Modern Sherlock Holmes But He’s A 27 Year Old, Drinks Energy Drinks Only, Is Astonishing Polite And

I think something I never really stopped to think too much about in One Piece is the sounds.

I grew up surrounded by nature. I grew up listening to the sounds the woods by my house made, the fields of crops down the road, of the river and creeks at my grandparents, and storms rolling over miles of empty plains in the fall.

I could tell you everything you need to know about those things. I didn't fear the dark because I knew it well. I could run those trails in the dead of night and I could have walked the land around my home blindfolded. I knew every branch that scraped, every bird nest full of singing life, every hole waiting for an ankle, every thorn tree that dropped terrible gifts to the earth. I knew it all.

Now I'm learning the sounds of the city. And everything is so loud. You forgot how quiet the world is when it's just you, and our world is full of loud things. Trains, cars, planes, electricity humming, pipes creaking, etc.

I believe I've made mentions of it before in my posts but I'm just really interested in how the One Piece world sounds.

Do the waves make different sounds than our own? Do sea kings sound more like tigers or gorillas when they roar? Are storms still ear shattering when they call out with thunder? Does the wind howl in your ear, or does it sing?

What does it sound like when Marco flies with massive wings right next to you? Does it sound like a regular bird but magnificent? Or does it pop your ears like a plane? Does he make different noises because of his devil fruit? Are his vocal cords different than someone else's?

What about when Buggy separates? The human body makes a variety of sound when it's sperated in different ways, does he sound like thighs stuck together with sweat in the summer or an injury like the loss of a limb? Does it pop like part of a toy, or maybe a click like a lock and key? Does it make a sound like pulling meat apart?

Does Luffy squeak when he moves all the time? Does he sounds like new shoes on marble or the high pitched screech of bare skin on gym floors?

Did Ace make the wooshing sound of dry wood or maybe the soft pops of low embers? Was he more like a forest fire taking off or a candle flickering in the window?

Does Kidd sound like a a car crash? Like metal bending and reforming itself into something messy and new? Does he clang like dropped silverware or is it heavy like metal gates closing? Maybe he sounds like the hammer of a blacksmith on burning metal?

Does Chopper have a way of talking that's distinctive? Like an accent or a lisp? Surely there would be something that would remind people that vocal cords change with each species and suddenly being able to make the noises of the human language would be a learning curve?

Does Robin sound like skin sliding against skin? Like rubbing your arms when you're cold or the dry sound that comes sometimes when you shake someones hand? Maybe she sounds like the wind in a garden or pulling petals off a flower?

Does Crocodile sound like a sandstorm? Does the sand he controls sound like screaming, like howling? Or maybe it sounds like a mudslide, something powerful and earthly?

Does Doflomingo make the the twang of tight threads being pulled and snapped back into place? Maybe the snap of elastic bands or the zzzz of string being pulled of the roll too quick?

Just so many fun things to consider 💭

Might do one of these about some of the other senses too.

Starlight. Who do you see? Who do you smile for?

I hope it's me.

forgot to share this my bad- ^^; anyways the guys ever !!

I had a friend

Source: 【OVERLORD】　 LOG.１ by 惡道GAZARI

Album: http://imgur.com/a/ZfEFk

JUDAS by The Reverent Marigold -- Arcane

tw // blood

    There is a quiet, fleeting, moment, when the blade sinks itself into his ribcage and just below his heart, where the world whites out at the edges. He feels his lungs rattle in his chest, feels the metallic taste of blood well up from the back of his throat. He feels Phil’s shaking hands, tremors running down the metal and into his spine and his throat and the lips he so lightly twists into a smile. 

    “Hey, Phil.” Wilbur says, feeling his father slip further down, head bowed in grief. “It’s cold.”

    Phil keens low and quiet into his chest, singed wings draping over Wilbur, trying their best to block out the cold he knows comes from somewhere within him. He appreciates the gesture nonetheless. 

    He hears fireworks in the distance, and sees blue and red through the feathers. L’manburg colors. He silently thanks his brother for the last reminder of his symphony, his unfinished verse. He wonders if his death will be a finishing bar, or perhaps a catalyst for a new measure. He wonders if Tommy knows that the mantle has been passed, and that he’s sorry for the weight that ties a noose around his younger brother’s neck. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he wants to plead, you’re not supposed to carry the weight of my failures on your shoulders. He hopes Tommy runs away, that he leaves this unfinished song and go write for himself a new one, a happier one. 

    “Are you proud of me?” Wilbur finds himself whispering, half hoping Phil doesn’t hear, and finding himself feeling too tired to care. He supposes death did that to a person. Leaves them tired and cold and strangely light. Phil’s hands don’t stop shaking, and red paints his palms and fingers and the hem of his cloak. Wilbur huffs a laugh at his father’s silence.

    “You don’t have to answer that, I think I know what you’re gonna say anyway.” Wilbur says, swallowing back a lungful of blood and air, bringing a hand up to card through the man’s blond hair. Phil shudders. “I wouldn’t be proud of me either.”

    Phil lets out a broken sound at this, and somewhere in Wil’s bleeding chest, he feels a twinge of shame. 

    “Forget about me, Phil.” Wilbur says into the air, feeling sweat and blood and tears drip down his chin. It stains the tips of Phil’s hair. “It’ll be easier that way, I think.”

    Phil brings a hand up to clutch at Wilbur’s arm, head still burrowed in his fast reddening shirt, and Wilbur stifles a gasp at where the movement jars his wound. The elder’s breathing is shallow, he opens and closes his mouth, words caught in his throat, like he’s choking on them.

    “Don’t cry, Phil.” Wilbur hums, voice thready and thin in the ash filled air, “I don’t want that to be the last thing I hear.”

    Phil sobs, and his back shakes with the weight of his grief and his loss. It must be agonizing, Wilbur thinks, to mourn your son while he still speaks. Then again, that won’t last for much longer.

    Wilbur strokes his father’s head, though his fading strength only allows him to curl his fingers, helpless as it falls wayside to the ground. 

    “You’ll be fine, dad.” Wilbur whispers, “You did the right thing. You got rid of the big bad, like the hero in the stories you used to tell.”

    Phil wails harder, and Wilbur thinks that maybe being a hero isn’t as appealing when it causes good men to cry. 

    “I’m tired.” He sighs, feeling his eyes slip shut, “I’ve been awake too long.”

    Phil reaches out with trembling fingers, bloodstained palms cradling his cheek.

    “I l-love yo u.” He chokes, the words broken and jilted, like a song through a broken speaker. 

    Wilbur feels his smile slip a bit, and bites back a strangled laugh, because Phil doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve to have to paint the floor red with his own son’s blood. Another tally on his faults, he thinks, another red name for his ledger of wrongdoings. Even on his dying breath, he hurts the people he loves. 

    “I love you too.” He says, instead, because he refuses to leave without letting his father know that he loves him. That whatever happens, whatever consequences he’s left blazing at his wake, Wilbur soot does not hate his father.  That this isn’t some sort of cruel punishment or last hurrah. He thinks that maybe he just wants to be held, and that sleep comes so much easier when he’s safe in the arms of his childhood hero and protector. “I love you so much.”

     The static in his head grow louder, and he feels his heart give a shudder, and a beat, and the dark encroaches quickly, and through the gauze he hears a broken scream. Then, nothing.

I had to add these.

When someone leaves your life, those exits are not made equal.

Some are beautiful and poetic and satisfying. - Techno

Others are abrupt and unfair. - Ranboo

But most are just unremarkable, unintentional, clumsy. - Phil

things sherlock holmes has canonically done:

scrapbooked the hell out of his newspapers

put on a hat that was too big for him 

giggled

cried because lestrade was nice to him

got all sappy and romantic by smelling a rose

let a puppy lead him on adventures

“impish mood”

lit his pipe with an ember from the fireplace because he thought it looked cool

feel free to add to this