I think I found my new favorite rabbit hole. This voice actor does Shakespeare scenes in a southern accent and I need to see the whole damn play. Absolutely beautiful
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Our Flag Means Death (TV)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet
Characters: Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Stede Bonnet
Additional Tags: Future Fic, Post-Season/Series 02, POV Stede Bonnet, POV Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Tattoos, Needles, Banter, Nipple Play, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Yes And, Podfic, Audio Format: Streaming, Audio Format: MP3, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes
Summary:
An audio performance of dance_across's story (32 min.)
Stede gets his first tattoo. Guess where.
This took me WAY too long to edit, but here at long last is the podfic I made for @tipsyxkitty for @fandomtrumpshate.
Kitty, I hope you enjoy, and thanks for your patience!
Nile slid up to the table across from Nicky, palms smacking the wood loudly as she leaned forward. “So, Christmas.”
Nicky didn’t even look up from his work. “You’ll have more fun with Andy.”
“Andy?” Nile asked dubiously.
“Mhm.”
“The Andy who scoffs at organized religion because she used to be worshipped as a god, that Andy?”
“The very same.”
“Not that I think you’re lying but you understand why I’m skeptical, right?”
Nicky took a breath and looked up at her, leaning on one elbow. “Andy is a pragmatic hedonist who’s spent lifetimes in the far north—midwinter and solstice celebrations of all sorts are burned into her soul as times for hot food, strong drink, and good company kept around the fire. I, meanwhile, am semi-lapsed medieval clergy with a bone to pick with God.”
Nile blinked a couple times. “…point taken. How’s Booker?”
“Depressed but readily motivated by mulled wine and fonder of festive chintz than he likes to let on.”
discord's new terms of service DO have a mandatory arbitration clause for the United States and Canada, you have 30 days to opt out by emailing an opt out notice to [email protected]. this has been your standard "for the love of god do not waive your right to a jury trial under any circumstances" notice
A decent script I've found and edited, I made the subject "arbitration opt out", use as you like
To whom it may concern,
I am writing to formally opt out of the arbitration clause in my agreement with Discord.
By sending this email, I am exercising my right to reject the provision that would require me to resolve any disputes through binding arbitration. I prefer to preserve my right to pursue legal action in a court of law, which may include participation in a class-action lawsuit.
My relevant account information is as follows:
User ID: [username here]
Please provide confirmation that my request to opt out has been received and processed. Thank you for your time and attention to this matter.
also according to michael collins when the three of them were discussing what neil armstrong should say when he first stepped on the moon, collins suggested armstrong say “Oh, my God, what is that thing?” and then scream and cut out his mic.
If you read a fic because it was linked/recced somewhere, you leave a comment saying "came from XXX" and that comment doesn't need to include anything else.
Because when all of a sudden there's a lot of activity on one particular fic I WANNA KNOW WHY!!!!!
This is cool, because not only am I sure all authors would like to know that, but also it gives a ready-to-use comment prompt to all those who don't know what to write in a comment.
Please have a moment of silence for the people who were killed instead of freed when news of emancipation finally reached the furthest corners of the american south.
have another moment for the ledgers, catalogs, and records that were burned and the homes that were destroyed to hide the presence of very much alive and still enslaved people on dozens of plantations and homesteads across the south for decades after emancipation.
and have a third moment for those who were hunted and killed while fleeing the south to find safety across the border, overseas, in the north and to the west.
black people. light a candle, write a note to those who have passed telling them what you have achieved in spite of the racist and intolerant conditions of this world, feel the warmth of the flame under your hand, say a prayer of rememberance if you are religious, place the note under the candle, and then blow it out.
if you have children, sit them down and tell them anything you know about the life of oldest black person you've ever met. it doesn't have to be your own family. tell them what you know about what life was like for us in the days, years, decades after emancipation. if you don't know much, look it up and learn about it together.
This is Juneteenth.
white people CAN interact with this post. share it, spread it.
This wouldn't do for Hardison, who was very proud of having learned to cook omelettes all by his lonesome so as to stymie Eliot's attempts to sneak into the kitchen and strain his sprained (not broken) wrist making sure everyone ate something other than cereal. This pride demanded that everyone be there to witness his slightly dry and mildly overspiced creations.
Parker had, thirty minutes ago, pursed her lips when the smell of powdered garlic (baby steps, they were still getting to knife skills) drifted in from the kitchen. Twelve and a half seconds later she'd been out the window.
Which is why Eliot is here, wandering around the port like a goddamn idiot, seriously considering making 'here kitty' noises as a tactic to find Parker. It's about as low on his list of options as possible, just under screwing up his hand more by climbing to get a better vantage point and right above giving up. He doesn't think it'd actually work, but she might show up just to ask him why he was being weird.
"Eliot," a familiar voice calls, from the top of a shipping container, and he thanks the god he probably still believes in for saving him from unnecessary injury and/or humiliation before scanning his surroundings. A familiar pale face looks down at him from about two stories up, which isn't so bad, considering that the ladders on the side line up.
It takes a bit of undignified scrambling and the handkerchief from his pocket tucked between his teeth so he doesn't get tetanus from the rungs–he'd use the dental dam he keeps in there with it but that would demand an explanatory conversation he doesn't really want to have with Parker right now, so he settles for the worn fabric.
There's a kind of appreciation in her eyes when he gets to the top–not awe, like some of the civilians he shows off for, but acknowledgement borne of understanding, and it's a little intoxicating sometimes. It makes him want to peacock a little for her, which is a dangerous impulse.
"This thing smells like fish," he tells her, instead of asking what's wrong or saying he was worried. He's long learned to give her the space to reach out even though she's a little less skittish these days–more likely to nip than bite. He's always liked that about her–the violent instincts–though they've landed them all in trouble more than once. It means he worries about her a little less.
"Needed something bad," she says, frowning a little. "The smell of the spices wouldn't go away."
"Powdered garlic that bad?" he asks, hoisting himself a little farther up the corrugated metal. It digs uncomfortably into his hip, and feels upsettingly slimy, but he pays that less attention than the stiff way Parker's holding herself–not like she's in a no touching mood, but rather like she's holding herself back from climbing all over him.
He considers the bruises where an unexpected piece of scaffolding that had caught him across the thighs and the shoulder he'd nearly dislocated in the process of spraining his wrist and decides that won't do.
He holds out his arms and relaxes his face. No one but Parker has ever liked it when he does that–it makes his eyes go blank and his jaw loose, like he's sleeping or out of it or a robot, or whatever else people have said. He'd trained himself out of it as a kid, figured out how to look confident or smug or bored all the time.
Then, for a long time, he was just angry, and that made it easy.
Parker likes to lean across the table and poke at the creases of his brow and chin and eyes until they go flat. She told him, once, when she had a hundred and four fever and was potentially hallucinating, that it made her feel less alone to be around someone else who wasn't pretending.
He holds for a minute, then two, and just when his arms are starting to burn she growls and clambers over to cram herself against his ribcage and tuck her sharp little chin into the divot of his collarbone.
"This is worse," she informs him, muffled against his undershirt.
"Than the fish smell?" he asks, and gets a sharp pinch to the side for playing stupid. "Ow!"
"The feeling," she says, only whining a little. "Feelings. I dunno. I'm not good at telling them apart."
"I know," he says, and she grumbles and tries to fit a hand under his shirt which is not happening on the top of a shipping container, so he grabs her hand in his own and tips his head to redirect it up to his hair. "Stop trying to distract me, Parker."
"I don't wanna talk about it," she complains, doing her best to make his head look like a rats' nest with her hand at the center.
"I can't make you," he reminds her, shifting to adjust her weight and then settling back in. "But you know it'll just last longer if you doing."
"Ugh," she says, with every one of her little bird bones. "I don't want to need that. I don't want to need you, or Hardison, or anyone else."
"...okay," he says, confused. "But you. Don't?"
"That's the problem! I can't tell!" She twists, pressing her back into his sternum and looking out across the dock. "And if I don't, then I'm doing it wrong."
"Doing what wrong?"
"Loving you," she says, and it's been months now, but it still takes his breath away to hear her say the words so easily. It isn't like they haven't been saying it in different ways to each other for years, now, but the frank way she puts it makes Eliot's throat close. Hardison isn't the same, he knows, but Hardison first told Eliot he loved him eight days after they met when he'd picked up a box of Cheerios and milk for the whole team at a corner store.
"You can't do loving someone wrong," he tells her, because he's maybe bad at saying it but he's loved lots of people lots of different ways, and he's done some pretty bad things as a result, but he doesn't regret any of the feelings.
"Yeah, well, I'm special," she says, which is her new favorite way to react to any kind of reasonable advice.
"I don't want you to love me like you can't live without me," he says, and by the way her breath catches in her chest, heart kicking up a gear until it feels like a hummingbird trapped under the palm he's laid across her ribs, he's hit the heart of the issue.
"But that's how you're supposed to do it," she says, small and plaintive and tired.
"Supposed to is stupid," he tells her, and himself, a little bit. "I can't imagine my life without you and Hardison. But I could do it, probably. I wouldn't want to. I would hate it, more than anything else. I need you to be happy. I need you to be comfortable, and because my life would be so much worse without you. But I don't need you to live, and I'm not sorry about that."
She goes silent for a long moment and then squirms out of his grip, turning and bracing her knees on the roof so she can tuck her chin over the crown if his head.
"You're smart," she informs him, sounding contemplative."
"Well. I'm not doing anything else with all the brain space you and Hardison use on movies," Eliot says, a little muffled by the base of her throat.
"You could wear your special glasses," she suggests, and he growls, low in his chest, at the idea.
It makes her giggle so he keeps it up until she falls, boneless, back into his lap, and starts batting at his hair like a cat.
"C'mon," he says, nudging her. "If the eggs get cold I think Hardison will cry and we're out of the soft tissues."
"Don't be mean," she says, but bounces to her feet and helps him down the ladder.
They set off down the dock and there's a weight missing from Parker's steps he hadn't even noticed until it was gone.
One of my favorite approaches to painting is to select a 'domestic' scene, many times hinted at within a narrative but not directly described by an author. This is one such example with Bilbo writing his will for Frodo and contemplating keeping the One Ring.
Frodo's Inheritance
11" x 14" Oil on panel
private collection
Masterful! I am agog at the detailing and the lighting focus on The Ring. (Half-surprised it didn't act like a lens and scorch the paper) The painting skills on offer here amaze me.
Joan Cusack has never appeared in a film that she did not steal.
And as for Debbie, I will always repost my stance on her end.
I’ve said it a million times - if Debbie had listened to what the Addamses were saying in response to her tales of woe, she’s have realized that they understood completely. She had found her people, and was too wrapped up in herself to realize it.
If they could have, they’d have burst from their bonds, hugged the stuffing out of her, bought her a Bentley (and a vintage Ballerina Barbie) and declare her an Addams.
She could spend the rest of her life trying to kill Fester, and he’d love her all the more every time she tried. And the rest would keep offering helpful suggestions. “No point in trying poison, Debbie my dear - he’s been putting strychnine on his cornflakes since was seven”.
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