#narrator voice: But It Was Not Fine

[muzzlemouths]

heya, I hope you're doing aight and taking care over there - @clxckwork-sun-n-moon

SORRY FOR GOING ENTIRELY MiA OOPSIES

I'm doing pretty well I think!! I fell in love with my own original works (writing wise) all over again, watched ATSP five times in theaters, did some spur of the moment character development and now I'm here!

Feeling refreshed after the burn-out and ready to dive back into the fandom that I missed so so much 💕

[notmoreflippingelves]

Actually going insane over the implications of Jason asking Dick to be the Robin to his Batman in Battle for the Cowl.

Like I initially took it at the purely surface-level of Jason wanting a partner in the general sense. Which made sense, it's a huge responsibility and a lonely one so an assistant/sidekick/partner seems a no-brainer if you can get one.

But then I really thought about it, because Jason is not asking Dick to be his partner in the general sense; he's not even asking Dick to be his Nightwing. He's asking Dick to be his Robin.

And they both know exactly what Jason means: "Be the light to my darkness. Be the smile to my scowl. Be the hope to my fear. "

He's saying "Be 'Robin'; be the embodiment of Love and Justice and Goodness. Be the exceptional person that you have always been. Be the slightly-less exceptional person that I was when I wore your colors. Be the person that I was in the process of becoming and might have been (or might still be), if only Joker hadn't clipped my wings."

He's saying "I am prepared to become vengeance, become the Night. And I will go further than Bruce ever dared to, because it is what is needed. I will be the necessary evil. But you don't have to be. If Batman is Gotham's curse, Robin has always been its blessing. I will be the brutal punishment to our world, and I am asking you to be its incandescent gift."

He's saying, "Be for me, what we were for Him. Be my anchor, my comfort, my hope. Remind me what it's all for, why it's all worth it. And remind yourself as well."

He's saying "Be 'Robin' again--for both of our sakes."

[gbirrd]

DUN-DUH-DUH-DUUUUHN!

suprise! i've been working as part of ANOTHER Bang! I paired up once again with the delightful @englandamericaitaly to create this piece for their fic as part of the @dpxdcbigbang !

you can read their fic here- a really fun read, and of course I drew the scene with my boy Duke. we gotta step up folks! not enough art of this weird little daylight-loving freak out here!

Image ID:

A drawing of a very dark train tunnel, with a rail track stretching down from the top towards the bottom of the image. At the top of the piece near the back of the tunnel is Duke Thomas in his Signal armour, giving off a strong yellow glow as he is crouched over Clayface, arm raised in a fist to punch him as his head is raised to look up with glowing eyes. Clayface's hand is wrapped around Duke trying to pull him off. At the bottom of the page near the front of the tracks, Jazz Fenton stands facing Duke with a faint green glow. Three shadowy figures stand behind her. In the top right corner there is a close-up panel of Jazz's eyes, in all green, and mirroring it in the bottom left are Duke's eyes in all yellow.

[thasorns]

[salty-an-disco]

something just dawned on me–

Slay the Princess, a game full of violent and gorish imagery, all described in explicit detail– and the ONE thing that’s censored in the whole game–

is a fuckin’ middle finger.

they didn’t have to censor that, but they did anyway, because it’d be hilarious, and they were absolutely RIGHT

[greelin]

the thought of you giving him permission to feed on you while you’re asleep and him trying to approach it so clinically.. thinking that would be so much easier when you’re sleeping because you can’t wiggle around nervously and make little awkward remarks and LOOK at him in that stupidly trusting and adoring way that you do that makes him feel like he’s staring directly at the sun. burning. this way should feel so much more detached. easy. but he STILL has to get close to you. can still see you breathing. smell something so distinctly you before he’s even bitten you. feel your pulse. brush the hair away from your neck (softly, he tells himself, so as not to disturb you. it’s not meant to be TENDER or anything. of course not.) and notice the little creases that form in your brow even while sleeping because the initial sensation of his fangs piercing stings. he can see your expression smooth out, though. notice how, rather than pulling back from the bite like a sensible person, you seem to always curl TOWARDS him. happily. willingly. like you’re searching for him. maybe you even smiled in your sleep once or twice. caught his shirt in your fingers in a way that wasn’t fearful or pained but instead peaceful. grounding. content. because you’re comfortable. and you welcome him. every part of him. and this is NOT so much easier or less complicated than feeding while you’re awake, he very quickly realizes. there’s no way to be distant with you this close. this is not impersonal. he cannot remain indifferent or composed when you accept him so freely. Haha👍

[ballpitwitch]

KEANU REEVES in 1999

[thru-the-grapevine]

[3:12 AM] The bed feels more spacious than it ought to.

You crack open an eye and glance at the other side of the bed. Empty. Your mostly-asleep gaze wanders to the clock on the far nightstand; after 3 in the morning. You let your eye close again, drifting comfortably for a while in the fog of half-consciousness. And then you roll over and sit up, stumbling slowly to your feet.

A faint bluish glow emanates from the other end of the hall. When you pad into the living room, you see Chris exactly where you’d left him hours ago. Hunched at his desk, headphones on, clicking every now and then, staring at Cubase and several instrument mixers.

He startles momentarily when you drape your arms over his shoulders. He relaxes and pulls the headphones down, tapping the spacebar to pause the music.

You kiss the top of his head. “How’s it looking?”

“Better,” Chris hums, lifting his free hand and rubbing your arm. “Fixed that annoying buzzing sound.”

You hum, resting your cheek against his hair, looking at the dual monitors. “Can I hear?”

“’Course,” he says, and you can hear the pleased grin in his voice. That’s his favorite request you can make of him.

He unplugs the headphones and fiddles with the knobs on his volume box, clicks around and then taps the spacebar again.

He’s right; the buzzing noise that had hovered persistently in the corners of the track is gone. He’s nuanced the vocal effects, as well, softened the pitch corrector, and you smile, fond of how sincere his voice sounds.

“’S pretty,” you murmur, humming at a new instrument that hadn’t been there before.

“It’s closer,” he admits, not fully accepting the compliment.

You’re too sleepy to push back, make him accept the praise, so you merely bury your face in his hair.

“You should get some sleep, like I said,” Chris tells you, voice tinged with concern.

He had told you to do that…four hours ago.

You snort. “Love. Check the time.”

“Hm?” You feel his head tilt, watch his mouse slide to the bottom corner of the screen to the clock. “…Oh.”

“Was sleeping,” you say, watching his mouse trail back up over Cubase, deliberating. “’N then I woke up with too much space ‘n not enough warm.”

He hums in acknowledgment, the noise tinged with guilt.

You kiss the top of his head again. “…Please?”

He sighs, leaning his head back against your shoulder.

“You at a good stopping point?” You ask, knowing too well what his next argument will be.

He sighs again quietly, a sound of concession. “I never am…but this will do.”

You grin and give him an encouraging squeeze as he presses save three times on each software.

“Bet you’ll knock it out of the park once your brain is fresh,” you tell him as he shuts the computer down.

“And once the headache passes,” he says, pressing the heel of one hand to his eye and rubbing as he rolls the chair back.

You frown, leaning back to let him stand and stretch. “You’ve been working with a headache?”

“Just hints of one,” he insists, waving it away as he relaxes out of the stretch. “Probably eye strain.”

You give him a look. “You know, that might not happen if you’d just wear your glasses.”

It’s a lost cause and you both know it. He snorts, then gets a better look at you and smiles.

“Your hair’s cute,” he says, lifting a hand to your head and ruffling.

You scrunch your face up in protest. “’S bedhead, Chris.”

“And it’s cute,” he insists, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Bedtime?”

“Past bedtime,” you say, giving him a stern look when he leans back. “Long, long past.”

“Hmm,” he says, studying your face and smiling in that goopy-eyed way that you know means he’s barely listening. You roll your eyes.

He lets you take his hand and guide him back down the hall, lets you procure pajamas for him while he talks through what else he wants to do in the song, lets you help him change as he explains.

“Just want the feeling of the song to be right when you hear it, even without lyrics,” he says as you help pull on the pajama shirt.

“People will know,” you tell him, patting his shoulder and taking his hand again, guiding him to bed. “I can feel it when I hear it.”

“But what if that’s just you?” He frets, lying back and getting comfortable, drawing up the covers. “What if you just know me?”

You burrow under the covers and lay your head on his chest, wrapping an arm around him. “I do know you. But that’s not why I felt it.”

“But how do you know for sure?” He asks, his hand back in your hair, stroking softly.

You prop your chin up on his chest and look at him. “Babe. You’re not capable of making dishonest or disingenuous music. Your heart’s all the way out there in every little detail.”

He looks at you for a long moment, fingers slow and gentle in your hair. Eventually he lifts his hand and rests the pad of his forefinger on the tip of your nose.

“I like you so much,” he murmurs.

An embarrassed grin sweeps over your face. You nestle your face into his chest vigorously, and he laughs.

“Like you too,” you hum, sandwiching one of his legs between yours and snuggling in. “I’m also right.”

“Hope so,” he murmurs, and then his arm curls comfortably around you. “Go back to sleep.”

“You sleep, you need it more,” you mumble, and he chuckles.

“I’ll sleep well with my weighted blanket,” he teases you, hand squeezing your side reassuringly.

You grin and press a kiss to his chest. “Not as well as I’ll sleep with my body pillow.”

“You’re on,” he whispers, and you’re out like a light before a full minute passes.

Admin Ellie’s Masterlist

[andy-clutterbuck]

5x11 | The Distance

[thysilus]

one of th actresses on this shoot jst told me she rly likes my voice and that its ‘deep’ which is xtremely gender affirming but i cnt tell if she thinks im a woman w a deep voice cuz i swear my voice aint deep for a man lol

[malewifetouya]

Idk if this was intentional but the fact that they mirror each other here… I’m fine, just give me a minute

[devereaux]

“You know what’s real? You’re dying, Ty. What about your Mom? What about Evita? What about me?”

1x10 | 2x08

[giddlygoat]

idk man where’s all the fat wrinkly short narrators. please just show me the old man narrators. im not talking middle aged. he must look at the very least 62. crusty dusty old with joint problems and a hairline on its last gasps. please god im begging i just need to see some more fat old guy narrator designs

[lighthouseshepard]

sometimes you come home from work and you eat leftover chili while sitting on the floor of your kitchen in the half dark and you listen to francesca 10 times over while crying into the bowl lightly scalding your hands. and this is fine

[pactw]

fit, baby, let me fix your audio. i could set your levels like no one else, yeah, get that gain nice and low. i'd even set you up with a pop filter, keep those rough ol' plosives from bothering you. let me spoil you, babygirl. for my fucking ears' sake.

[idalenn]

worst stressors in applying for MFA programs

1.) What level of quality is expected in my writing, assuming most applicants are in their early twenties? Like, if I submit any fiction samples not on the level of Atwood, Rivers Solomon, or Dazai -- and immediately publishable besides -- will they mail a single shotshell and a "take the Hemingway out :)" note to my address?

2.) slipping up in an email and calling it the FMA instead of MFA