I can defiantly do that Spitfire Mine video for you. It's actually an Idea I've had on the back burner for a while. I'll start as soon as the logo free version is up, which should be tomorrow
Yay! Oh yay! Thank you~
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Feasgar ciùin an tùs a’ Chèitein On a quiet evening at the beginning of May
Nuair bha ‘n ialtag anns na speuran When the bat was in the skies
Chualaim rìbhinn òg ‘s i deurach I heard a tearful young maiden’
Seinn fo sgàil nan geugan uain’ Singing beneath the shadow of the green branches
Bha a’ ghrian ‘sa chuan gu sìoladh The sun was setting in the sea’
S reult cha d’ èirich anns an iarmailt And no stars yet graced the sky
Nuair a sheinn an òigh gu cianail When the young girl sang sorrowfully”
Tha mo ghaol air àird a’ chuain” “My love is on the high seas”
Thòisich dealt na h-oidhch’ ri tùirling The night’s dew began to fall’
S lùb am braon gu caoin na flùrain Each bloom yielding softly to the droplets
Shèid a’ ghaoth ‘na h-oiteig chùbhraidh The wind blew in a fragrant breeze
Beatha ‘s ùrachd do gach cluan Bringing life and renewal to each field
Ghleus an nighneag fonn a h-òrain The girl tunefully sang her song
Sèimh is ciùin mar dhriùchd an Òg-mhìos Quiet and peaceful like the June dew’
S bha an t-sèisd seo ‘g èirigh ‘n còmhnaidh And this chorus constantly repeated”
Tha mo ghaol air àird a’ chuain” “My love is on the high seas”
Chiar an latha is dheàrrs’ na reultan Day darkened and the stars shone
Sheòl an rè measg neul nan speuran Setting their course amongst the clouds
Shuidh an òigh, bha ‘bròn ‘ga lèireadh The maiden sat, burdened by her sadness’
S cha robh dèigh air tàmh no suain Her singing could not have been more soothing
Theann mi faisg air reult nan òg-bhean I moved closer to the young woman
Sheinn mu ‘gaol air chuan ‘bha seòladh Singing of her love sailing on the sea
O bu bhinn a caoidhrean brònach Oh sweet was her sad lament”
Tha mo ghaol air àird a’ chuain” “My love is on the high seas”
Rinn an ceòl le deòin mo thàladh The music enticed me
Dlùth do rìbinn donn nam blàth-shul Nearer to the brown-haired maiden of the warm eyes’
S i ag ùrnaigh ris an Àrd-Rìgh And she prayed to the King of Heaven”
Dìon mo ghràdh ‘th’ air àird a’ chuain” “Protect my love on the high seas”
Bha a cridh’ le gaol gu sgàineadh Her heart was breaking with love
Nuair a ghlac mi fhèin air làimh I When I took her by the hand”
Siab do dheòir, do ghaol tha sàbhailt “Wipe your eyes, your love is safe
Thill mi slàn bhàrr àird a’ chuain” I have returned to you from the high seas”
Everything is Spitfire and nothing hurts.
Greg Weisman …
Greg: Oh hey fandom. Supermartian? Some of you aren’t fans? Here, have a whole season where we fix that.
Me: Oh hey, they’re actually so cute!
Season 2: Supermartian.
Greg: Oh look, Roy is a jerk? Let’s give him an intense emotional backstory and make you sympathize.
Me: DAMN IT ALL TO HELL. ROY, WHY?? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO YOU? ORIGINAL ROY YOUR BEAUTIFUL ARMS WHY CAN’T YOU EVER KEEP THEM.
Greg: Oh hey look, let’s have a whole season filled with nothing but sexual tension between Wally and Artemis. Oh, what’s that? You want me to resolve it? Okay, have this kiss.
Me: Explosions
Season 2: Yeah, no. See above.
Greg: Kaldur? What’s this? He’s amazing and you love him?
Me: Yes to all.
Season 2: Lol what? Are you listening at all?
Empty Arguments 3 (Preview)
The static is crackling and ominous. The television is jumping around, showing barely three seconds at a time (at best) of whatever program it is that he’s watching, and the noise pops and fizzles in the silence of the dark, empty room. Shadow figures are hunched in corners, spread in cracks and over the worn leather sofa, only blinking out of existence during the brief respites when the television flares back into sudden, short-lived life.
He sighs, long and tortured, and stretches along the length of the worn red leather. He picks at the stain on the armrest and decides that his parents were right – this is possibly the world’s ugliest couch. He’d been young when they’d picked it out, and he’d been sulking and moaning and making a general nuisance of himself while they’d traipsed around the furniture store. It had been his birthday – he can’t remember which anymore, maybe sixth or seventh, somewhere in that age bracket – and he’d agonized over the terrible unfairness of the expedition. So when he’d seen the bright red couch, with the yellow piping, he’d stomped right over to it and refused to move.
It wasn’t just that it had been there, and he had been tired. He’d been watching the news recently, and he’d seen the Flash, a dashing crimson figure that embodied all the adventure and marvel of the world in his adolescent mind, and the couch had been made with a very similar colour scheme.
After a scene with a sales associate and the store manager, his parents had finally relented and purchased the couch. He remembers the feeling of brash, young victory, even as his mother had leaned over the back of her seat on the way home, and told him, “Son, I hope you know that we now own the world’s ugliest couch.”
Epic Dancers. In France. Everywhere that I’m not.
Terrible Season 2 Feels - Unused folders and phone apps
He hadn’t really said No outright – but then, he hadn’t really said anything much at all. In some ways that was worse, because he could sense the disappointment, the hardness behind the cowl. All that thick black that he realized recently he wasn’t so sure he could penetrate anymore. He scowled, and grabbed the short, fluffy sweatshirt from his Gotham Academy days that he’d long since grown out of, stuffing it haphazardly into his duffel bag. He wasn’t even really paying attention anymore.
He was moving out of Wayne manor tonight.
It hadn’t been an easy decision – not by any means. But he was stifled and tired and afterwards, after that – he didn’t think he would be able to hang around any longer. He knew he hadn’t overstayed his welcome; quite the opposite in fact. But he needed to learn to stretch his wings and fly, and leave all those aching, empty, clawing moments behind.
His hands shuffled through the mess on his desk, and without realizing it, they closed around a slim, metal oblong. He shook the mess of papers and angrily thrown clothing, and pulled out his old, grey phone. He smiled, haltingly and sad. Bruce had gotten him this phone when he started at Gotham Academy. He hadn’t even really felt he needed it – it wasn’t like he didn’t have a multitude of other ways to contact him – but Bruce had felt in the interest of ‘normalcy’ that he should have one nonetheless.
He’d done nothing more than add useless apps and contact information he wasn’t sure he would ever use the first two days he’d had it. After that, it sat, untouched, at the bottom of his satchel. Except – he stood, holding the phone, almost surprised when it flickered to life at his touch. He really hadn’t used it much at all; he could only vaguely remember charging it once for the entirety of his ownership. He flicked listlessly through the apps on his phone – untouched and hopelessly outdated. His finger hovered when he found it, stalling.
When he finally opened the folder, when he finally found the one photograph he had taken, he stood, stock still at his desk, staring. His breaths were even, measured, forced. And then, after a moment, he passed his free hand over his eyes, and hung his head. He couldn’t look at it anymore. He didn’t delete it – he couldn’t. Just put the phone beneath the piles of clean clothing and random toiletries at the bottom of his bag.
And then he sank onto his bed, head in his hands, and laughed, bitter and angry. He’d been wrong after all – they’d never had the chance.
.
.
.
.
.
“We’ll laugh about this someday.”
