#one ✯ character study.

[humming-fly]

Every now and then I'm reminded Real People with Actual Jobs use tumblr and I've always been legitimately curious what all you weird adults are up to when you're not on this site and with tumblr's New Poll Feature I can finally get an answer! (or the closest approximation of an answer possible with only 10 available options h a)

[m-mmoonshine]

As someone who loves animated tv and movies I can say with certainty that the way arcane uses micro expression is so special.

The animation of expressions is simplified in most media for obvious reasons but when arcane animates expression they seem to actually take advantage of the ability to animate each frame to really detail these micro expressions.

They add so much depth to the characters and the story in my opinion. Allowing for the audience to see the conflicting and underlying thoughts and emotions behind a characters actions.

Movement in the ears, eyebrows, lips, jaw, flickering of the eyes or eyelids. Even the way a movement can be faster or slower, halting or assured. All of it tells the story of what the character is going through or thinking better than words can.

This is why I don’t really think much about the arguments that revolve around “they never explicitly talked about this, or apologized, or gave forgiveness etc” cause it’s the little things arcane shows visually like these micro expressions which paint a much more complex picture that doesn’t need words to communicate.

[silverechosandblankmasks]

The only bad thing about Gem and Joel's team up is, well, they actually have the means and the skill and the luck to do it.

But, you know, if a team makes it to the end, there can only be one.

And we've seen that except... they aren't the type to give the win to the other, they worked too hard, too proud of their skills, and it would feel like a disservice to the other to try and hand it off.

They aren't the type to sling bloody punches at each other in a cactus ring, begging for apologies and singing their sorrows.

They aren't the type to promise an honored deal with crossed fingers only to turn and twist and laugh maniacally as they betray due to the desperation of time ticking inevitably away

They aren't the type to twist bitterly and finally end up together, one reaching only finally so they aren't alone for the other to throw it away in what they think is what is wanted

They aren't the type to dance around and ignore hearing that the other doesn't want the win, ignoring it because they don't want to be alone only for the other to die silently without realizing and left wondering

No

Either of them could win. Statistically Joel has beaten Gem more than she has him, but that doesn't mean she can't win, Joel gets flustered easy. Joel tends to get more reckless and take the long shot that pays off, but Gem tends to flounder if caught off guard.

I think, if they are at the end there will be no promises or honor duels or gifted or taken wins, I think they'll just lunge. Not like a desperate wolf bites, but as an acknowledgement to who they are as people, bloodthirsty and fun and wanting to win. Maybe they will, at best, mention fight club and maybe negotiate the same rules, leather or no armor with wooden swords, but this is not an honor battle of forced apart partners nor is it a grief stricken apology to make the game end.

And I think one of them will die laughing as they go. Maybe disappointed but proud because they almost got the other and they did it together

If you are going to interact, please Reblog instead of Like. Likes do nothing! I appreciate it <3

[sweeneydino]

Moop.

[rosieyart]

:3

[hinamie]

congrats on your recovery n all yuuji but unfortunately for you I thought the scars were cool >:/

[srslylini]

The people praising Arcane seem to always only focus on specific stuff so I want to ask anyone to praise this:

1. Sevika's story, please go on. Praise it. Tell me how good she was after episode 4, I am waiting?

2. The firelights. Go ahead tell me how much we saw them and how the Tree came back and was tied into the story, tell me how they got screen time and how their story got told?

3. Ekko. Tell me how good it was to make him ignore his home after he went to Jayce to get it fixed. Tell me how great his character arc was after they got rid of everything else he liked.

4. Mel. I want you to praise how much screen time she had and how the black rose didn't come out of no where. I want you to tell me it didn't feel like they wrote her out of the story and I want you to look me in the eyes and praise how well they treated her in the last act. You know, with Jayce apparently only seeing her as a sex object. Women really won.

5. Praise the Robots.

6. Go ahead tell me how good it was to kill off all the suicidal characters.

7. I need to hear people praise the time loop/travel. It was so good and made so much sense and time travel isn't mostly a weird way to not resolve anything.

8. Talk nice about the side characters, please. Maddie, Loris, Isha, Steb, Lest. You know all of them were so necessary and weren't only there for one thing and then got killed or just never to be seen again. Praise how good their writing was, go on.

9. Go ahead and tell me how well they handled Vi's character. How they didn't just completely ignore her. Praise how they made her an alcoholic for 3 seconds and then she was just able to stop, isn't she an inspiration?

10. Go ahead, tell me how well they resolved anything that happened in the first 3 episodes. The Grey is just never mentioned again outside of it being used in the last war. Tell me how the people of Zaun just supporting Piltover is worthy of Praise.

11. Vi and Ekko never interacting was so good, wasn't it? So perfectly in character for Vi to rush right past him in the finale. That was perfect.

12. Praise it how good it was that Caitlyn just completely forgets her mother in the end, you know the reason the first 3 episodes happened. Praise it how her father is off hand mentioned in episode 8, never to be seen again. You know... the parents, her reason to go nuts like this. Damn that was good

13. Jinx getting to apologize in prison to Caitlyn. What a scene am I right?

go ahead, there is so much to praise, it must be tiring only focusing on one or two things

[evesedenramblings]

Despite what Damon Maitsu wants to think, he has been incredibly trusting and kind throughout the Killing Game thus far. His actions contradict a lot of his own inner thoughts. Even though he is often rude he’s also rather kind, and that’s important to recognize since he wants to believe he’s so de-attached from everyone.

I think the first thing that comes to mind is the first trial’s Pathos route, where Damon decides to defend Diana based on his gut feeling despite all the clear evidence- or, trusting Diana’s character to be true over his own deductions. The second thing is when he realizes his trust of Eva is built on nothing. What both of these things have in common is how mad Damon is about it. Damon doesn’t want to defend Diana, he gets incredibly mad at himself when he realizes he’s sympathetic to her crying and wants to trust in her. The same goes for Eva, but his trust is lost instead. Damon gets angry when he realizes the only reason he trusted Eva was because he fell into the “Us vs Them” mentality, and he automatically grouped Eva in with himself, but Eva didn’t do the same thing. At the core of the issue, Damon is mad because without even realizing it, he is a hypocrite. He claims the students shouldn’t be able to so easily trust each other, then went and easily trusted just the same- and chose the worst person to acknowledge he trusted.

I say Damon acknowledges he trusted Eva because I think Damon trusts the other students more than he realizes. He is easily able to engage in Free Time Events with every student, except Grace. The fact there’s no Grace FTE’s, or to be Meta an exception to “hang out with your favourites!” rule, makes it feel in-character that Damon trusts the other students enough with his safety, but not Grace. Also, a lot of what happens in those FTE’s like Jean picking up Damon by his ankles has to mean they’re at least some sort of comfort with each other. The other students do seem comfortable with Damon, even the youngest student Toshiko knows she can call Damon a cutesy name like Mochi- he’s unhappy about it but ultimately does nothing. Ingrid asks him to help with the laundry and he agrees- grumbles about it later to himself but doesn’t actually protest to Ingrid’s face, and does his share. There’s also the fact that Damon doesn’t protest the roommate rule, and then how immediately comfortable he gets with said roommate. He even prefers to sleep in Kai’s room at a certain point, as sleeping alone in his own room makes him too anxious as opposed to sleeping along with someone else. For someone who claims to be untrusting, Damon spends a lot of time with other people one-on-one and in group settings, and being kind to them as well.

The only time I can think Damon doesn’t cooperate with the group is when Eva shows him the Tozu Equation and he says they should keep it secret. However, even then, Damon means *he and Eva* should keep it secret. He still means to work with Eva, as their own private team. He doesn’t go work on it on his own at any point, and asks her about it later if she had made any progress. When she says no, Damon assures her that he hadn’t expected her to with all the ongoing issues. He believes her at face value and doesn’t go to check on it, and was kind to her about the issue.

Still, there is an obvious elephant in the room: Damon is still an outsider. He’s not part of the group, there’s no equal exchange of first. The obvious solution, and one Damon comments on himself multiple times, is that he’s cooperating with them only to gain their trust, *not* because he trusts them. However, I think Damon is lying to himself, or is just unaware of how much trust he puts into his actions. For a comparison, I want us to look at Eva. Eva only spends time individually with Damon, who she “trusts”. Other than that, the only time we see her with others is to gather information or purposefully be seen while plotting her murder. We don’t have much insight on her rooming situation but Diana’s comments imply Eva was often absent from their room. Eva tends to lurk in the boiler room alone, specifically because nobody wants to go down there. She has no interest in her classmates and doesn’t trust any of them, and only takes interest in them when she needs them. Now this could just be a difference of strategy (Eva wanting to gain trust when the time was right, and Damon wanting to gain trust in advance) but frankly, it didn’t work. Damon spent more time cooperating with the class, and yet in the trial they hesitate to believe him over Eva based on his character. The only reason they choose to believe him is because they take a moment to reassess everything Damon has been saying, and draw a logical conclusion. Damon has still gained no real trust from their group, so what was the point of everything he’s done if it amounted to nothing?

Damon, whose situation is extremely close to Eva’s, is willing to share his living space with another person, to the point he shares the bed with them (his idea btw), not even swapping the bed every night. Eva feels more safe alone with her own mind and intelligence, but Damon has always reached out to other people for security. After Tozu threatened him, Damon went to Kai despite his belief Kai might kill him. When Wolfgang turned the group against him, Damon automatically latched onto the one other outcast, Eva without even realizing it. He’d already latched onto her from the moment they awoke in the boiler room together.

I definitely missed some stuff, like how Damon was the only one willing to grab Kai’s ring in the FTE- just say no if you don’t want to do it Damon. It’s going to be important to remember how kind he is in these earlier chapters since that kindness and trust he employed has now been thrown back in his own face and spit on (thanks Eva), so I’m not sure we’re ever going to see Damon be this unintentionally kind again.

[sparticus2000art]

Behold! One of the scrungliest creatures alive- Spamton G. Spamton, the GOAT himself

I’ve had the rough idea for this for ages, but misplaced the original sketch…. But hey! He’s done now !

[clarkgriffon]

BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER 7x05 | “Selfless” 

[emmg]

He wrestles with a feverish appetite, this crude and uninvited urge that intrudes at its own whim—though, really, when would such thoughts be welcome? It is not refined, not proper, to sit opposite her and let his mind wander to the gloss of her lips, to wonder how she might taste, to wish that the mascarpone she savors so languidly were his own flesh, heavy and impatient. 

He despises himself for it—wants to be better, finer, something more than hunger in its basest form. And yet, he wants. Sweetness, yes; kindness, yes; love in all its quiet splendor—but also salt and sweat, the lush, slippery heat between her legs, his or hers or both, some mingled thing he might catch on his fingers, press back inside her, trace along her trembling thighs as he coaxes her to completion. 

But it is not only this. No, his disease is greater, more humiliating still. He thinks of grand, maudlin absurdities. Of flowers left on windowsills, of rings slipped onto fingers, of days spent making memories out of nothing. And it is this, not lust, that he fears might truly appall her. Because hunger, after all, is easy to satisfy. It is love, foolish and relentless, that tends to send people running. 

You mustn’t be so sentimental, someone had murmured that to him once. He can no longer summon the speaker’s face, nor their voice, nor even their gender, only the ghostly trace of the words themselves, breathed or sighed, said once or, more likely, many times.

It became, in those gauzy, amber-lit years of his youth, something of a running jest. An affectionate, exasperated refrain, volleyed at him with the regularity of a well-worn melody. 

"Don’t fucking propose to the waitress, Volkarin. She’s bringing you a beer, not subtly signaling that she wants to die in your arms," Johanna would mutter, leaning back against the sticky wood of some dimly lit tavern, where they debated spirits over spirits.

"They’re funding your research, Emmrich, not secretly applying to be the mother of your children."

"Your new assistant is very handsome. Try not to hyperventilate when he hands you a quill."

He laughed along. It was funny, after all. Until, inevitably, it wasn’t. Until the joke, fossilized through sheer, relentless overuse, lost its shape and became a dull thing, something to stub his patience against. Until his forced little chuckles gave way to eye-rolls, to abrupt departures, to a growing sense that he was, in fact, trapped in some long-running farce penned by a particularly untalented playwright.

They were all married now, every last one of them—the tireless jesters, the committee of mirth who, years later, still found delight in flogging the same long-dead horse. And he wasn’t. Not that he was alone, of course. He had his affairs, his amusements, his charming little entanglements. But still, from time to time, a most delicate and specific malice stirred in him. 

He wanted to dig up some particularly malicious little corpse, whisper something truly awful to it, and dispatch it to haunt them. Not in any grand, dramatic fashion. No moaning, no rattling of chains. Just a gentle, relentless nuisance. A ghost of mild inconvenience. A door that won’t quite shut. A draft they can’t find. A whisper when they’re shaving. A misplaced document on the morning of a big presentation. 

The sort of thing a petty man might dream up. And he has, after all, always been petty.

He tried, though. He tries still. To smooth the edges of his affections, to hush the operatic swell of his heart, to trade grand declarations for something gentler, something more palatable. Not entirely, of course—self-betrayal is a vulgar thing. But enough. Just enough to keep from frightening them, from scattering them like startled birds. 

For Rook, mostly. Because Rook is not like him. Rook does not do sentiment. Rook has the supreme, indifferent ease of someone born beautiful, the kind of beauty that turns heads and opens doors without so much as a sidelong glance of acknowledgment. Rook has never had to earn affection—it accumulates around her the way cigarette smoke clings to velvet. Rook rolls her eyes at poetry. Rook, with her lazy smirk and her miraculous ability to construct entire, fully functional sentences composed exclusively of obscenities.

He loves Rook very, very much. He suspects Rook loves him too, in her own peculiar way. She smiles, she laughs, she allows him his embarrassing little effusions, even kisses him for his trouble—then, with perfect timing, calls him a dweeb and steals the last sip of his drink. 

It’s fine. He’s learned to translate. In Rook’s private dialect, dweeb means yes, fine, I suppose you amuse me, a kiss means I would be inconvenienced by your untimely death, and drinking the last of his whiskey? That, of course, is a vow of eternal devotion. Or something like that.

It all collapses into a feverish, tangled catastrophe one evening. A breathless, ill-advised implosion of longing and lust and something dangerously adjacent to reverence. She is so, so beautiful, and he wants to touch her, of course, but also—he wants to read to her. Not the dull, airless sonnets, no, but the real poetry, the ones thick with scandal, with sin, the ones that might cajole that sharp little smirk from her lips. Maybe while his fingers are inside her. Maybe precisely then.

He wants to coax pleasure from her, whispering thick, illicit syllables against her skin, punctuating each lewd phrase with the curl of his knuckles, just to see how the two mingle, just to see which makes her gasp first. To see if she’ll arch into it, if she’ll moan, if she’ll laugh. Because of course she’ll laugh. She always does. Even when he licks his fingers clean, even when he settles between her thighs, even when he finds his own satisfaction in the aftermath of hers, she will be laughing. 

It happens like that, and yet, not like that at all. Because as he collapses against her, boneless and spent, something dreadful and unmistakable unfurls in his chest—too late, of course, always too late. His sentimentality, that incurable affliction, has caught up with him at last, threading itself through his ribs, pressing its damp, foolish hands against his throat. 

He bows his head to her chest, breathing her in, willing himself to contain it, to gather the wet, trembling edges of his absurd little heart and tuck them out of sight. Perhaps she will not notice. Perhaps she will feel only the smile he presses into her skin, as if that might smother the rest. 

A silence—brief, terrible, perceptive. 

"Oh no," she says, and he feels her fingers weave into his hair, loose and lazy and terribly knowing. "What the fuck did I do?" 

He shakes his head—not much, nothing at all, everything. Just a little.

"Nothing, my darling," he says, only slightly unsteady. "Nothing at all. I am—" a soft exhale, an almost-laugh, "—very happy." He swallows. Feels the first pangs of self-reproach begin to bloom, acid-sweet. "Only… allow me a moment to gather myself. It will pass." 

A brief caress at the base of his neck. Then, just as he begins to sink into it, she shifts, shoves, displaces him. He rolls onto his back, compliant, expectant, and she follows, settling astride him, her thighs bracketing his ribs, her cool hands framing his face. 

"Happy?" she confirms. 

"Yes, happy." 

"Hm." A small, satisfied noise. "Good. Happy and pretty. You’re so very pretty." 

She does not elaborate—she never does—but she kisses him. Thoroughly. His cheeks first, then his chin, the arch of his brow, the slow, methodical placement of lips upon skin, like affixing wax seals to letters never meant to be sent. His eyes, last. She drags a fingertip down, drawing his lids closed as if dimming a lamp. Then, the press of her mouth, warm, dry, familiar. And then—oh.

The flick of her tongue, feline and quick, slips between his lashes, parting what she has only just sealed, grazing the raw, unguarded wet beneath. He flinches; she giggles, breath skimming his cheek, unreasonably pleased with herself. 

She does it again, slower this time, the tip of her tongue tracing the curve of his eyelid. Then once more, lower now, across the ridge of his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. A methodical, absentminded mapping—kisses pressed to skin with no particular urgency, a grazing of teeth when the impulse strikes her. He lies still beneath her, utterly at her mercy, though she is hardly in a hurry to exploit it. She seems content merely to taste him, her breath leaving damp traces that cool, then tighten, then disappear. 

Chocolate, yes, still lingering from earlier, something dark and rich that settles at the back of his throat just from breathing her in. Salt, too, a faint sting where sweat beads along the curve of her upper lip. 

Finally, an exhale. A minute adjustment of her weight as she lifts her head, pleased, apparently, with whatever inscrutable calculation she has been making. A kiss, light as a comma, stamped onto the very center of his mouth. 

“There you go,” she announces, stretching her arms overhead, yawning into her wrist, smiling that slow, pleased smile of hers. “All cleaned up. Not a tear in sight, since you seem to find your own emotions so mortifying.” 

"Thank you," he says, and, disastrously, feels like he might start crying again. 

"Mm-hm." A pause. Her fingers tapping absently against his cheek. "There’s a joke in here somewhere." 

"Is there?"

A frown, thoughtful, exaggerated, her brows knitting together in careful concentration before giving way to a terrible smile. "Yes." A beat. Then, the telltale flicker of something truly indecent behind her eyes. "Something about staying hydrated. Or maybe—" a pause, as if she is weighing her options "—eating out your third eye." 

He laughs then immediately chokes as she presses her hand to his throat for balance, the casual weight of it cutting off just enough air to send his body into brief, ungraceful revolt. 

"Never short on dreadful puns, I see." His voice, when it returns, is slightly hoarse. 

"Never," she agrees. Then, with a flourish of indulgence, she leans down again, kissing his eyelids one by one. “So you continue doing this—” kiss, kiss, kiss “—and I'll continue doing that.” 

Disgracefully, absurdly, he cries again, even as she laughs, even as her laughter spreads like ink in water, pulling him under, until the whole thing disintegrates into some ungovernable mixture of mirth and misery. He is laughing too—helplessly, wet-faced, ridiculous—and she, entirely unbothered by his descent into sentimentality, licks at the salt on his cheeks like a cat, or perhaps some particularly devoted dog, calling him pretty, pretty, pretty in that lazy, drawling way of hers, as if the word itself were a charm, a refrain, a verdict.

He wants to ask her why—why this word, why now, why, of all possible things, she has settled on this ludicrous, ill-fitting descriptor as he lies before her, blotchy and unsightly and utterly, embarrassingly undone. But she only snorts into his collarbone, her breath warm, unbothered, and the chant continues, pretty, pretty, pretty, until he is left with no choice but to accept it.

In the morning, his eyes are red. Lucanis notices. Davrin notices. The two, incapable of letting a thing be, set about turning his misfortune into sport, taking turns to see who can unearth the most appallingly indecent explanation.

He feels a migraine approaching. 

And then Rook arrives, deposits a cup of coffee into his hands, and, without so much as a glance at him, declares, “He snorted too much powder last night. Leave him alone.” 

Ah. 

Oh.

He sits there, staring at her, vaguely appalled, impossibly infatuated, hopelessly starry-eyed. Very well, then. She has let sentiment in—however unwittingly, however carelessly—and now she will drown in it. And then, once she is thoroughly waterlogged, he will buy her all the gold in Nevarra. 

[candyje11yfish]

todays silly doodle

[chihirolovebot]

on a real note that bit near the end of the video was genuinely haunting. hearing somerton talk about how gay writers are erased from history was one thing (with all the irony being that he stepped on the backs of numerous underpaid, underprivileged and uncredited queer writers to build his youtube channel) but when h revealed it wasn't even somerton's quote in the first place? the worst, most crushing sort of irony. how do you lament about the erasure of gay people and gay writers in history... whilst erasing a gay writer and taking his words as your own?

[giantkillerjack]

Me: hm, I want something to put on the TV as background noise... Huh. Looks like YouTube is recommending something called The Last Unicorn. That's perfect, it's probably some old shitty animation that has aged poorly! I can watch it ironically!

Me, 2 hours later as the credits roll: *crying, cheering, buying the book, composing the songs*

Me, 2 weeks later: So I have compiled all of the quotes from the book that I think could make good tattoos, and also, HOW HAVE I NEVER LEARNED ABOUT HOW THE LAST UNICORN FUCKING SLAPS??? This gay-ass little fairytale fed my soul! Watered my crops! Transed my gender! Can't believe I heard of this story from youtube recommendations, of all places!!

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

yall like to pretend that "don't split up" is the most obvious rule in any horror scenario, but what's the alternative? stick together and cooperate ? to find a solution? in a life-or-death situation??? babe surely you have been in enough group projects to guess how that shit ends

[lucky-fy]

For the Laicion nation (aka, me and three other people)

I had this illustration commissioned (a big thank you to @lunehowls) for my werewolf AU Laicion fic (still a WIP).

The general pitch is as follows :

AU in which Laios never got to meet his sister again, putting his life on a whole other path, a more desperate one. A military deserter with barely a coin to his name, Laios hitches a ride on a boat to one of the elven continents, where he learns about magical tattoos that binds one’s soul to a wolf’s, effectively making them artificial werewolves. Illegal magic be damned, this feels like the answer to… everything.

In the process, he learns about the existence of an illegal fighting ring in one of the elven cities, where beastmen gladiators gather. Freshly tattooed and without anywhere else to go to, Laios decides to head there, where he meets Lycion, an elf and artificial werewolf gladiator. If they first bond over a simple shared meal, by spending time together (sharing the same room in the barracks, maybe the same bed? gasp) they find that they have a lot in common, notably a shared distaste for the body they were born in, a dysphoria partially remedied by becoming a werewolf.

They bond :)

NB: I commissioned another piece, go take a look :D