#Same with Sound stuff.

[curiousorigins]

Man, I just really miss when they bothered lighting things on TV Shows and in Movies. Like the shadows were beautiful and everything had more depth.

Now they just brighten up everything use fills and like add shadows after.

It looks cruddy. Maybe because with all the post-darkening it's too much work to make them move when things move? Like they're doing their best, but nothing beats a scene that was lit properly in the first place.

I'm watching a no-name B-Horror Movie from 2005 (This was right before they started lighting everything cruddy and doing it in post.) And I'm 3 minutes in and it's just so much more beautiful than what's on TV and what's in Movies today. Like I can think of one movie that had particularly good lighting, and that's "Ready or Not". Probably because it was an Indie Movie and the people were filming in a historical place and were required to light it very carefully. (Similar to what happened with Woman on Fire which was also quite beautiful and an indie film.)

[offonaherosjourney]

Why did no one tell me that Dracula was a fucking COMEDY.

The book opens up with Jonathan experiencing a paprika overload. Dracula pretends to be the coachman and drives Jonathan around in circles until he decides he's established enough of a dramatic atmosphere. By day three in the castle Jonathan has picked up that there are no servants and Dracula is secretly doing all the chores, including driving him there. The first time Jonathan tries to shave, the count barges into the room, yeets his mirror out the window, refuses to elaborate and leaves. Jonathan also notices that he is a prisoner in the castle but doesn't dare to bring it up, which... is a mood, but also hilarious. A week into his stay he sees his employer/kidnapper crawling facedown out a wall

[hello-eeveev]

Essek: “Gesundheit. I learned that from my partner as well.”

Travis Willingham, known Essek lover and shadowgast shipper:

[blackkatdraws2]

There are more things in the Parable than Stanley knows about. [Blank Scripts AU]

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

Transcript:

Happy birthday!

I couldn’t quite figure out a gift in time. So take these *cats meowing* they’ve been severed from me.

These are my most trusted possessions- Or they were.

My little light bulbs.

It was decided that I wouldn’t have them anymore.

So I guess you can have them!

Happy birthday! My mascara is running. I have to go.

Goodbye everyone! Thank you!

Audio source

Transcript:

Happy birthday, you bitch.

Audio source

No transcript for this one.

There are noises.

Wear headphones, not because it is suggestive, but so that no one judges you.

Audio source

Transcript:

Happy birthday, Miku! -From your friend, Gabriel.

Audio source

[hajimedics]

fuck it (gives your technicolor puppets human wholeness)

[kelocitta]

I'll say that I have been in some fandom with extremely impressive and dedicated artists but consistently some of my favorite artists are ones who technically make 'unimpressive' art to outright loving posting 'low effort' doodles. I love skilled work thats beautiful, but I also deeply admire a freedom from perfectionism and ambition. Sometimes those are just non-complicated but still clearly skilled works, and sometimes thats loving the wobbly simplicity of crude lines vs. rendered beauty. One of my favorite artists back when I was big into Hollow Knight was a korean artist who could absolutely make some extremely beautiful stuff, but many of the pieces I remember most and loved the most looked like this

Even here I know I mentally worked harder to make this imitation than they did for the OG. I can't draw fast and loose, and I like work that is clearly faster and looser than I can do. I envy people who can do things imperfect and carefree. Sometimes thats still very obviously skilled work, sometimes its very stupid doodles that were blatantly done in 30 seconds in mspaint. I don't think its say, disrespectful to love the doodles more than the rendered stuff said artist makes- but my love for it comes from a place that a lot of people wouldn't guess. That is to say, its hard to tell who, why, or when something you make might click with people- and it doesn't take a masterwork for someone to see something in your art as inspiration.

[ronanlynchbf]

[turtleblogatlast]

One of the biggest things that makes me see Leo as trans is absolutely the size of his carapace in comparison to his brothers’.

And I’m not talking about height! I’m specifically looking at his shell here, because when you compare him to the others, particularly Donnie who is nearly the same height as Leo, it’s very clear that Leo’s carapace is much longer in proportion to the rest of his body.

Like - standing side by side, even though Donnie is shorter his carapace ends noticeably higher up than Leo’s does. And I like this not only because it really helps push the idea that Leo could very likely be trans (or intersex!), but it’s also just a fun design difference between them.

(It also lends way to future scenarios of Donnie eventually getting taller than Leo, but sitting down still has Leo being the taller one haha.)

[canneddolts]

number 1 science guy

[canisalbus]

Imagine if Machete was Muslim instead of Catholic. His name would be something like Saif سيف, and Vasco would probably be something like Dhahabi ذَهَبِيّ

.

[tossawary]

I saw a musical recently where the main character was a writer of these fairy-tale-esque gothic romance adventures, so there was a clear-cut Hero and a Villain and a Damsel in Distress and a Wicked Witch character and so on. Very recognizable archetypes. These imaginary characters would come onstage and act out these adventures when the main character was reading her writing aloud to others.

Unfortunately, this musical was ultimately not good for many reasons, one of which being that the stories that the main character wrote had essentially nothing to do with the rest of the story. These overdramatic and cliché adventures didn't really reflect her real life in a deep and meaningful and interesting way, not effectively, and mostly just came off as silly; they seemed to mostly represent the writer character's inexperience and immaturity more than anything else; and I personally thought that the aesthetic frankly gelled weirdly against the setting of the "real life" segments. It was like two completely separate musicals were trying to happen in alternating segments.

But one REALLY cute thing that this show did is make these imaginary fairy tale characters into the stagehands. The Hero and the Villain and the Damsel were the ones who hurried onstage to move furniture around to indicate a change of location. They would briefly test out the furniture or adjust the props to their liking or interact silently with each other in other ways, before scurrying away or shooing each other off the stage again as the "real" characters walked in. I think the Villain character even lingered once to wink at the main character's mean aunt, before getting dragged offstage by the other imaginary story characters.

It was so cute and fun and made scene changes a bright spot in between terrible music and badly paced "real life" plot. Theatre allows for thin lines between "realities", there are lots of great fourth wall interactions in theatre for example, so in-universe imaginary characters as the stagehands for some really fun meta stuff in a different play. I keep thinking of Roderick Townley's "The Great Good Thing" which was read to me back in elementary school, but anything that has in-universe stories being told like "The Princess Bride" film could work. I hope to see more creative scene changes like that in future stageplays that really work with them.

[chiropteracupola]

an assortment of my temeraireverse fic-dragons!

[cygnet and honoré are from fifteenth-century britain and france, aquilillus, flavia magna, and bán are from second-century britain, and cipachcoatzin is from sixteenth-century mesoamerica]

[dreadark]

bugs me a bit when people assume Ivan is some kind of genius or somehow naturally talented

he's really not at all. he just works ridiculously hard I mean we've seen his schedule what is this

literally anyone who put in this amount of work would end up getting good grades... if they didn't have a complete breakdown first guess you can consider that his "talent" can't break if you're already broken

Sua does actually seem like a natural genius though, she's tied with Ivan despite not doing... all that well she basically says as much

and she worked as a model (among other things) while attending Anakt Garden, so she managed being top of the class while also already having her career Ivan didn't do any of that, he only got popular after round 3 (idk what these rankings are out of, but if he's only 78th when Till was 5th...) despite being a top student I suppose Ivan didn't actually stand out much at first?

interesting how out of all of them, Ivan seems the least suited to singing on stage Sua's clearly talented, Till is a musical prodigy, and Mizi genuinely loves singing Luka is literally made for it, and Hyuna also loves singing and seems to have this natural stage presence

but all Ivan's good at is following orders

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: before the nightingale sings

---------

for my batdad blood blossom au, the one where Vlad poisoned Danny with blood blossom extract and Danny ran away from him and ended up tumbling into the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman :). A quick oneshot telling the tale of the tragic deaths of the Fentons

TW: Major Character Death Warning

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Not all deaths are created equal.

That is a valuable lesson in life to learn. One that Danny learns when he is eleven years old, standing in the pit of his parents’ creation; the culmination of their life’s work. The portal to the other side, the realm of the dead. To the infinite. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, in a hazmat suit that sags on him, and boots that clunk when he walks because the only ones that fit are his mom’s, and even those are too big. In gloves that he has to clench his fists in because otherwise they fall off. In goggles that slide down his nose even when he’s tightened them the farthest they can go. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, choking on giggles that harmonize with the laughter of his friends’ who stand at the mouth of the tunnel. Sam’s holding a polaroid in her hand. They’re just being kids. 

They’re not laughing when Danny’s hand hits the safety lock — the one with faulty wiring, the only one in the tunnel. The only one he could possibly hit. They’re not laughing when the portal buzzes to life, and the lights inside switch on row by row as the generator begins to rumble and hum. 

They’re not laughing when Danny dies. They’re screaming. They’re not screaming when he comes back.

Not all deaths are created equal.  

Some are poetic, beautiful. The satisfying close of a book as it comes to an end, of the hardback thumping soft against the pages like the sound of a door closing. A train run its course.

Some are violent; unsatisfying; unfair. The unexpected shattering of an egg as it rolls off the countertop when nobody is looking, the unmistakable crack as it falls to the floor. It is abrupt and messy. 

But most are just… unremarkable. Unintentional. Clumsy. 

Danny’s family dies one night in late January. He is thirteen years old, barely a month away from fourteen. It is unforeseen. It is preventable. It happens. 

It happens like this: 

Their water heater breaks one Monday in January. It’s old, sitting in the garage, and has dealt with nearly sixteen years of Fenton-grade chaos and shenanigans. Of parents tossing scraps and junk into the garage as brief storage to come back to later. Of illegal tune-ups on their vehicles that result in something exploding. Of little children running around and knocking things over, playing with poles and sticks they find on the ground, on the shelves. Of being lived and used.  

Something had to give. 

Jack Fenton notices it immediately when he comes upstairs that very afternoon — his children at school, his wife downstairs — to grab something from the garage. The very same scrap and used material they store like squirrels to use later. 

He stops what he’s doing to fix it.  

It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. 

Despite what many believe, Jack Fenton is not the idiot people make him out to be. He knows what he’s good at, he knows what he’s not. He knows he can be passionate and obsessive and single-minded about things. He knows that he is a scientist, an inventor; an engineer. 

He knows that he is not a plumber. That fixing water heaters is not something he knows how to do, not safely. And he loves his family. What he does is only meant to be temporary — a fix meant to only last a few days until they can call someone in who can fix it for them. 

So Jack Fenton futzes with the water heater, gives it a temporary stitch to last a short while, and reminds himself to call a plumber later that day to come in and fix it. He turns and leaves the garage with the part he came for —  a sheet of metal for his wife to melt down — and disappears back downstairs. 

He does not make that call; it slips from his mind. 

It is not his fault. 

One day passes, then two, then suddenly it is Thursday. The water heater has still not been fixed, the water heater has been forgotten. It is nobody’s fault.  

Danny asks his parents at breakfast if he can stay over at Tucker’s house for the night. Just one night. They’re going to study for their math test and then play video games until midnight, but he only tells his parents that first half. 

He’s been doing well in school. Really well — better than he has in a while. There’s been a delightful lull in ghost appearances for the last few weeks. The living don’t know why, but Danny does. The Winter Truce always calms the dead down for a while, something about how the Zone cleanses itself twice a mortal year and that fresh wave of ecto clears out the old and brings in the new. 

This year Danny got to participate. He’s feeling the effects of it too, and he’s been sleeping consistently well for the first time since the accident. 

It’ll never happen again. 

His parents agree under the condition that he doesn’t stay up late, and Danny harmlessly lies through his teeth and agrees. He goes and throws overnight clothes into his school backpack, and when he leaves for school with Jazz his parents are already departed into the lab. 

The last conversation he has with his sister is in her car on the drive to school. Inane, mindless conversation to fill the air and pass the time. Jazz comments on how relaxed he’s been lately; Danny tells her about the Winter Truce. She listens in rapt attention. 

She tells him that she’s glad to see him so well-rested. She thinks her little brother’s been growing up too fast these days. She thinks he’s been too tense. Too caught up with the spinning of the world around him that he forgets about himself sometimes. 

When they reach school, before Danny can get out of the car, Jazz looks to her little brother and says; “I love you.” 

Her little brother’s cheeks turn an embarrassed shade of red. He makes a scrunched up, grossed-out face, but can’t hide the smile pulling across it. “Don’t be a sap, Jazz. I’ll see you later.” He tells her, yanking his hood up over his head. She hears the bashful, ‘love you too’ before he walks away. 

That is the last conversation she ever has with her brother. 

Thursday is unremarkable, passing by in its normality as it always does. There’s one, maybe two ghost sightings; shades lurking around in curious infancy that are easily spooked away by the presence of a greater being. Danny doesn’t even have to go ghost. 

Thursday evening is even less so. Danny goes to Tucker’s house — Sam has a prior arrangement with her slam poetry club — and the two of them study for an hour before they toss their textbooks aside and reach for the game console. 

Danny sleeps in Tucker’s room with one of the extra blankets on his bed, curled across the room in one of the bean bag chairs. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but to Danny it is. He sleeps throughout the night, the portal shut down by his parents before they’d gone to bed. 

Early Friday morning, before the sun has even risen yet, before it’s even so much as a concept to grace the horizon, the water heater breaks again. It was supposed to be fixed. 

Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. Odorless and scentless, it kills within minutes. It fills the house like a shadow casting over the ground, creeping into the rooms. 

Danny’s family die in their sleep; painless and unaware. 

It’s not Jack Fenton’s fault. He didn’t mean to.  

Nobody wakes up with their alarms. 

Danny wakes up to Tucker Foley’s alarm on Friday morning, and he turns his head intangible and shoves it into the beanbag chair like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. Tucker gets up before him, and throws a pillow at him as he reaches for the alarm. 

There’s laughter, messing around. The both of them get dressed, and Danny has breakfast with the Foleys that morning. He takes the bus to school with Tucker, and they meet Sam by their lockers. 

To him, everything is as normal as it should be. There are no ghosts for him to fight right now, school is as school does, and he’s on top of all his schoolwork. 

He does not see Jazz at all that morning, he doesn’t notice. Their schedules are so different, their routes on different paths, that it’s not uncommon for Danny to not see Jazz until he gets home some days. That’s if there’s no ghost attacks. 

At lunch, he gets approached by her friends. Worried creases between their brows, they ask him if he’s seen Jazz. She hasn’t shown up to any of her classes. She’s not answering their texts. It’s unprecedented of her; unheard of. 

Danny doesn’t admit to the concern that swells in his gut when they tell him this. He shrugs at them, and says he hasn’t seen her either. But it was probably nothing to worry about; she might just be sick and sleeping it off. 

He offers to text her and let them know if he gets a response, and that seems to ease her friends enough that they shuffle away in uncertainty. He keeps his word, and does exactly that. He pulls out his phone and opens her contact, and shoots her a message.

‘Where are you?’ 

He doesn’t get a response back, Danny is left on sent. He puts his phone in his pocket, and with a sense of unease creeping in the back of his mind, goes on with his day. He gets no response by the time the final bell rings; and he tries not to be worried. 

The house is quiet when he opens the door. Unusually quiet. He drops his backpack to the floor, it lands with a hearty thunk, and begins to take off his jacket. “Mom! Dad!” He yells. He hangs it up, and slips his shoes from his feet. “Jazz skipped school today!”

A laughable untruth that would get his sister all riled up normally; she should be able to hear him from the front door if she was in her room. The house just stays dead silent. 

He can’t even hear the usual banging and crashing from the lab. His unease returns. He reaches for the intercom that leads directly down to the basement, and presses the button to turn it on. A burst of static, and then he speaks;

“Mom? Dad?” 

Danny lets go, and waits for a response. He gets none back. That never happens, not when the house is this quiet. Not when he knows they should’ve heard him. 

Something sickly and fearful borns in the pit of his stomach, and begins to snake upward. He heads for the lab. The cool metal of the door is familiar in the grooves of his hand, and he doesn’t even need to think about the code as he punches it in;  he simply lets muscle memory guide him. It’s been the same since he was little. 

The door hisses as the pressure is released, and he swings the door open. He takes the stairs down two at a time. Something is wrong. His parents aren’t answering him. His feet pound against the metal. 

“Mom? Dad?” He calls again, more worried, more frantic. More scared. His voice echoes down the stairwell, and he reaches the bottom before it’s fully faded. The lab is empty. The portal is still shut down. 

It was four in the afternoon, they should still be down here. 

Danny races back upstairs, fear-raised nausea coiling in his throat. “This isn’t funny you guys!” He yells when he reaches the top, shoving open the door with more force than necessary. His head swims, his voice cracked. 

He checks the garage, the car is still there. 

“Mom!? Dad!” His voice bellows out throughout the first floor, loud enough that it bounces back at him and rings against his ears. He’s never raised his voice this much — mom would scold him if she heard him. But she doesn’t show up. “Jazmine!” 

Finally, he goes upstairs, and he can’t tell if what he’s feeling is anger or terror. Something is very, very wrong. 

He swings the door of his parents’ rooms open first, and there they are, with the lights still off and the curtains still drawn. As if they hadn’t left their bed all day. Some of Danny’s fear lifts from his shoulders just by the sight of them, but he’s still trembling. Something is still wrong — the room smells… off. Not good, not bad. Just… off. 

He swallows dryly, his throat still thick, and steps into the room. “Mom, dad?” They do not stir. “Didn’t you guys hear me yelling?” 

There is only room static. Danny’s heart shrivels in his chest with a tenfold return of terror, he feels ill. He remembers, just now, that they’re not heavy sleepers, and his dad should be snoring like a freight house. 

Danny reaches their bedside in seconds, hand outstretching for the covers, “Momma? Dad?”

Not all deaths are created equal. 

But many of them are accidental. Unmeditated. Shocking.

Danny Fenton finds his family dead in his childhood home. He runs to his neighbors in hysterics, inconsolable, in tears. Nine-one-one is called, but there is nothing that can be done. They were dead for hours by the time Daniel Fenton returned home. 

He sits on the front steps of the neighbor’s house beside FentonWorks, his jeans slowly becoming wet from the snow that was unable to be scraped off, and watches the paramedics cart out his family beneath white sheets. There are police cars blocking off the street, yellow tape blocking off his house, red-blue lights lighting up the block, an ambulance on the scene. He is wrapped in a shock blanket, and he is missing his jacket and his shoes. His tears are freezing onto his face, he can’t feel the chill. 

Not all deaths are created equal

But all of them are unforgettable. 

[kagoutiss]

green beetle black beetle