Adelaide’s body had been disadvantaged against illness so young.

“You’ve never really loved anyone, have you?” Hetty questioned Jack a moment ago.

It’s mixed up in her head, whether she held Adelaide again, whether she nudged her upright in the middle of the night to stop her from coughing and let her fall back to sleep propped up by her own body, Adelaide’s hot back to the front of Hetty’s nightgown—linen worn thin. Or if that was only once. If Adelaide arrived in the colony as a memory and a long box, one of sixteen the crew had made by the time the illness receded from their vessel. Did Hetty ever say Adelaide’s name with joy on this soil, or only scream it in pain? When Adelaide was a child, they’d called her Lady.

“It always hurts,” Hetty tells Jack. “No matter what you do.”

He thanks her for the notes she can’t read and leaves.

She should go; they’ll be needing her downstairs. But it’s a miracle that Jack can still expect life to be fair, another miracle that there’s still somebody Hetty wants to love when love is such a merciless, heart-peeling thing.

Because it’s good too, love. There’s so much more good than pain in it. It’s George unashamed to dance in front of his friends, saying, “We do this at home,” meaning three streets away, where their father taught him the motions, saying, “We did this at home,” meaning Haiti, where his mother taught him the rhythm because she couldn’t teach him to read, saying, “We did this at home,” meaning back across the ocean. It’s Adelaide watching Hetty sew until Hetty teaches her how, boxing George’s unsuspecting shadow when George sits down to eat the dinner their mother, in another show of love, made for them. Love is her father’s letters from Boston and George’s letters from Manchester. Though the peeling hurts, it's astonishing just how much heart there is to peel.

Hetty’s been at this hospital longer than Jack has, and she remembers when he was new. He used to put instruments into his pockets, used to the tilt of a ship making things slide away. She told him it wasn’t smart, wasn’t clean, and he stared at her because clean hadn’t been a priority when water was pouring in and men were bleeding out. Eventually, impulsively, Hetty snatched a pair of forceps back out of his pocket during a surgery. He instinctively grabbed her wrist; she instinctively cuffed him on the ear—call it the latent training of having a brother always practicing his boxing in front of her. She’d been stanching the patient’s wound and the contact left blood in Jack’s hair. Some of their audience in the theatre that day erupted in fury at the insolence, others roared with laughter. Hetty was sure she would, at minimum, lose her position at the hospital, but Jack just let her go without a word and continued with the procedure. Afterwards, he shook her hand.

Is that when it happened? Was it when some bastard tried to grope her in the street and Jack accidentally sent him tumbling down a flight of stairs into the below-street-level door of the mercantile? Was it when Jack told her quietly that reading doesn’t come easily for him, trusting her to help him, never assuming, as others had, that she wouldn’t know how? Was it when the small child who’d coughed through the night was deathly still in the morning? Was it then? When Hetty gulped down the first cry and fled the ward at a run? When Jack found her heaving with the sobs that would not expel her sadness? When he didn’t know what to do, but he stayed? Or the day a patient died on the table and Jack left the theatre looking calm, but at the wash basin he was trembling with rage, so Hetty took his face in her hands, and his came up to hold her the same way, but they were dripping wet, so the water ran down the sides of her face, and she remembered the day with the blood in his hair, so she said something, but then they were kissing, and she was the one trembling. Was that when?

She’s been in love too long—all her life—and she does it really well, sitting here in Jack’s room by herself. She gazes out the window. The sky looked like rain earlier, but now, the day is quite fair.

[zenmai--jikake--no--komoriuta]

MiqoMarch'24, Day #8: - favourite job -

"my name is MNK⠀⠀⠀⠀and tho I feer my utility is⠀⠀⠀⠀not top teer I still werk hard⠀⠀⠀⠀fer all my loot I do my best⠀⠀⠀⠀I crit the boot" - author unknown

With the terror of the Calamity fresh in his memory, D'nyr wanted to become strong enough to protect the people he cares about most so they’ll never have to fear for their lives and livelihoods again. He began his study at the age of 20 under the care of the Pugilist's Guild in Ul'dah, and spent his days living in and around the city as a bit of a street rat, without much to his name but his resourcefulness and fishing/cookery skills. He then formally graduated from the guild 2 years later and set out as an adventurer in search of new horizons, eventually training in the way of the Fist under Widargelt. A pacifist at heart, he took up the art of pugilism moreso to learn how to subdue would-be attackers than to cause them actual harm; however becoming the Warrior of Light and everything that ensued along the way has forced him to bend that guiding principle when necessary… while he still tries his hardest to live up to that ideal, he can't deny that he does enjoy the thrill of combat and the ensuing battle high upon really getting into the flow of a fight. D'nyr's fighting style can be best summed up as: strike fast and move faster, don’t get hit but hit back as many times as possible! He utilises a mix of rushdown and hit-and-run tactics; getting up close and personal for a persistent onslaught on the foe, but knowing when to back away and keep his distance-- he fights like the ocean in a sense, constantly ramping and receding in a way that helps conserve energy and keep an eye on what’s happening around the battlefield, just as Master Hamon taught him from the beginning. His favoured weapon of choice is a dented, battle-worn pair of Sphairai Atma that he acquired not long after his victory at the Praetorium; it has seen him through many difficult times since then and has not once let him down, so he considers it somewhat of a lucky charm!

As a bonus, here's a link to his NPC Trust info!

[unicornletters]

HEYYY i saw the ask for non ofmd stuff and almost fell to the floor when I saw Agatha Cristie stuff, I CAN NOT BE THE ONLY ONE WHO LOVES DETECTIVE BLORE FROM AND THEN THERE WERE NONE he literally has blore in his name what the fuck hes the og blorebo...... Literally anything to do with him would be great but would absolutley love to see his ass get pumeled by gay thoughts and have a hard time with them because its like 1940

ok this is before the book ofc, thank you for the ask!!

Blore regarded the gymnasium with some hesitation. There were precious few places he was unrecognizable as a police detective, and the gym was usually not one of them. He was here on a tip from a fellow member of the force, who swore no one would know, nor would they care if they did know, about his profession.

“Well,” Blore thought, “I’d better have a persona, hadn’t I?” Shades of detective work even as he was assured he could leave all that behind him for the moment and box. “I can’t be a gentleman boxer, as I am hardly a gentleman. Perhaps I’ll be a charity worker who teaches unfortunates pugilism.” He had just had a letter from his sister detailing her own charity work, which did not involve boxing.

As it transpired, no one asked him who or what he was at all. He stripped down and put on his gym kit, and parked himself at a speed bag. Blore loved the gym. The sights, the sounds, the smells of it – they all woke in him a fervent appreciation for masculine beauty that he was too incurious to realize wasn’t universal.

It was invigorating.

Blore was no slouch, and drew a small audience to himself. One man in particular smirked at him, which Blore thought was very odd; had he been made? He stepped back from the speed bag for a moment to breathe and investigate.

“Excellent form,” the smirking man said, looking Blore up and down and up again. “Where did you learn to box?”

He wasn’t being confronted about being a police officer, then. Just a friendly enquiry about his boxing skills.

“Oh,” Blore said, “I was taught as a child by charity workers in the slums.”

“I see,” the man said. “Do you come here often?”

“No,” said Blore, “it’s my first time.” He wiped some sweat away from his brow. 

“Well,” the man said, “come find me when you’re done, won’t you?” With a wink, he was off.

What a friendly gym this was.

[jaded-falcon]

For the Pride asks, 4, 6 & 10. I'd ask 13, but I think we know the answer there.

Is your environment supportive of your identity?

Nobody cares. Legitimately not a single person ever cares, and I mean that in a positive way. Sure, I deal with the occasional misogynistic ass, but what's life without a little pugilism-based stress relief?

I have only ever received affirmation from my friends and lovers. I cannot ask for more.

How do you feel about labels? Yours, or in general?

Labels are how we describe ourselves. Anyone who claims to not abide by them simply wishes to choose their own, and I can respect that choice, but we all choose ways to describe ourselves and we do so with labels. To disregard their usage is folly and to say that you don't use them is to lie.

Do you celebrate Pride? How?

...I take pride in my bar, in my skills, and in my blood, so... I celebrate it every day, I suppose?

(Mariya: They mean Queer Pride. You know, during June?)

Oh! Uh... really depends on how May went for me, honestly. Some years I do. Others, well, not so much. I think the first time I actually celebrated Pride was... Founder, 3089? Maybe later?

The city I live in hosts a parade every first of June that I sometimes watch, and I usually redecorate the bar a little bit; add some more flags and so on. Only ever had one customer tell me off for it. An Elemental made them eat shit for it.

[grogart]

What do you mean there isn't actually an entire day of the calendar year dedicated to pugilism

[lostlegendaerie]

Jokingly promised @lavendermaster that if they drew some Yorkalina that I'd write some, and ALSO new buddy @tokkias and I have been driving each other UP THE WALL with YC feels so!!! here's a little ficlet!!!!

PFL era, pre-Texas, no spoilers

---

She's not sure when it started, really. Didn't think it was significant at the time so she let the date blur into endless insignificance, just another sunless dawn to starlit dusk on a ship forever hurdling through space. But it's been a couple months since she started finding Agent York leaning outside her door, failing to whistle casually, as she returned from a meeting.

"Hey, Carolina," and she can't name when her call sign started to sound so sweet in his mouth. "Long day?"

"Get in."

He's happier when she says yes. Not that he's upset when she tells him to fuck off (affectionately) or fuck off (furiously) but she can see the bounce in his step as he turns on his heels to follow her in. A few extra switches on the door to lock it, seal it in case of a hull breach, and then she's free to pull off her helmet and throw it across the room.

Getting undressed in front of each other is hardly considered intimate by now; everyone on the crew has seen each other at some level of nudity, so Carolina knows about the scars of old piercings that pepper North's body and the tattoos on South, the freckles on Washington's back and the port wine birthmark on York's right thigh. He's seen her blonde roots and even ones helped her dye her eyebrows with the same shade he uses to cover up his early greys, because York is just a little bit more vain than most people expect. But there's something precious that they've made here, unbuckling a couple pieces of their armor and relaxing around each other. For Carolina, the helmet and chestpiece. For York, his boots, gauntlets and gloves.

"That long, huh?" He's still smiling as he sits down at her desk, pulling the hairbrush out of the top drawer and pausing. "Uh."

Carolina shakes out her hair and frowns, tilting her head around to see what he--

Oh.

"Never seen a condom before, York?" she asks, turning away and dropping to the floor before he can see her face. This arrangement has been going on long enough she should have remembered to store those presents from Niner somewhere more private.

He's quiet for another moment, even as he starts the soothing careful motion of the brush through her hair. "Nah, just--" York clicks his tongue, audibly tries another approach. "You expected someone else coming by, boss?"

It's wrong for her to lash out like this, but she's had an absolutely shit day and is on the verge of ruining the one non-violent routine she has over some shit their pilot slipped in with her contraband tinted hair conditioner. "And if I was?" she prods, fire and ice and defensive warning.

York keeps brushing the whole time, his free hand massaging her scalp as he works, and his warm voice is surprisingly calm. "I'd say that's your business and no one else's."

It's a good answer. Tactful. Polite.

Breaks her heart a little bit anyway and Carolina slumps into York's shins, keeping her face down.

She hasn't not thought about fucking him, idly, when watching him trip up his bigger teammates with quick reflexes and a quicker wit. The flash of that gorgeous smile, the sure wrap of his fingers around a pugil stick, the flex of his back. It's occurred to her. And she thinks she's seen a bit of that same consideration on his end, heard in the way he makes a title of respect sound like a pet name and a plea at once.

She's closed her eyes to nurse her wounds and let herself melt into the ceaseless strokes when York speaks again. "That said, I wouldn't mind being that guy."

Her pulse jumps. She tries to conceal it. "Oh?" and she tilts her head to the side when he pushes with his fingertips, keeping her eyes shut.

"Mm-hmm. If it wasn't obvious."

She supposed it was, if she'd been paying attention. But it had been so gradual, so gentle, it felt less like a crush and more like falling asleep. "A little."

Finally her expression softens into a smile; he cackles. "See, I kept telling everyone you could still do it."

"Oh, shut up," and the damn thing keeps spreading across her face so she elbows him in the foot.

York keeps brushing her hair, humming little snatches of old Earth music under his breath. She hasn't given him an answer yet, and still he braids her hair like he has hundreds of times before without another word. Lets her lean on his legs as he traces gentle circles around her temples.

Yeah. Out of anyone on the ship, it'd probably be him that she'd take to bed. Be easy, too, since her cot is less than six feet away.

Not today, though. Today was a shit day and she wants it to be a good one, first, if they ever get good days again out here in the badlands of the galaxies. For now, she'll sit here and soak in the warmth of his presence, the closest thing to sunshine she's felt in a long, long time.

[chadhunkler]

Trip to Gyr Abania!

Chad wanted to see where Lyyhia grew up and meet her family, even if there would be tension...

But first, they had to get there! A long walk starting from Castrum Oriens, all the way to the peering stones. (This is a lotta picutr)

She pointed out the place they were going, ALL the way across the valley - they had a long way to go...

They took a stop by the Pall of Clarity, a bridge across the incredibly deep canyon river... Chad may have discovered a slight fear of heights. (Pictures in the Keep Reading!)

Gods, that's really far down...

After a brief trip to Gyr Kehim, they went back on the journey and spotted a native fish! Chad wanted to try to cook it, even though Pugil are known for tough, slimy, foul-tasting meat. She's guaranteed to make it taste good, so she hooked it and flung it at Lyyhia for the finishing blow... Which didn't go entirely to plan, flattening her girlfriend. She's fine though

After cleaning the fish, they had to climb a wall to continue. Chad was so sure she could just run up and jump to the ledge, but missed by a hair... Lyyhia caught her just in time, though not how she expected...

After that, the pair took a brief trip through Vira Nilya, a friendly Ananta tribe along the way to the Peering Stones. Chad didn't really know what to do, so she just followed Lyyhia's lead for a while here.

And now, they finally made it to their destination! Good thing, too, Chad was starting to cook in her leather armor...

Lyyhia shared a reunion hug with the lookout guard... The guard seemed a little sad to hear of Chad's relationship.

And now to explore The Peering Stones for just a bit, before hiding in the shade of the aetheryte. Damn, it's hot in that armor...

Lyyhia asked M'rahz Nunh, the tribe leader, for a tent to share, so Chad might not pass out from heat exhaustion lmao

And that's all of them for now! I'm still RPing the following scene, so maybe I'll get more! Chad's meeting the mom right now... Conflict is happening