#let's call it a 'character study.'

[melonisopod]

I'm reluctant to post my writing because I'm in this weird middle ground between "self-shippy bullshit" and "obsessively attempts to get as accurate a character reading as I possibly can" and the side effect of this is wanting to develop my OC and build on my AU...but backwards lmao.

[atomicradiogirl]

thinking about how chase idolizes house and sees him as a father figure and the reason why he works with house in the first place is because he wants to be like his father. also how chase hugs house when he thinks house is dying but it’s not for house it’s for himself because he’d miss him and then chase evolves into a pseudohouse because he did end up becoming just like him, like his father figure. unethicalness and genius and all. and it makes sense and it is the perfect way for chase’s story to end. he became the person who he wanted to be. flaws and all. there is so much to unpack with this show holy shit.

[sodapopsgt]

You've been gone a long time.

[bumblingbabooshka]

I know it's just because he wasn't written to be a consistent character but it's hilarious to me how absent M'Benga is during episodes where Spock's hurt and Mccoy & Chapel are like "Is he going to be alright Doctor? / There's no way to tell with his crazy mixed up Vulcan internal organs..." like Hey. Hehehe you know who might be able to tell???

[rosenecklaces]

I think gwynriels victim complex phenomenon needs to be studied like it's probably where the projecting into Azriel white-savior and fuckboy made-up personas came from. it's all clearer now...

[wormskullsblogging]

You ask Astarion to peel an orange for you.

Astarion looks at it with disdain, lips curled back to reveal canine teeth, and asks, what is he, your servant?

✧✧✧✧✧

… Astarion looks at it with disdain, and then slips on an easy smile. Of course, darling. He takes it, and then takes a dagger to it. His fingers are quick, the blade nimble, but this is not the kind of skin he is used to peeling, or the kind of flesh he is used to parting. Still, it is mostly intact when he hands it back to you, only some of the flesh still attached to the peel, to the skin.

His fingers are clean.

✧✧✧✧✧

… Astarion looks at it—or you?—with fear hidden behind disdain hidden behind an easy smile and he says, you have two perfectly capable hands, darling, and I would so hate to stain my pretty hands with something that isn’t blood.

✧✧✧✧✧

You ask Astarion to peel an orange for you, and he tells you to get one of the others to do it.

You nod. The others stare at the orange, hungry, fingers eager. Astarion watches you leave, relief and loss and resignation hidden behind disdain hidden behind an easy smile.

✧✧✧✧✧

… and he tells you to get one of the others to do it.

You shrug, and sit next to him. He looks at you, confused. I have two perfectly capable hands, you say, and begin to peel.

✧✧✧✧✧

You offer Astarion a peeled orange and he looks at it, suspicious.

✧✧✧✧✧

You offer Astarion a peeled orange and he looks at it, insulted.

✧✧✧✧✧

You offer Astarion a peeled orange and he says, you know I’m a vampire, right? I’d much rather blood, if it’s all the same to you.

✧✧✧✧✧

You offer Astarion a peeled blood orange and he says, very funny.

✧✧✧✧✧

You offer Astarion a peeled orange and he takes it. Brings it to his mouth. Bites into it with his canine teeth.

Thank you, he says, quietly.

His fingers are stained with juice

✧✧✧✧✧

… and he says, you have two perfectly capable hands, darling, and I would so hate to stain my pretty hands with something that isn’t blood.

Oh, I’m not that hungry then, you say, and put the orange away.

Later, one of the others is preparing to eat a peeled orange. He steals it from their hand and throws it to you. You catch.

Satisfied, darling? he asks, smiling.

You’re not, but you accept it for what it is and bite into the orange.

In the background, your friend protests, citing theft.

✧✧✧✧✧

You ask Astarion to open a pomegranate for you, and he tells you to fuck off.

Mythologies always have some overlap.

✧✧✧✧✧

You ask Astarion to open a pomegranate for you, and he does. He gives you twelve seeds and asks you to eat them, and you do.

You give him a seed and he smiles and says he isn’t hungry.

✧✧✧✧✧

You open a pomegranate for Astarion and he tells you to fuck off.

✧✧✧✧✧

You open a pomegranate for Astarion and you feast on the seeds together.

✧✧✧✧✧

You open a pomegranate and hand a seed to each of your friends, and Astarion looks at his, bewildered.

It takes a while, but he eats it.

✧✧✧✧✧

Astarion opens a pomegranate for himself, and devours every last seed.

✧✧✧✧✧

You never ask Astarion to peel an orange for you, even though you hate the feel of it under your nails and really like the taste of it on your tongue.

✧✧✧✧✧

You never ask Astarion to peel an orange for you. It was never really your thing.

✧✧✧✧✧

You never ask Astarion to peel an orange for you, but one day he grabs the orange from your hand.

When he hands you it back, his blade is stained with juice. So are his fingers.

It is perfectly intact.

Thank you, you say, quietly.

✧✧✧✧✧

You ask Astarion to peel an orange for you. You see his nose wrinkle, fear hiding behind disdain, and you tell him it’s fine, you have two perfectly capable hands. He doesn’t need to do this.

No, he tells you. I want to try.

His digs his nails into the peel. All his finesse is gone. He is not used to working with this kind of skin. It is messy work. When he is done, half of the flesh has been reduced to juice and what remains is a mutilated thing. His fingers are stained.

You both stare at the carcass for a long moment, and then begin to laugh. Once the laughter has left, you—both of you—devour the remains with canine teeth.

[returquoise]

Me reading a fanfic.

Sweety, no one outside X does Y.

[zouisalmightie]

sometimes i am put in situations that only could happen on tv but you can’t make this up

sonon wednesday my coworker called me during my prep period and was like hey can you come to my room really quick. and that’s normal like 1 im department lead so if they need something i told them to hmu and i got them 2. we’re friends so if you have to pee well fall each other to cover. so im like yeah sure what do you need. and this bitch goes [name of student i hate] keeps saying the n word with the hard er and i bet him he wouldn’t say that to a black persons face so can you come to my room to prove a point’ and she’s like laughing as she says this. with her whole class there like it’s some sort of joke; when she’s acting like she’s shaming this child. and like…. what the actual fuck. mind you, this kids that i hate HAS called me the n word with the hard er before my coworker KNOWS this because we all went out drinking afterward and i cried cuz i was so angry. so I was like what the fuck no and hung up on her. then like 30 mins later she texts me and says “that was such a silly call! i didn’t actually expect you to come lmaoooo. i just like to fluster them when they do things like that” and i didn’t respond and haven’t spoken to her since.

and we are in a bunch of group chats so i left the chats that aren’t work specific and blocked her number and blocked her on ig. and i don’t say anything to anyone at work cuz im grown and i can stop being friends with people without making it an announcement. and so today she texts one of our other coworkers that ive been friends with for almost 5 years now, like omg have you talked to asyah i think she blocked me on ig and idk what i could have done to deserve this it just makes me so sad cuz ive had people just stop being my friend for no reason before and i have abandonment issues please ask her if i did anything wrong. and so my friend came up to me like girl wtf and so i told her what happened and my friend was like this is the last straw for me she’s been saying fucked up shit for a while and i didn’t want to rock the boat but im tired of her.

and then my coworker texted one of my OTHER work friends like omg woe is me everyone is being so mean to me cue white woman tears™️ and im like…. i would have NEVER asked you to be in a position like this. when students do antisemitic things i stop that shit right then and there and never tell you about it because that’s harmful to you! and i thought we were friends i would never put you in a place of harm but you have the nerve to call me and ask me if i want a child to call me a nigger to my face? you laugh while you say it, then send me some fucked up not apology and then when im not fucking with your ass you drag my friends into your pity party? bitch fucking CHOKE.

i was just going to ignore her and leave it as it is but now she’s trying to play the victim like im the one in the wrong here. like im so mad! ive been mad since my homegirl came and told me what she texted her. im going to go to my union rep and let her know what happened too before this girl tries to tell the whole school im bullying her no one would believe her cuz ive been there for 6 years and have no problems with no one but i don’t like people being in my business and would rather get ahead of this but my GOD.

[pinnithin-writes]

The Hunter Hesitates

Scene rewrite of the Gandrel encounter in Act 1, written from Wyll's point of view. 2223 words. Read on Ao3.

Every great adventurer has moments in their life where time seems to stand still. They’re elusive, ephemeral moments, and one has to be paying close attention to catch them. A thread frays from the tapestry of time, and something about the brain and the heart and the way the world is positioned allows one to reach out and grasp onto it, to hold it for a few seconds and render those seconds ineffectual against the pellucidity of space and matter.

Wyll had experienced a handful of these moments, and they had always been spontaneous, unexpected things, moments he caught by accident but remembered in acute clarity. One such time was when he was eight years old at his favorite fishing spot, his legs dangling over the open air between the Wyrm’s Rock bridge and the Chionthar. He could still vividly recall the dappling of light reflecting off the water, the chill against his skin, and thinking to himself that he was experiencing every Summertide day that had ever happened and ever would happen all at once. 

A few were not so pleasant. Time had also frayed for him the day his father returned from Elturel. Even now he could hear his words, pick out the abject horror on his face in perfect crystalline detail, the scarlet Flaming Fist banners fluttering behind him. That exchange had only lasted a few seconds, but in Wyll’s mind, he had been seventeen for centuries, rooted to the spot with a devil breathing down his neck.

Sometimes Wyll felt he was still timeless, still seventeen, still eight or ten or twenty-four, stuck on the axis between the person he once was and the person he now spent his waking days justifying.

Much of the past several years had been a comparative blur of memories, and he could not recall a time since his exile when the world around him slowed to a halt, allowing him to chart every detail like a fractal of clarity bursting in his occipital lobe. He expected it would happen again one of these days, the next time unbearable pain or childlike awe compelled the world to still – whenever that may be. As of late, not much in his life had afforded him a glimpse at the ephemeral or the elusive. He’d been much too busy chasing after the reputation he’d created for himself, and it was hard to stop and look for frayed threads on the tapestry of time when the song of blades and the scent of blood occupied his senses. 

At present, the chase was on pause. Or at least delayed somewhat, while he wandered the Sword Coast wilderness in search of something to alleviate the awful wriggling behind his eye. The mind flayer had even slipped it in behind his good eye, which somehow added insult to infection. Finding advocatus diaboli was still his priority, and he still kept his nose keen for the stench of sulfur, but he had to consider the needs of the group now, and the group, frankly, did not care overmuch about tracking down a war devil. Which is how Wyll found himself calf deep in swamp water searching for a hag instead.

The sun-soaked wetland had revealed its true nature to him through some fortunate glimpse through its illusory veil. A nudge from Mizora she would expect repayment for, or perhaps he had just gotten lucky. In either case, it was a precarious walk; they stepped delicately around redcaps and rotting remains and razor traps half-submerged in black, murky waters. Wyll could feel the utter weight of the lives lost in this place, the warm wet air clinging to his skin like dead fingers. This was a corpse bog, a hag bog, and he had half a mind to turn around and walk in the other direction had those boys not charged in headfirst after their sister. Gale, Shadowheart, and Astarion were uncharacteristically silent throughout the trek, matching the swamp that decomposed furtively around them. The slosh of water and the buzz of flies were the only sounds, a supernatural quiet that promised pain to those who broke it.

Happening upon Johl and Demir’s bodies, fresh and bleeding, finally set Wyll’s nerves tingling with that danger-sense cultivated from spending years on the Sword Coast’s fringes. There was always a certain threshold of peril about his life, but he had developed an eye for what tipped a threat from latent to immediate. His hand went to the hilt of his rapier of its own accord and his heart rate quickened.

Up ahead a dilapidated shack squatted in the mists, waiting patiently for them to wander into its mouth. Danger radiated from it like a beacon, so powerful it muffled a closer, secondary danger that Wyll nearly missed. A man stood on the nearby hillside, dressed in traveling clothes and bearing a heavy utilitarian crossbow on his back. He seemed perfectly ordinary, save for the strange, sickly-sweet smell about him - and the fact that he was camped in such a forsaken place to begin with. But this man’s presence wasn’t so indicative of danger to Wyll as Astarion’s sudden change in behavior was.

Astarion possessed a very high level of danger-sense for someone who should be a predator, Wyll observed. It hadn’t been more than eight hours since he’d caught the elf trying to make a meal of him while he slept, and he was still processing that night’s implications. The world was coming to strange times indeed to see a vampire walk in sunlight, and stranger still to see that vampire willingly travel with the Blade of Frontiers. Wyll’s neck ached, and he tried not to dwell on it. Ultimately, he had offered himself up both as a way to spare the others and to monitor Astarion’s activity – returning to sleep after learning his true nature would have been impossible otherwise.

He should have killed him. That is, the Blade should have killed him, but Wyll had not, for reasons inexplicable even to himself.

It had been a rather sobering experience for Wyll and an intoxicating experience for Astarion, but in the morning the elf was still treating him the same way he had before, wrapped in niceties like a sheathed dagger wrapped in leather. He had been courteous and thankful, saying exactly the right words necessary to assuage everyone’s suspicions, quoting from the same script the lords and politicians back home studied. Wyll knew better than to take people like him at their word, so he kept a close eye on his actions, instead.

Still too early to tell, he had at least been cooperative thus far. Astarion had begrudgingly complied with Wyll’s decision to plunge into the corpse bog, just as he had complied with his promise to assist the refugees. Much of his behavior compared to what Wyll knew of vampires didn’t fully make sense to him. Yes, he was manipulative, but it was blatant to the point of caricature, rendering it nigh ineffectual. There was an alertness about him, Wyll had noticed, a trademark watchfulness often observed in the eyes of hunted creatures. Always the first to anticipate an ambush, the elf’s vigilance had been literally lifesaving on more than one occasion.

No matter how complicated his opinion of Astarion might be, Wyll had grown accustomed to the pale shadow at his shoulder, so it was something of a surprise to feel him step abruptly away to approach the figure on the hill.

A pause to exchange glances with Shadowheart and Gale – they looked as perplexed as Wyll was – and he followed suit. The man introduced himself as Gandrel, and he remained genial and composed in the face of Astarion’s flippant bigotry. A fellow monster hunter? Wyll let the grip on his hilt relax, but he paid mind to how Astarion stood as taut as the bowstring on his back. The fact that he stepped forward to speak with the hunter before Wyll could even open his mouth made him reticent in his responses, and he chose his words carefully.

Then Gandrel uttered Astarion’s name, and Wyll suddenly noticed that glimmer of a frayed thread of time, that indicator of the ephemeral, visible to him after so many years. Before he could speak another word he tangled his fingers in that moment and yanked, hardly daring to breathe as everything slowed to a crawl in between his heartbeats. 

He felt the wound in his neck, still throbbing at his pulsepoint, where Astarion’s mouth had been only hours before. The cavity of his sinuses carried the sweet wet decay of plant matter, the bodies that quietly rotted around them, and the stranger’s repulsive powder. A line of sweat slid between his shoulder blades as he perspired in the balm. His companions at his back vibrated the air with their tension, watching, breathless, as they all realized Gandrel’s quarry stood right beside them. And Astarion, oh, Astarion’s face held a prey-fear, an animal fear, there and gone in a blink as he covered it with a signature smirk.

Wyll processed this all in the space of a few seconds or years as time caught in place. He needed more information before this encounter became one or more of their deaths. Gandrel mentioned the hag of these lands, indicating he could see through the veil also, past the shimmering sunlight to the black water lapping beneath. What else did the gur see?

Considering this, Wyll eventually found his voice. “And when you find this ‘Astarion,’” he asked warily, “you’ll kill him?”

“Not this time,” Gandrel explained. “My orders are to capture him.”

Dread crossed Astarion’s eyes for the briefest of seconds, and Wyll only caught it because he was looking for it. Whatever awaited the elf in Baldur’s Gate, death seemed a preferable alternative.

Wyll then remembered himself, remembered his role. Perhaps he could defuse this. Was this really worth the chase? Astarion was only a spawn, after all, and didn’t pose the same threat a true vampire did.

Aforementioned spawn’s words became knives as he retorted, “I don’t know. I’m sure a vampire spawn could still rip your throat out if he felt like it.”

Wyll had to rein in a longsuffering sigh. As Gandrel launched into an explanation of why a spawn was indeed a most deadly quarry, Wyll took stock of the company he kept. Shadowheart’s quiet, calculating presence lingered at his shoulder, likely running the same numbers he was. Gale tactfully kept silent, but he’d proven to be the type who follows the group’s decision when push came to shove. If this were to become a fight, the odds were in Astarion’s favor, provided the Blade was on his side.

The Blade certainly was not on Astarion’s side, but Wyll was still making up his mind about it. He straddled a precarious line between defending his principles and defending an ally - an ally he had bared his neck to only the night prior, an ally he had given his word to protect. Time continued to crawl. Things were never as simple as he’d like them to be, but with all factors taken into consideration, he knew one thing for certain: a cornered animal will kill, and there was little one could do to stop it.

It was Wyll, not the Blade, who spoke next. “Interesting. Astarion, what do you think?”

He had to admit it was rather satisfying to watch Astarion completely freeze in place. Even his breathing stilled. Wyll could feel his grasp on the frayed edge of time loosening, and he watched in fascination as everything began careening into motion. He saw the disbelief cross Gandrel’s face as the façade fell away with just a few words. He felt the restlessness of his companions, tensing to defend themselves. The bog decayed around them, hushed and waiting.

As they all hung suspended in time, Astarion angled his head ever so slightly in Wyll’s direction.

“May I?” he asked lowly.

Now it was Wyll’s turn to be surprised. He had expected Astarion to spring into action the second his cover was blown, but instead he’d asked permission. He’d asked his permission. The restraint was unexpected, but not unprecedented. He was letting Wyll keep him in check, fighting against every instinct flooding his nervous system, just as he had allowed Wyll to push his newly warmed body away from his exposed throat. Wyll found himself remembering the complicated backward glance Astarion had given him the previous night, a storm of unsaid words aimed over his shoulder. This is a gift, you know, his measured voice echoed. I won’t forget it.

He could still back out of this, but Wyll realized he didn’t want to. Later he would justify himself, as he was so well trained to do. He would come up with a hundred reasons why it was the practical decision - how the monster hunter would only track him down later, how his companions would have been collateral damage, how someone who turns to a hag for help can’t be trusted to do the honorable thing - but none of those crossed his mind in that evanescent moment. Something had simply shifted between him and Astarion, and he followed that shift like a dance partner’s lead.

He let go of time and it raced to catch up with the world. He nodded. 

[omarfor-orchestra]

I wish Nicolas Maupas would write those marefuori fanfictions

[restinpeacesensei]

[this is a personal post. if you would like to talk about your own experience, please make your own post instead of replying to this one. thank you! i'd also prefer not to be analyzed or given advice, but, validation is welcome ;;]

this fandom WAS my youth... and akoya was the love of my youth....

when people talk about the wild things they did in their teens and 20s, the highs and lows, i relate to it, even though i never did any of it (and was never interested in any of it) "in reality".... the internet was how i found connection and felt like i was really living

the emotional high of reading responses to my personal art and feeling loved for the first time... the crushing lows of sharing something deeply personal to be met with silence or comments that felt violating, that felt like a kind of heartbreak over and over (although i fully understand i was never owed a response and that was the risk i took)... the nights and months i spent crying and didn't know how to make it stop, it felt like it wouldn't stop... and yet when the love came, it was a love i never knew in any other way and kept me chasing the highs over and over...

i want to talk, sometimes, about how it was hard for me... it was very hard and yet, i was choosing this. and it was a privilege i was able to do it, that i had the free time to devote my life to a fictional character (and it still is). i know that. and im grateful that ive been able to do what i wanted. im more grateful than anything else. but it was also very difficult because this was my only way of living in the world, to throw my deepest feelings out in front of strangers.

the walk-of-shame feeling every time i posted something slightly suggestive and came back to check the responses the next day, the feeling of being raw and exposed and all the eyes on me as i went through everything in front of everybody, feeling everyone looking and everyone laughing and being able to imagine too well what they'd say, the sense of being watched at all times that made me ill and yet i had to, i had to share because in some way it made me feel alive, like i was living the experiences i drew... it made me feel like i was living in the world...

i used to stay up very late, making my art (ive said this before but i was doing it full-time, often working 8-12 hours at a time).. then in the daytime i'd find out the response and fall asleep in the sun... i feel nostalgic for those afternoons now, sleeping in the sun... i don't miss the schedule, im much healthier now... but those moments when my feelings were heard and returned and all the hours i put into making something were worthwhile, and i'd crawl into the sunlit bed and fall asleep in relief, are dear to my heart now.

i would check messages and then go lie in bed by the window and reread them over and over... my bed was by a window then, and the sun would come in warm, and the relief of feeling seen and heard would wash over me and i would fall asleep, just thinking about the messages... reliving them in my head over and over...

...the feelings i had for akoya, i never felt for a real person, and it couldn't really work with a real person, because it only worked if he could be whatever i wanted, because i expressed myself through him and wanted to be with him at the same time... but what i felt was real... by drawing him, i felt like i was close to him... and also like i was able to exist in the world myself...

i couldn't say how i felt or even recognize it for nearly seven years, because i was afraid people would say things that made me uncomfortable, afraid of being teased, afraid people would push it too far, and it felt like the only way to avoid that was to not have the feelings, so i couldn't... i projected on him so much that i could almost convince myself that was all i wanted. i was afraid, also, that if i said it, i'd be separated from him... because i couldn't be him and want to be with him at the same time... but ultimately i had to accept it because i couldn't hold it back anymore...

...i hated myself so much, in the beginning, for loving him. for pouring all my energy into him, when i thought he would be mean to me, and probably hurt me... when i was supposed to be doing other things, "important" things, things that mattered in the "real" world, but never made me feel as alive as this. i kept trying to get away, desperately trying to get all my thoughts and feelings out so they would leave me alone and my life would go back to what i thought it was supposed to be... i felt like i had no control over it, this was all i wanted anymore. it felt like falling, it felt like weakness, it felt like shame.

but we became something else, didn't we? we made each other something different from how we started.

and if you asked me... if he asked me to, would i still go to his side... i still will feel my heart pulling me back, i still would want to be with him

i still will think about him, but i won't say it, if you ask me was i ever in love .......

[fakeoldmanfucker]

The loneliness of everyone in the world calling you the same nickname. There is no middle ground between the full-length formality and the shortened familiarity. It is, overwhelmingly, either Mark Zuckerberg or it is Zuck. The nickname is not even a derivative of your first name. There is always a formality, ingrained now in text, in the very name people call you. You can't get away from it. Even your closest friends. Even your wife. But not just them. It is also every journalist who wants to seem knowledgeable. It is every person on the internet who wants to make fun. Calling you Mark now seems almost taboo. There are people who do it, of course, but it grates incongruently against your image, carefully, mistakenly cultivated. The journalists who call you Mark are immediately distanced from you, more than they intended by assuming the industry-standard polite familiarity. The use of your first name marks them as an outsider and thus, to the people that matter, unimportant. No one who criticizes you ever uses the familiar, of course: there is Zuckerberg and Mark Zuckerberg and then there is Zuck, intentionally informal to indicate disrespect. When your friends talk about you, the ones who you have known for twenty years, since you were a kid, when Zuck really was a meaningful indication of friendship and intimacy, they call you Zuck too. They may mean it differently than everyone else who uses the name, but it doesn't sound any different out of their mouths than it does out of anyone else's.

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: May 14

"Diamond on a Landmine” by Billy Talent

[sysig]

Haven’t seen your slimy face in a while (Patreon)

Bonus original concept sketches from 2018 (left):

Tbh even I find some of these shapes kind of hard to read lol. Really showcases my style progression tho like woah - I was aiming at the time for a kind of shoujo-parody style anyway, but now I struggle with those kinds of shapes! I’m used to a much more cartoony, and darker, and smaller style haha

This was all me tho lol, he’s just a gangly greasy fucker

It’s uncanny right

I had to put in a good bit of interpretation and filling in the details for this one lol - something like a punk vampire aesthetic?? He’s too good for the MC anyway lol, but that’s by design

[orchideae]

(We've all seen the first one, but the source for the second one from the official artist is here)

Yelan. Yelan, Madame Yelan, what on earth is this outfit. Granted, please don't get me wrong, I loved and was enthralled when I first caught a glimpse of her (also any glimpse of Yelan thrills me) in it, but geez. And yet, they're so consistent with her design;

— The single-sleeved jacket is a brilliant little nod to her mantle but making it something utterly hers within something that is an AU. No mystical beasts or Tsaritsa here! — The straps near her neck are a very different, but quite nice, summer-like rendition to Hoyo's consistent choice for Yelan of a halter/high neck (even the Pizza Hut ad had her in a turtleneck). A lower neckline is something that they actively seem to avoid for her so far. — The amount of see-through fabric is simply a call-back to her default outfit, but rather than spots of it left and right, it's her full-midriff and leg. It fits, it's nothing new. And if anything, funnily enough, I'd seen numerous artworks pop up of Yelan in swimming attire, and all of the designs felt a little off. I don't actually envision her in a bikini like many draw her, but instead, something like what you see here from her neck, to the midriff to the hips. Much more fitting in my opinion, actually, so I like seeing that concept in an outfit in circumstances where you'd expect a lot of summer influence. — And a detail that makes me laugh: the hand that has the white glove in her canonical outfit is also white here, and same with the black one. Also, the bracelet. God, I love consistency even if it seems trivial. But nothing's ever trivial to me guys, you know this.

All in all, thirst trap, sure, but also, good decisions were made.

[kuhatoarchive]

tifa jumps off the train first btw. always, always.