#He was put here for a reason you know

[ask-twisted-void-null]

"uh... Ok?"

*innocently gives poster*

*Null takes the poster and gazes at it in wonder, as though he were looking at the most beautiful scene in front of him. He dipped his head to you.*

"Thank you so much. I will forever be grateful to you." -Null

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

Being someone who read Under The Red Hood and came out with the firm belief that, for Jason, it's not about killing Joker, it's about Jason wanting proof Batman would choose him over the Joker (bc shelia chose the joker). Makes seeing any other media where it's all about just wanting the Joker dead is a teeny bit frustrating. to be honest

Jason could've killed the Joker himself, really, really easily. Jason kidnaps the Joker before the confrontation. I can't open my comic for a reference right now, but it felt like he had the Joker for quite a bit before the confrontation. He had him. He beat him up with a crowbar. He had every single opportunity to kill the Joker himself, but he didn't because that wasn't his goal. Make no mistake, he did plan for the Joker to be dead by the end of it, but do you see what im trying to say here

Edit: If I knew this post was gonna get 1000+ notes I would've tried to word it better or something, this was a rant I made on the way to the grocery store 😭

It's not about making Batman kill either. When Batman says he won't kill, Jason adjusts and goes, 'Let ME kill the Joker or kill me to stop me' instead. The test is all about Batman choosing him. The whole final confrontation is Jason's first death again. The parent, The Joker, and the explosives. It even ends with Jason unable to move as a bomb goes off right next to him again because the parent didn't choose Jason. And instead tried finding an option that'd benefit them and (consequencely) letting the Joker walk, again, lol, lmao <-in agony

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

At your side [End of Season 2]

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[fridgrave2-0]

hehe ghost-turbo haunting felix au

turbo is connected to the last piece of his code in the whole arcade - a trophy he gifted to felix in mid 80s as a symbol of him genuinely caring about their relationships on par with being the best racer. felix also gave him one of his medals and both kept their gifts next to other rewards, but when roadblasters and turbotime were unplugged, the medal was gone with everything else

now, after burning in cola-lava turbo is basically dead, but scraps of his code still were intertwined with the trophy (after all, it was his first winner's cup, but felix never knew about it), giving turbo an opportunity to exist as a shadow incapable of interacting with anything and anyone besides felix, who kept the trophy even after the roadblasters incident

also I went crazy in tags, feel free to check them out

[otaku553]

Procrastination doodles of sabo for the king sabo au :)

[fumifooms]

Chilchuck analysis speedrun: As a hardworking half-foot who grew up poor and discriminated against and had his gullibility taken advantage of multiple times in his early adventuring days, Chilchuck thinks optimism is a dangerous flaw. He’s stressed and strict all the time because his job is noticing details like traps that could get everyone killed before anyone knows it, he takes the lives of everyone to be on his shoulders, and with the way he speaks about it that probably partly reflects how he felt about taking it upon himself to provide for his family too. His life’s always been pretty centered around work and has become even moreso now that his wife left and everyone is independent, and due to past events he’s very iffy with bonding with coworkers. He thinks feelings and job are a disaster mix. Like with his wife or with parties hiring him as sacrifice, being open or having good faith is vulnerability which can get you hurt, so he processes and shows all his stress as anger instead of worry. Doing strict dieting probably isn’t helping the irritability what with hunger, and on top of being a hunger suppressant alcohol might be the main stress reliever he has.

His grey hairs are so earned

[tagarilaghost]

Any thoughts to Dusknoir getting "advice" from Darkrai in the future (while hunting Grovyle & Hero)?

[nyxofdemons]

the last SEVERAL sarcastic chorus videos im just gripping my hair with increasing intensity yelling MAN I TRUSTED YOU

[dykedvonte]

Never seen it really discussed but despite his complaints about Pony Express, Jimmy is the only crew member to somewhat like being on the Tulpar.

Of course, the reason is sort of shallow, he likes being there due to the control he has in the cock pit as co-pilot. The fact that he’s actually in charge for once, even on such a minor scale. Everyone else has this open or held in contempt for physically being there but he likes it on a fundamental level, freaks out and lashes out on such a personal level when he realizes he’s losing the first job he’s probably enjoyed and that stability/control.

It’s not anything specific or I think polarizing about Jimmy but I feel like it adds to how he tells Curly this is home to him. Earth is objectively not a place of ease or comfort for Jimmy, but the Tulpar is. It’s a fucked up perversion of home and that’s so interesting for his character who also hates the corporate culture the most out of all of them.

[uniiiquehecrt]

Voice actors are NOT the same as actors.

It takes a specific kind of skill-set and training to be able to warp and meld the voice. It takes a certain kind of talent and dedication to hone that talent into the ability to meld the voice and invoke emotion with one's voice alone. Actors are used to using their voice secondarily to their body language and their facial expressions. It's all mirrored back on camera. They do have nuance. But it's a different kind of nuance and a different kind of training to produce that nuance.

Voice actors might get their likeness transposed on their character's design, and maybe their mannerisms might seep into the character's animation. But when it's all said and done: their presence is in their voice. They are bringing a character to life, showing that emotion in their voice, trying to keep a specific accent, drawl, pitch, tone in that voice and keep it consistent for their recording sessions.

The voice actor is like a classically trained musician who can play first chair in a competitive, world-renown orchestra. The actor (who fills the voice actor's role) is like a moot who played violin in beginner and intermediate high school orchestra and thinks they can get into Juilliard with that 2-4 years of experience.

This doesn't mean that the HS orchestra moot can't play. They can even be really good at it. Maybe they won competitions and sat first chair. But they are not in the same league as the person who's been training their whole lives and lives and breathes to hone their craft using the instrument and all of the training they've ever acquired to perfect it. They are not meant for the same roles. They are not in the same caliber. You do not hire the HS equivalent when you want to play complex music in a competitive orchestra.

Actors are not the same as voice actors.

And furthermore, actors - especially big name actors - taking the roles of animated characters for big budget films or TV pilots makes no sense anyways when - at least in the case of TV pilots - there's not a point to hiring a big budget actors anyways. That money could be used elsewhere (like paying your animators), and the talent that is brought onto the screen for X character could then be hired on to voice said character no recasting required.

I wouldn't say voice acting as a profession is in danger exactly, but it's certainly being disrespected and overlooked for celebrity clout, and this has ALWAYS been an issue. Shoot, even Robin Williams knew that much - which is why he tried so hard not to be used as a marketing chess piece for Aladdin and got royally pissed off when it happened anyways. People shouldn't go to any movie (but especially not animated films) because "oh famous actor is in it". People should go because it's a good movie and the voice acting is good.

People who honest to god think that voice actors are replaceable because "oh well anyone can voice act" or "I like xyz celebrity so naturally it'll be good" ... Honestly I just wish you'd reassess your priorities because you're missing the point and are part of the problem.

Voice Actors ≠ Actors.

[lanternlightss]

dewdrop leaves

> this was written for day 3: immortality/corruption! and of course i could not pass up the opportunity to write a corrupted venti, and bard’s reaction to it <3

Though Venti does not necessarily feel the sensations such as “warmth” or “cold,” the sheer thickness of Dragonspine’s chill tries its hardest to threaten that motion. It clings to him, weaving around and through the fabrics of his clothing, wrapping his limbs. Frost dapples at the tip of his nose, extending to his cheeks. It coats his clothing, too, the material starting to crinkle, turn firmer, and rigid.

(During his flight to here, his hat had been tossed off, and his cape’s bow had been torn unevenly….. how he quite liked those….)

When he lands, sprawled out onto all fours, sinking into the snow and feeling how it gives in, the beginnings of ice fall from him in clumps, sloughing. He extends his wings, fluttering them, and watches as even more are flicked off from the action.

Going to stand, a sharp pain pulls at his chest, seeming to bounce off of the space where a rib-cage would be, before it spreads throughout the rest of him, pinpricks of blazing flares. He doubles over from it, his forehead and bangs pressing into sparkly white (his braids choosing to sprawl across them instead.)

Making the decision to fully lay his upper half onto the snow, and partly burrow there, wings folding to slide more onto his form, it—for a moment, upon the first touch—feels almost soothing. Rubs at the itchiness lying beneath this imitation flesh, one that strikes and tears and shrieks at him every passing minute that goes by. Each louder, more vicious, than the last.

Venti grimaces.

With a tremble, he pushes himself up, crawling forward to fresher snow—areas where he did not mess with. Raises his hand, watching as the deep blue (nearly a shade close to the night sky, dotted with small magentas) covering his fingers and palm reaches up, up, up, a little past his wrist, in splotches. Racing alongside the blue, is deep, fracturing golden lines and cracks, painted across in random strokes. He flexes his hand, wincing, and noting he has his talons, as well.

(There is a prickle on his back, too, where feathers begin to sprout, beneath the pair of wings he already has out.)

He huffs a breath and continues to stand, shaking off the snow when completely upright. Crouches slightly, one foot forward, stancing for a flight into the sky once more—for as much as he would like to, Venti cannot stay here, it is too close to Mondstadt still, and there is a concerning pressure building within him, one that he fears may blast away everything here.

Wings flap, he leans. Snow then scatters and sprays in various directions, from his take-off.

The corruption worsens as his journey continues—that accursed statue, but its situation was becoming harrowing—sending shocks so severe that it has his wings beating harshly to keep himself righted. Even more terribly is when the ruins of Old Mondstadt come into view, and the extra wings find this the perfect time to sprout in full, snapping out, and colliding against the ones above them.

That has him stumbling into one of the many strong currents dotted around; where he allows them to spin him in a lift, and he dips towards the ground when they let go, upon where he forces his wings to untangle, opening and catching wind. He twists, pivoting, aiming towards the ground, his surroundings a blur—and lands onto a patch in a cloud of dust. Once it has cleared, he remains in his position, sitting on his knees, hands pressed to the sides of them as he leans slightly forward.

(Belatedly, he realizes he has lost his cape, and shoes.)

Venti heaves. The pressure from before is unbearable now. The blue-gold has creeped up his arm, the splotches trailing off in fading dots when it reaches where his archon form’s gloves would end, and he presumes it is the same for his legs—though, he can feel a weight at the back of his head, half-formed, in what could only be a halo. Go and break him down to his more divine forms, why don’t they!!

Bubbling. Too much of it, his grasp on everything fraying, thinning, even as he scrambles in an attempt to keep it locked shut, fingers twisting and flailing—the threads of wind, patches of time, the weather, it slips, becoming fuzzy. A gratitude undercuts it, a vague thankfulness that the ruins have sunken enough to fit the wrath of a thrashing God, a vague thankfulness that Dvalin had been sent away beforehand, before it is overrun by the thoughts—what if this is not enough? Will they fall, to his hands, just as the tyrant had done to them? Will he lose what he has fought to protect, what he has set everything to prevail for?

He cannot lose anyone again—

His imitation heart splinters and spills, the corruption truly sinking in. His vision blurs around the edges, flashes of gold tracing them, his breaths coming out labored..

(He knew, when Dvalin had been corrupted by the Abyss, that he was hurting—if it was to this extent, he wishes he could have soothed away everything.)

Around him, the wind races, becoming erratic, kicking at any surface it can find, zipping across in uneven lines. He leans further, wings curling, and the distant sounds of this place are doused, muffled, becoming white noise—a consistent ringing, overlapping

Underneath his hands and legs, the ground shrivels. The wind grows harsher, rocks being scraped across, propelling into the air and torn asunder, the glowing crystals diminishing to mere crumbles of rock. Both the dirt and grass are dragged from the ground, plucked and ripped. The intensity continues to ramp, the noises becoming overwhelming, ringing in his ears pitching, finding that his hands have raised to grip at hair, that his wings seem to wrap around him completely as he—

As rapidly as it had seemed to start, it feels as though something grabs hold of him and yanks to a halt. Venti gasps, cut hair strands falling around him.

The winds stutter, and the ringing fades. He jerks up, hands still embedded into his hair, and finds that… the place he landed in was not so deserted. Their tree stands, swaying, waving hello.

And, that everything had truly come to a messy standstill; threads of teals dipped in a bleeding mixture of a blue-gold suspended in a whirling vortex, a few parts of the wreckage they had caused gently floating besides in its grasps. The threads are not all the same, some of them cutting in dotted lines as they zoom, some of them having their lines wavering to point it threatens dispersing, some of them are thoroughly solid, some of them are splitting into branches, teal twisting and curling, and—

And—

And…

Blue eyes blink, fluttering as if just awoken.

He rubs a hand at the right one, brows furrowing at his surroundings the more aware he becomes of them. Pure raven-black braids sway, as he swivels his head, and Venti notes with a whirlwind in his mind, that the locks have stray strands flicking out from not only the braids, but the bangs, and hair that frames the face. Windswept. The clothes, as well, are missing the tear in the bottoms of the shorts, the tops of his boots, and his right sleeve. If he were to turn, there would certainly be holes in his cloak, too.

But—if he does not have those, then how is he…?

A gale is thrown into the cliff, repeatedly, tearing apart the ground, as they respond to Venti’s dread.

His eyes widen, then narrow.

No, no, no, no, no. Stop looking at him like that.

Venti hunches into himself, talons clenching and shredding more strands of hair. The gale intensifies, lashing behind him, carving out chunks and causing the ground to rumble in its fury. He bares his teeth—wanting to shriek, to grab at his head and!!!!

Stop looking at him like that!

(Why wouldn't he?

A wind out of control? A wind that slices, destruction in every path? Why would he not back away from it?)

He tilts his head, starting to stand, and his expression shifts at Venti flinching away from his approach, the wind whipping to a higher degree with the flinch. He goes to take a step forward, the grass he steps upon having a simmering, bubbling line of a thread hovering there—and there is a quiet screeching as the threads are forced away, unraveling in spools and flinging out towards the cliffs; it has him jolting away from it, one step taken back, boots hitting the ground and kicking up dust.

His gaze snaps up to Venti’s.

(He has a fleeting thought, a moment where the minuscule inch of himself that the corruption has not touched speaks; that he should fix everything, that this mess has gotten severely out of hand, to fly off deeper into the ruins before he does something truly regretful.

But it is just that—fleeting.

Because at the attempt to follow through with the ideas laid out, the corruption rushes to overtake that last final inch, smothering and snuffing it out without regard. It halts Venti’s hands when he tries to wave them, refusing to let them budge the Bard in front of him, dark blue and gold chaining them to remain where they currently are. You do not truly want that, do you? It whispers, false care and comfort in its voice. You wish for him to stay, so here he will stay.)

That gaze of his shifts once more, briefly scrutinizing, then the ever so slightest of widened eyes, before reaching a blankness. It seems that something has clicked. He tries again, purposefully angling his path to the swirling threads, and Venti grits his teeth as he moves them away, hooking a finger round them and pulling, so that no interactions happen between them and him.

(And, how during this, he sees—for a moment—a glimmer of something magenta across his form.)

And blast it all—

Venti raises himself and situates his legs into a crouch, his wings flaring unraveling from around his form. And bounds.

He crosses the distance between the two of them in seconds. Nose mere centimeters away from his, Venti grits his teeth, watches as the other blinks owlishly at him, as if not expecting to be approached so suddenly, especially not like this, Venti poised in a manner similar to that of a cat pouncing still.

“Keep off from those,” he nearly growls, “Can you not see that they—”

Hands shoot out, to place themselves on his cheeks. Venti falters, words dying in his throat.

“What has happened to you?” He murmurs, gently tipping Venti’s head up, to the side, checking the dark-blue that has climbed up to his face, “Your teal… where has it gone? Have you always had gold?”

He swallows. A twitch goes throughout him, one that does not go unnoticed by him.

And, oh. That was what had clicked.

The words build, his tongue bubbling, bitterness and sweetness coating it. A name he has not said for centuries, a name he has kept clutched close to him, hidden in the palms of his hands, in the place where a heart would be beat.

Venti’s mouth opens, and croaks: “Cecil….?”

He pauses, meeting Venti’s eyes.

“Hello, little bird,” Cecil replies, softness in every feature of his. “Ah—I suppose you would be an angel now, hm? How much you have grown…”

The softness does not last long, his brows knitting as he thinks, a frown replacing that wondrous smile of his. His fingers trace the edges of the colors, outlining them, almost, a silent fury and puzzlement to the actions. “But, my friend—why are these… like veins? Why do you hurt? Did someone else do this to you?”

(I will hurt you, I will hurt you, you need to get away from me—)

“No one. This is my own doing, you see,” he says, offering a reassuring look, “I am not hurting at all.”

And—that is true, if partly. There is no stabbing prodding at him any more, attempting to wrench him towards the ground so he stays there. It aches most certainly, however, the wind underneath his skin thrumming as it races incessantly.

Cecil’s brows scrunch.

He steps forward to pull Venti closer, his right hand falling down to his waist, tracing a tear in his clothing, and… ah. Ah. He revokes everything he had said about snow and their so-called “soothing effects” beforehand, this is so much better than it, he curses them and nearly purrs at the feeling of his friend being a breath away from him, his touch curling into his bare skin so softly, lovingly.

Venti chases it.

All but lunging into him, Venti dives his head into Cecil’s chest, careful of the halo behind his hair—do not want to slam it against him. The rest of his body follows suit, his arms encircling around Cecil’s torso (with his hands carefully closed, knuckles pressing into the fabric of the green vest), knocking their legs together so that he can hook it around one of his dear’s, and his wings complete it all by flaring out to then snake around and envelop them both. Feathers brushing against skin and cloth with every other breath.

(The wind has gone still.)

“Oh,” Cecil gasps, startling at something, “you have six wings? I only saw four… have your limbs been multiplied, too??”

Does he? Venti thinks dazedly. It must have happened when the pain was ramping up, he could not distinguish it under all the other sensations attacking him. He had wondered how far the transformation would go—his most divine form has much more than four wings and a halo.

He does not give Cecil a response. Choosing to nuzzle into his clavicle instead, head going even fuzzier, thoughts narrowing to Safe safe safe, stay stay stay, love love love, here here here.

And—what an idea.

Cecil’s chest expands, as he inhales, exhales. It takes a moment, but he begins to reciprocate, an arm going around Venti’s back, between the middle wings and bottom ones. The other arm lifts to the space above Venti’s shoulders, near his nape, pulling him further into himself. He rubs at those places, in small, circle-like motions, and it has the God wholly melting in his arms.

“Is this alright?” He asks, “Is this helping?”

“Mmmmmhmmmm…..”

Gradually, the threads dissipate, dropping closer to the ground, and having the wreckages they carry collapse against the water around the tree, the dirt and rocks. Twist higher into the air at the end, then wobbling, and falling apart. He watches it all, a steady thrumming sounding in the air the longer he holds onto Venti. For one of them, he tests, to see; what would happen if he nuzzled into Venti’s cheek, patting at his back? The answer: it causes the threads to speed up, swooshing so swiftly, that he hardly has time to blink before the teal is fading.

Eyes wandering, they slide to—

Ah! Cannot have that, can we? Venti blocks his view with his right most top wing, fluttering the appendage to truly catch his attention, making his dear jolt in surprise. See, if Cecil is to stay by Venti’s side, then it should be away from here—the safest spot is the Tower, but he would not like that very much. Perhaps they should cross to the Dandelion Sea?

“Venti?”

“Hmm..?”

Cecil raises his hand up, to tap to the back of his head, his knuckles briefly brushing against the halo. He lets it stay there, for long enough that he can weave strands of hair around his fingers, to light tug at them—a non-serious scolding, for the blocking he did. They drop to rubbing circles on his nape after. “How are you feeling?”

Right, right—conversation happening.

He shuffles backwards, only a few inches, so that his dear is not forced to let go of his grasps—skin still tingling and fizzing with that loveliness. Tilts his head, then, to where Cecil gazes at him, a quiet concern and pure curiosity to his eyes, now.

Another wave of winds zip by them, these ones far lighter, livelier, and peppy than the others from earlier were—however, still the same mix of colors, if slightly more solid, slightly lukewarm in temperature. They swirl around them, teasing at hair and cloth, dancing in chiming sweeps and dives; that of which distracts Cecil for a moment, his hair blowing into his face, a muffled sound of a “wuh” escaping from him when it has strays loosing from the braids he wears. He shakes his head to rid of them, glaring halfheartedly.

A beaming grin tugs at him, at the sight. One that lifts the bottoms of his into soft crescents, slowly revealing how his teeth have grown sharper canines. His pupil—still a lovely teal, though, now captured around blue-gold—shines, constricting to a thin slit, as a glittering gleam dances across his gaze. He hums, unclenching his hands from fists to press the palms of them more firmly into Cecil, scraping the talons across his vest.

“Much better,” he says, a lilting, distorted pitch to it. Extends his right’s hand index finger, while he talks, to prod at his back—tracing a symbol there, one that causes Cecil to minutely shiver from it, unexpecting the action. “Thank you.”

And perhaps it is that, that has Cecil truly understand what has happened; that Venti is really not so much hurt as he is a far, far worse thing, that there is something gripping at him. Or perhaps it is the way he looks upon him, as though he were the sun, a gleeful, thrilled and eager gleam to his gaze. Or perhaps it is the way his wings gradually tighten around his form, not constricting him, yet he suddenly feels the reason they continue to be folded (and twitching, fluttering, so often) is not that Venti just wishes to hold him with everything he has.

Whichever it is, whether it be a combination of all of them, it has him widening his eyes, a near whisper of “Oh,” trailing into the winds. Winds that take the words greedily into their hands, rolling them over—winds that tell him murmurs, almost frantically, a gentle urging in the way the threads crowd further around them both, hushed jingling of bells accompanying it: stay, stay, stay, stay?

Oh.

[averycutesalamander]

so after boots, what other hsr characters do you like?

hm. well. hmmmm. ahhh.. uhhhhhhhhhhh

[invye]

Mihawk does not fly a Jolly Roger on Hitsugibune.

I don't know why I never noticed it before, but now that I did I can't stop thinking about it. I don't think we have seen the black sails unfurled before, so it might be hidden there, but that seems unlikely. The fact that Mihawk doesn't fly a Jolly Roger of his own results in a very different interesting thought:

What if Mihawk does not consider himself a pirate?

(extended ramblings under the cut)

He's not denying it of course, after all he's got a bounty, travels the seas and is the feared Marine Hunter. But he also doesn't bother flying a Jolly Roger, he doesn't want a crew nor a captain, his boat is barely a better raft that's not meant for any other than himself and probably only manages to brave the treacherous whims of the Grand Line due to its owner's sheer willpower and sailing skill.

So now I'm thinking we might have things the wrong way around. Maybe Mihawk is not an enemy of the Marines because he is a pirate. He is a pirate because he is an enemy of the Marines.

Whatever happened in his past that shaped him, I believe is also the reason he got the Marine Hunter epithet in the first place. He went on a literal hunt for the Marines, maybe for revenge, maybe for something else, leaving nothing behind but blood and death. The sailing is a natural consequence, after all, most of the Marines can be found at sea.

So the Marines brand him as a pirate, give him a title and a bounty. And Mihawk doesn't care to correct them. He doesn't care at all besides where to find his next fight, doesn't bother with a Jolly Roger or anything else. He's here to fight and kill and become the World's Strongest Swordsman.

Maybe things change a little over time, leading up to him attending Gold Roger's execution. He's there to pay his respect, not as a fellow pirate, but rather as a fellow fighter, a fellow enemy of the Marines. Mihawk doesn't care about the treasure or the One Piece, but he respects Roger for what he's done, for the challenge he had presented to their shared enemy for so long.

But that day he may for the first time begin to understand what it truly means to be a pirate, as he observes how all of the pirates around him scamper and run and yell and go forth to search for Roger's treasure. He observes the beginning of a new era from his position of being vaguely on the sidelines but not truly separate.

Later, when he meets and duels Shanks, being considered a pirate doesn't just not bother him, but he somewhat embraces it. Not fully, he will refuse to join Shanks' crew no matter how often he asks, and he still can't be bothered with the Jolly Roger, doesn't consider himself a captain either, but he has embraced the freedom to do as he pleases.

Mihawk joins the Warlords because he's getting tired of fighting not even mediocre Marines. He's stopped truly hunting them ages ago, ever since he has Shanks to give him a true challenge. But thanks to his title, now the Marines hunt him instead. Garp especially becomes annoying now that he hasn't got Roger to chase to occupy his time anymore. Mihawk doesn't understand why Garp decides to make him his next target, but it takes only so many deliberate near misses of canon balls lobbed at Hitsugibune until Mihawk answers Garp's yelling of "HAWKEYES!!! JOIN THE WARLORDS!!!" with a grumpy, near silent "Fine." (He had already planned to join just for his peace. It's definitely not because of Garp being annoying.)

If by some miracle anyone hadn't considered Mihawk to be a pirate before, joining the Seven Warlords of the Seas makes it official. Mihawk continues exactly the same way he's done before, goes where he pleases, duels Shanks, maybe occasionally shows up for a Warlord meeting to sip wine and observe the drama.

The world may have decided that he is a pirate for him, whether he considered himself as such or not, and honestly at this point? Sure. Why not. Pirate he is.

Mihawk still doesn't bother with a Jolly Roger.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Tis but a flesh wound!

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[clegfly]

Calling

[vaguely-concerned]

I've been picking mostly only the essential flirt options with lucanis in the romance so far (I've personally found the dynamic much more natural and mutual when you do that, more like forming a solid friendship slowly and inevitably becoming something else and less like you keep pushing on him and getting little back b/c he seemingly just gets overwhelmed and goes into freeze instead), and I think rye is a pretty hard person to read at the best of times even though he's been Down Real Bad from pretty early on and their chemistry as people is naturally really good. so the way the almost-kiss plays out in this playthrough feels a lot like it has the added layer of lucanis realizing that no but for sure rook is flirting and not just being kind or a good friend* it IS actually happening it's not just wishful/fearful thinking!!! and then uh. maybe going a bit too hard a bit too fast in all the excitement at that revelation haha

*in lucanis' defense he has seemingly literally never had a friend who wasn't his cousin-brother before, under those circumstances I suppose some confusion is extremely natural if not outright expected lmao