#Best Audio

[ered]

Here’s my take on the whole audio books vs. reading:

Oral tradition of storytelling predates written ones by millennias, and honestly, which one you like is just a personal preference.

The actual difference is

when listening, you have no idea how to write characters’ names

when reading, you have no idea how to pronounce characters’ names

hope this helps!

[zentendo]

Tears of the Kingdom Soars Again, Nominated for 2024 GDC Game of the Year!

Hold onto your Hylian Shields, folks! The critically-acclaimed The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom has just snagged yet another prestigious nomination – Game of the Year at the upcoming 2024 Game Developer Choice Awards (GDC)! This comes hot on the heels of its impressive win for Best Action/Adventure Game at The Game Awards and Nintendo Game of the Year at the Golden Joystick Awards,…

[rosemariecawkwell]

British Fantasy Society Awards Shortlist Announced!

And I’m a Juror for Best Audio Work! These are the podcasts up for the award: Breaking the Glass Slipper The Painkiller Podcast (Bitter Pill Theatre) Podcastle (Escape Artists) Pseudopod (Escape Artists) The Secret of St. Kilda (Michael Ireland & Naomi Clarke) The Stranger Times (C.K. McDonnell) For all the shortlists see: British Fantasy Award Shortlists

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

You made her cry, time to die.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[oobbbear]

Cw: violence, blood(it’s green tho)

It started out a little slow but I promise it gets better!!!!!

From here on now the story will get more lore heavy, I’m so excited hehehhoho

This is a chapter of my story “Orange Knife” for more context check out -> Orange Knife Master Post

[cacaocheri]

undefined

im obsessed with this audio and i HAD to draw it with sun

[noughticalcrossings]

The Terror

[zozo-01]

"i thought you said you never get cold." "shut up, collins." "you love me, darlin'." "i'm a lawyer, we're incredible liars when we want to be."

another beautiful commission done by the incredible @andr0leda!! my beloved darlin' is ten seconds away from riding her beloved cowboy!!

[dramabrothersofficial]

In NPMD when the gang are all going to the Waylon House to set up The Prank and everyone walks past the pit, apparently Richie is doing the Naruto run and Pete keeps hitting him telling him to stop. Meanwhile Ruth is keeps going “you’re being too loud”. I learned this from the audio commentary. I love those beautiful nerds.

[hinata-boke]

captain and vice captain

[romanceddawn]

Puzzleshipping: "You gave me your heart, you know..." [Insp.]

❕ Please do not repost to any other sites ❕

[kiingbiing]

Raph my beloved

[lwfllygndrfld]

i feel like an mlm scheme trying to get people to listen to audio dramas i like.

"aha you went to school? well have you tried listening to witherburn after school news?"

"omigod, you've heard of a british person? you should listen to the magnus archives/the magnus protocol"

id say its a problem but its so fun

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Gaslighter? I hardly know her!

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[two-dolla-bills]

I like you, here's my interpretation of the mechanisms' motif!

[sun-snatcher]

summ. You and Remy slow dance. It turns into a walk down memory lane. Maybe more? ( an audio imagine, established in #WELUCKYFEW )

IT’S PROBABLY AT YOUR FIFTH yawn that Remy settles he’s had enough of you dozing off.

“Chèr,” he calls. You barely respond. “…Chèr.”

Nothing.

“Chèr— Lord, this woman— Stray!”

You flinch awake, paper scattering. “Jesus, Remy!”

Something rolls at your feet, purple glow fading. “Did you just charge a plastic cup—?!”

“An’ nailed y’at your dome? Oui.” 

“Was the closest thing t’me, an’ you was ‘bout gon’ pass out on that damn table, you,” he snorts, rounding the kitchen island. “Told y’not t’make dodo out here, chèr. That couch can break a back, Remy tellin’ y’now.”  *

“First of all, ow. Second of all, I know.” You rub your face with your palms, try to rub the gossamer of sleep in your eyes. “I’m almost done. These papers aren’t gonna mark themselves, and the students were expecting these yesterday—”

“Chèr,” he interrupts, gently. “Dance w’me.”

You blink, completely diverted by the non sequitur. “…What?”

“Y’heard me.” He’s sauntered over to the record player at the corner, loading in a vinyl with a click and a careful drop of the needle. “Since y’aint wanna sleep, anyway, y’tête dur.”  *

Some melodic Blues album fills the room. Louis Armstrong, you recognise.

The absurdity of it all has you letting out a bewildered laugh. Maybe that cup hit you harder than you thought. 

“These songs alone can put me to sleep— no, Remy, not in that way, before you charge a record at me this time— I mean it’s… it’s a slow song. Kinda defeats the purpose, don’t you think?”

“S’worth a shot,” he shrugs, nonchalant, and your nerves feel like they shrink as he shuffles towards you with a quirk on his lip and that look in his eyes; stubborn resolve. “Come see.” *

He bows with theatrical flair, and catches your hand to hold with cordial permission. “I know ladies like t’be axed properly, so.” 

Remy smiles. “How ‘bout a dance, chèr?”

It works, surprisingly.

Or, perhaps, unsurprisingly, considering this is Remy LeBeau. The Gambit. Le Diable Blanc. His devilish charisma comes naturally; it doesn’t take that long before banter and inanities has you ducking your head to hide your frazzled giggling over your tripping feet and dramatic dance dips and—

“Mais la, your hands are cold cold.” He laughs like it’s been punched out of his gut. “Y’got the frissons, chèr?”  *

“I’m nervous!” You yelp out when he spins you on your heel, and catches you again. 

The next song plays.

It’s one you’ve heard being hummed under Remy’s breath as he moved around the house, absent-mindedly, or whenever he fidgeted his restlessness away with his deck of cards: Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans? 

The melody lulls the both of you into an easy, gentle sway. Remy’s hand rests on the small of your back. The palms of his hand are smooth; warm, like always. It’s comforting.

His mouth ghosts against your temple. You can feel his cheeks raise. “Why?”

“‘Cause I’ve stepped on your feet like, five times, now, Remy.”

“Mais, don’t be honte. S’just me, chèr.”  *

He winks. Bumps his forehead to yours, where you shoot him with a playful eye-roll. Remy considers himself a lucky man that you’d even acquiesced him anyway; relented and let him curl you into his arms, laid your head to rest against his shoulder. 

And then, out of the blue, between the crackle of cantabile trumpets drifting in both of your rundown New York apartment:

“Exactly,” you say, cadence impossibly soft. “It’s you.”

A petal of an admission. Feather-light. You lift your head to meet his gaze.

If it had been any other person he might’ve permitted himself to read it as something romantic.  

…Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

And miss it each night and day?

“You miss him.” He exhales as if he’d been disarmed. “When you look at me.”

It’s a statement, not a question. There’s no point in lying. 

You nod near-imperceptibly. Had you spoken, your voice may have failed you.

Something passes in his eyes. When he unravels you into another gentle spin, then back, it’s gone before you get the chance to decipher it. A calculated move, you realise. There’s a gap between the both of you, now.

“Though—” you begin, tentatively. “There are differences, still.”

Rain drums against the window. In the distance, the sky drawls threat of an impending thunderstorm. Remy’s gaze is rapt.

“You can play the guitar,” you say, fond. That had been a discovery on an early Saturday morning— the first night you and Remy had arrived in Wade’s universe and slept over at his place— where you awoke to Remy’s singing and acoustic strum of Footloose, drifting between a breakfast-ruckus rioting in the kitchen.

He’d apparently learned to play during his years in the Void, so he could pass the time.

“Handle your alcohol better, too.” You muse. Probably honed from the Void aswell. “My Gambit was a chainsmoker. But he quit for his three cats. And Rogue.” —Even though I told him years before to quit, you don’t add. It would’ve been pointless anyway.

“Three minous?” An amused laugh. “Huh. I feed 3 strays makin’ a pass to Wade’s sometimes.” *

Multiverse is funny like that. “Some things never change.” 

He huffs out a wry laugh mid-sway. “Mais, s’pose so.” 

“And…” Your eyes flicker to his lips. 

He notices. 

“...My Remy had a scar.” Your hand slides off his bicep, floats up to his face. “It cut deep. Right above here.”

…moonlight on the bayou; a creole tune that fills the air.

You rest a thumb at the edge of his lip.

His heart stifles. 

“Gave it to him in Madripoor,” you recount, distant, and when you meet the questioning look in Remy’s gaze, answer humorously: “Let’s just say we… got off the wrong foot the first time we crossed paths. ”

…dream about magnolias in bloom and I'm wishin' I was there.

Remy barely laughs— too distracted with the nebulous presence of you. His hand on your waist squeezes.

“S’it ever hurt you?” Quiet. Touch soft. An ocean-in-a-seashell murmur. “That I ain’t him?”

…Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

“…Yes.”

This time you don’t miss the lightning resignation in his eyes. The thumb he’s pressing at your waist vanishes. He has half the mind to let his hands slip away.

“An’ what ‘bout right now?”

Your head is shaking before you even register it. You move to shift him back close; afraid he’ll pull away before you can answer. “No. All I see is you. Only you.”

…When that's where you left your heart?

The air is tense. The proximity isn’t helping. Was it concession, what you said? His nose grazes yours; he’s watching your lashes fluttering—

He won’t. He won’t kiss you. He can’t. 

It’s a gamble the Gambit can’t bet on. 

Not when his mere existence alone is like pouring salt to an open chasm in your heart; like picking at a scab: wounds fresh, old memories clearly— somehow— even fresher. 

It would be unfair to you. 

Gambit is a gentleman, after all.

And so Remy noses against your cheek. Nudges at your temple and presses his chin at your hairline, tries not to stoke the tumid yen clawing in his chest. Both of you have been dealt a bad hand. If there’d been dismay in your eyes, he didn’t see it.

You feel his lips ghost against your hairline, again. 

His breath is flushed warm. You want to tip-toe and meet him halfway. Taste the burn of whiskey neat on his tongue. Carve yourself an enclave into his heart only you could fit in.

To be surrounded by him. Sheltered. Kept.

But it wouldn’t do. It’d be unfair. To inadvertently use him as a remedy, to look at him and feel like you’re using him as a crutch to your past; 

All because your foolish little heart can’t differentiate what your mind can clearly see— that this Remy isn’t yours.

You duck your head back to his chest. The song croons to a close. 

…And there's one thing more;

I miss the one I care for;

More than I miss New Orleans.

*Cajun footnotes

Make dodo — to go to sleep Tête dur — stubborn/hard-headed Come see — Cajun way of saying "Come here." Frissons — to feel chills Honte — embarrassed Minou — cat Make a pass — to stop by