#there's that too

[celluloidbroomcloset]

Y'know what else I love? How damn much Ed loves and wants Stede. Like, no one outside the crew can believe it. Izzy thinks Ed's brain has broken. Zheng straight-up keeps saying that Ed dumped Stede. Archie is flabbergasted that Stede is "STEDE Stede?!"

The Revenge crew all get it, though. They went from plotting mutiny to defending him with all their might. Lucius watches Ed and Stede fall in love in real-time. Jim, the most deeply critical of Stede from the start, tells his stories to Fang and longs for when life had meaning on the ship. Olu stays up all night with him and later follows him everywhere. The Swede owes him a life debt. Buttons, probably the most experienced sailor of the group, declares him a pirate with his whole chest.

Stede just showed up one day with his fancy unicorn boat and fancy clothes and depth of human kindness and promptly seduced the most feared pirate of Caribbean without even trying.

They're like the Roger and Jessica Rabbit of pirates.

Gif by @nicostiel

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

I’m sure you guys have all heard this before, but I really need to say it again:  

It’s really harmful to me as a small creator when bigger channels (or any channel, small or big) take my videos and re-upload/repost them to their channel. I spend a lot of time on all of the things I create, and people taking them without my permission and posting them to any place that isn’t mine, regardless of whether they say “knox made this”, it’s still SO incredibly harmful to me. It’s discouraging, it’s stealing something I’ve created and using it for their own personal gain without my permission and it makes it really hard to want to keep sharing the things I create. 

If you want to support a creator, or a show, don’t take other people’s videos, art or writing and repost it. Just don’t do it. Make your own content, or link to the original source and tell your following to go check out your favourite creators. 

These creators are clearly not your favourites if you repost their work to your socials. Whether it be YouTube, instagram, twitter, Pinterest, Tumblr, or any other social media. If you truly like the free content a creator gives you, don’t steal their work or repost/re-upload their things without their explicit permission. If a creator is okay with that, and they give you permission, it’s okay. But for me personally it will never be okay. Dubbed comics, tribute videos for characters using my art, my writing and videos posted elsewhere so “more people will see it” does not help me. 

Linking to my original posts? That helps me. Reblogging my stuff? That helps me. Leaving lovely tags? That helps me. It encourages me to continue sharing what I create for free. And makes so I have a good experience interacting with the online community. 

Reposting my work? Re-uploading my videos? Taking my art and writing without my permission and using it for your own videos or blogs? That hurts. It’s disrespectful, and it makes me not want to share what I create publicly anymore. It certainly doesn’t mean I’ll stop creating things, but I sure as heck won’t be sharing my stuff with anyone outside my close friend group. 

In Summary: If you like a creator, don’t take their stuff. Link their stuff. Talk about how much you like what they create and give links to their blog, channel, or wherever else they might be so that people can find them and they’ll have more interaction which will, in turn, encourage them to make more content and share more things with you and their following. 

[discodeviant]

One More For You

Billy/Steve | Teen | 1.8k words Boxing AU, Nonviolent Fighting

Please take the realism/accuracy here with a grain of salt lol, I did some minor research but mostly wanted to focus on their relationship. Enjoy! <3

Made for @billyhargrovebingo!

Read on AO3

Billy couldn't see. Not really. Not clearly. Lights and people blurred, and he couldn't hear well anymore either as voices muffled like he was underwater and rushing his way deeper. Hands touched him from every direction, unfamiliar palms and fingers wrapping gauze and bandages around his head, his arms, his legs, his torso. Nothing he'd never gone through before; the touching, anyway, but the loss of his other senses was new. Blood fused taste and scent together into copper all down his throat that settled into his stomach, which may have been why he felt so sick.

Or maybe it was the one voice he could hear, asking, pleading, “Billy, are you okay? Can you hear me? Jesus Christ--please, I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so--fuck, I’m so sorry.”

— Before —

Steve was on his phone when he entered the gym, Tommy already waiting with his equipment all set up and ready for his last few hours of training. “Buzz will be here in an hour,” Tommy said, Steve distantly nodding, not really listening, not really caring. He sat on a bench and put his bag down, still nose-deep into articles about Hargrove v. Harrington! Harrington's Retirement Fight With Old Spar! Last Chance Tickets Available Now! He's Never Fighting Again, Folks!--Read Latest Interview Here! To burn them all and spit on the ash they left behind would have been a delight.

Fighting Billy Hargrove was the opportunity of a lifetime for guys like Steve: long-underground athletes who needed the name to get a leg up, but who still didn’t stand a goddamn chance because Hargrove was the best in the country. No one could best him at any game, much less his own when he held all the power in his eyes and his fists. He knocked those underground sewage rats right onto their low-standing pedestals and stood on his fifty feet in the air, and owned it.

But Steve was hardly underground anymore since he’d been in the ring against Hargrove more than once. Three times, to be exact, and each was more painful than the last. Not because Hargrove was better than him, or the years had been cruel, but because his heart broke a little more with each punch.

By then he’d known Hargrove for thirteen years, briefly meeting after their first fight at Steve’s quaint little Chicago apartment, and it was the former's idea. Steve didn't really know why he half-expected Hargrove to propose another fight for fun, but they didn't need to fight to have a good time together. It made the second a little more friendly, though, discussing beforehand that they wouldn't try to knock each other's teeth loose at least ("I want that smile to be intact," Hargrove had said, flustering Steve until the third and beyond).

Since the third, it had been five years since they had a real fight--in the ring with an audience, coaches and wingmen by their sides, ready to throw punches that both knew weren't personal.

But in that five years, something else happened that Steve never thought would happen again after high school: he fell in love. Deeply, wholly, and unfruitfully because Billy Hargrove had places to be and people to meet, and Steve waited tables for fun in between. He was a spectacle for fans who came to his restaurants to brag about meeting the Steve Harrington, how funny and charming he was in person, that one would never suspect he was into such a gruesome sport. And he enjoyed it, meeting people at home, not quite famous enough for paparazzi to follow his every move. He enjoyed the texts and phone calls with Billy before either had a match, small or large as it may have been. He enjoyed seeing Billy again every few months, sinking into a days-long affair that would leave him miserable knowing it would never be any more than that.

In that five years, Steve considered retirement. Mulling it over in his head every night, he daydreamed about leaving his B-list boxing career behind and telling Billy how he really felt. It had been a long time coming, really, since his competitive matches were sparse and minimally promoted by then. He’d always preferred swimming anyway; maybe he could take up coaching. Maybe he could stick to his restaurant gig for a while. He wasn't sure.

Then he told Billy that very same thing, and crystal-blue irises were all he saw. They'd boxed together for all thirteen years. Billy was the one who convinced Steve to start in the first place because he had years pent up behind fists that didn't have any relief, and now Steve wanted to quit.

"One more fight," Billy said.

"What?" It was nearing midnight, and they sat together at a burger joint not far from Steve's apartment. The windows were foggy from a humid rain, patrons entering and shaking their umbrellas out before leaving again.

"Come on, Stevie, for old time's sake." Billy let the other half of his waffle fry drop into the basket again. Looking at him was too hard. His eyes begged without shaping any differently, lips crooked down into a discouraged grin.

"I don't want to fight you, Billy," Steve said, and Billy's face fell into hurt. "I--" He sighed. "Why? I'm not good for your career anymore. That Brenner kid's way better for PR." Looking down, he shrugged, sipped his Coke, ate the rest of Billy's fry. Their shoes touched under the table.

Steve was waiting for the boom. "I don't give a shit about PR, you know that." The fuse behind Billy's every word that just grew and grew until it stopped growing and reached the end, sparked the end of the bomb just barely enough to explode--to win--but Billy's voice was still low. Calm. Sad, if Steve dared to think so. "What, you're gonna fight Byers and fall off the face of the Earth three months later?"

Steve huffed, amused. "So you care about my PR."

"No, I--" The fuse burned on, but it was fizzling out. "I wanna be your last fight, Stevie, not that asshole." A black boot nudged white hi-tops. "Please?" Steve could only stand to look into his eyes for a split second because his heart ached too much for more.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You're not gonna hurt me. When have you ever hurt me?"

"Breaking your nose doesn't count?" Billy laughed at that. Held Steve's hand right there by the window.

"Steve, look at me," he said, voice soft enough for Steve to know that the fuse was nothing but smoke on a wire. "One more. For me. I promise it'll be the last time."

—

On the fifth of October, Steve wondered why he let everybody talk him into it. Billy, Buzz, Tommy, his agent and manager; his parents, for fuck's sake, and he knew they didn't care that much.

And it was mostly his anger at Billy that fueled every punch he threw, right hooks to the gut and jabs to his cheek. It was thinking "the last time" meant the last time they were together in an expensive hotel room with soft linen sheets and wine, chocolate on each other's lips, nothing but city lights illuminating through sheer curtains. The rosy tint he'd formed around Billy over the years turned redder and redder with every look those blue eyes gave him, eager and challenging like he wanted Steve to hit him. And Maybe he did; Steve couldn't tell. Billy was self-destructive that way.

Meanwhile Billy's punches were swift and light, just enough to look good on camera because the live audience certainly couldn't tell a difference. He was a good actor. Disorient all over his face, languid motions as he pretended to lose his footing a little, standard Hargrove moves to save the winning blow for the end of the match. Steve wondered where it would land. He waited for a black-gloved hook to the jaw or jab at his liver to send him flying back, but it never came.

The fuse, it seemed, had not been reignited.

Billy wanted him to win.

And Steve didn't know how he ended up in the middle of the ring taking his final victory, against Billy Hargrove of all people, who lay on the floor and slipped on his own blood and crawled to the corner, letting his coach pull him down and onto a stretcher. The lights dimmed and went back up. Steve looked all around for him, catching back up with the memory of the last few minutes and hoping, praying, that he didn't seriously hurt Billy.

He ignored everybody who chased after him to the ambulance outside, not caring that he was barefoot and with a towel over his shoulders, bleeding from a split lip that dripped down his chin. "Talk to me, Billy, please--" he begged, but Billy was out like a light.

Hours later, Steve shivered in the hospital. Tommy had brought him some clothes and a hot cup of tea, but he was still so damn cold. Billy was under sedation for a minor surgery on his nose, and Steve just knew he would laugh when he woke up. He would say something stupid and smile and laugh and be just as obnoxious, and Steve wanted him to be.

But, when Billy did wake up, he was dead silent. Peered over at Steve before he had a chance to realize Billy was awake at all, then reached a hand out for him and braced in his panic. Steve wasn't even listening to the words coming out of his own mouth; too many all at once, all apologies and blubbering worry, and Billy shushed him like a mother shushed her wailing baby. Softly, gently, not a spark in sight.

"It's okay, Stevie, I'm okay."

"No you're not."

"Steve, baby." He raised his hand to Steve's cheek and held it there, cold fingertips on burning flesh. "You were fucking incredible out there. One hell of a finale, if you ask me." Steve grinned.

Billy pulled him down for a kiss. Long, slow, gentle like Steve was the most fragile thing in the world, like Billy wasn't the one in a hospital bed with a nose that was numb to the pain of touching Steve's cheek. "I'm so sorry, Billy."

"Stop apologizing." They whispered against each other's lips. "I don't love you less just because you broke my nose again, okay?" Billy laughed.

"You--"

Steve pulled away just enough to meet Billy's hazy eyes. "You heard me," he said, and Steve kissed him again, again and again, salt from his tears just seeping between.

"God, Billy, I love you..."

They would have much to discuss.

[krash-and-co]

lockwood is either a moody, hyper-aware, formal, elegant character or an oblivious, random, socially awkward character who thinks he's doing great, and these two things take turns every five seconds. I love him for it.

[jg-akito-official-archived]

you know most of them

i mean you're not wrong. i'm literally dating one of them

[spymeister]

🌷.

Pretty good sense of humor, once he figures out that you've kidnapped him out of his office and put him in actual fragging sunlight to collect some heat. Strong morals, sometimes to the point of obliviousness- but willing to go the extra mile for mecha he truly cares about.

[melvinthedepressedrobot]

current status: did not consider the consequences of openly admitting to writing fanfic on a dating profile

[hollandorks]

OMFG THE CLIFFHANGER OF CH 13???!!! My jaw is touching the floor.

I can’t wait for 14, some shit’s gonna go down I call it now

Sorry bestie 😅 but yeah shit's probably going to go down in every single chapter from here on out.....we're getting to the craziest part of the film!

[thelaithlyworm]

[ID: A black cat sits high on a black post leaning to look with interest at the viewer. Title reads 'Places, by Thimblerig' End ID]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Just So Stories - Rudyard Kipling Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: The First Woman, The Cat Who Walks By Himself Additional Tags: Bees are cool and should be in more stories, Watching other people work is endless entertainment, Podfic, Podfic Length: 0-10 Minutes, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Sound Effects, Soundscape Series: Part 24 of Lockdown Peace Projects Summary:

Of the Cat Who Walked By Himself, and the First Woman, and what came after...

*

So a very, very long time ago, O Best Beloved, I wrote a fic response to “The Cat Who Walks By Himself” which involved the Cat and the First Woman and dozing in the sun and I called it good.

Some time after that, when I wanted to give this podficcing a try, I chose this one, because it’s very short, and has nice rhythms, and if I made a complete hash of it I wouldn’t be butchering anybody else’s beloved heart-child... you know how it goes. And on it I learned editing, and sound effects, and how to make and attach a cover and it was a really satisfying experience all around. I kept on with the podficcing!

And then... I listened to it again, maybe a year or so later, I listened to it again and winced because, as sincerely as I’d worked on it, damn I could do better now. And since it was very short, I did.

More Time Has Passed, O Best Beloved, and I am now wincing at the redo. There’s Only One Neat Thing To Do.

So, this is both a celebration that my skills have increased enough that I can do better all over again, and a celebration of something that was a reliable friend and tutor in its day...

... and also, I think, advice to anybody who’s starting out at podficcing, or any other creative project really. It’s okay to try something when it’s really rough and you’re feeling clumsy and everything takes so long to do. You’re making something new in this world, and it’s beautiful, and it’s a doorway to making other things.

And if, in time, you want to pull apart that dress because the fabric is good but the seams are crooked, or remake that beginner-project birdhouse into a bird hotel? You can do that. Because your first project was a friend that was good to you, and it gave you skills, and it’s worth looking after. Okay?

(Also, if you want to try one of my short fic for your first project, I promise you I will enjoy it.)

[sage-nebula]

I strongly relate to Alan because I, too, feel immense guilt over things that logic says were not my fault even when they happened years and years ago.

[yukioujo]

waits impatiently for 3.1

[unaloid]

[lakanakana]

war never changes

[amygdalae]

we're having sex and you pull out at the end to discover your cock is entirely gone, dissolved (ive digested it like a pitcher plant). bye!

[bodhimcbodeface]

I really think they need to start teaching kids in schools that most blind people can see a little bit, most deaf people can hear a little bit, and most wheelchair users can walk a little bit. And they are still disabled.

[its-yashas-strong-arms]

FINALLY some good fucking feature ideas from the tumblr devs. tamagotchi renaissance now