#hatchway

[tenth-sentence]

There was, however, no time for explanation, for, as he reached the hatchway, he was met by the ascending giant, who uttered a hideous oath at the sight of this unexpected adversary, and, too close to strike him, locked him in his arms.

"For the Term of His Natural Life" - Marcus Clarke

[quatregats]

Deeply frustrating that because of the order the books were written in Hornblower doesn't get to have a whole bunch of neuroses about being sent in to deal with mutineers

[artistfromminnesota]

GUYS!

I just watched the Random Rings where Scratch called the Haunted Mansion and I love the casts style,

SOMEONE TELL DISNEY CHANNEL TO MAKE A SHOW WITH THE HAUNTED MANSION CHARACTERS!!!

[holdingup-fallingsky]

Thinking about the S.S. Edmund Fitzgerald again…. If you care…..

[softlypossessive]

♡･ﾟ𓏸 Lead By Example 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Trafalgar Law x gn!reader (pre-relationship) ♡ Warnings: Snarky/dark-humored reader, kusarigama-wielder (no fight scenes here, reader just carries it around), quiet emotional intimacy, late-night tension, mutual insomnia, mutual pining, heavy banter, dimly lit library vibes, slow burn energy ♡ WC: ~2k ♡ Notes: I didn’t want to default to the usual sunshine-soft pairing Law often gets (as much as I love that dynamic), so I tried something with a sharper edge. This reader’s a little more serious, kind of snarky, and carries a kusarigama like it’s part of their spine—but I still wanted it to feel like a reader insert rather than a full OC. I’m not always confident with banter writing, so fingers crossed it flows okay. It ended up more tender than I expected, but honestly? I think Law needed that.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The Polar Tang’s library was a cramped little haven carved into the submarine’s steel skeleton, a rare pocket of quiet at 1:00 AM when the crew was dead to the world. 

No creaking wood here—just the low hum of machinery thrumming through the hull, the occasional metallic groan as pressure shifted outside, and the faint clank of pipes settling. 

A single lantern dangled from a bolted bracket, its amber glow washing over shelves stuffed with medical texts, charts, and a few battered novels Bepo probably smuggled in. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, rust, and that sharp tang of recycled oxygen. 

You’d claimed a rickety chair hours ago, one leg kicked up on a crate, your kusarigama hooked at your hip—chain coiled tight, sickle gleaming like a promise of trouble. 

You were slogging through a medical journal on regenerative cell theory, eyes glazing over, when you felt him before you saw him.

Soft boots on metal, a shift in the stale air, that heavy presence Trafalgar D. Law hauled around like a loaded gun. 

You didn’t look up. 

“Late night again, huh?” he said, voice rough, scraped raw from too little sleep and too much coffee. 

You flicked a page, smirking. 

“Look who’s talking, Captain. You stalking me now?” He stepped closer, boots scuffing the deck. 

“Noticed you weren’t in your bunk,” he shot back, dry as bone. 

“What, you doing bed checks?” you said, finally glancing up, brow arched. 

“Keeping tabs on my crew,” he corrected, sharp and fast, like he’d been waiting for that jab.

He loomed there, framed by the hatchway, all loose black sweats and an unzipped hoodie, no shirt—tattoos stark against lean muscle, shadows cutting across his collarbone. His hair was a disaster, dark strands jutting out like he’d wrestled with it and lost, and those gray eyes, rimmed in exhaustion, pinned you with that infuriating mix of menace and calm. 

“Can’t sleep either, I take it?” you said, leaning back, letting your kusarigama’s chain clink against your thigh. 

“Obviously,” he muttered, crossing his arms. 

You nodded at the chair across from you, its faded upholstery patched with mismatched thread 

“Sit, then. I won’t rat you out.” He eyed it, then you, before dropping into it with a grunt, legs sprawling like he owned the damn place.

The lantern swayed faintly, light bouncing off the riveted walls. You went back to your book, pretending to read. 

“You’re gonna crash if you keep this up,” you said, casual but pointed, eyes on the page. 

“Funny, I was about to say the same to you,” he fired back, voice dripping with that smug edge he wielded like a blade. 

You snorted, flipping a page you hadn’t even skimmed. 

“I’m not the one holding this crew together. You go down, we’re fucked. Lead by example, Captain.” 

The hum of the sub filled the silence, a low drone underscoring the weight of your words. He didn’t bite back right away, just let it hang.

“You think they’d follow me that far?” he asked after a beat, quieter, like he was testing you. 

You met his stare, gray clashing with yours in the dim glow. 

“Think? No. I know they would. I would.” His eyes narrowed, searching your face—maybe for bullshit, maybe for something else. 

The silence stretched, thick with the clank of a distant pipe and the faint buzz of the lantern’s filament. 

He shifted, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. 

“That’s a hell of a bet,” he said, voice low, dry. 

“Not a bet if it’s a sure thing,” you countered, smirking just enough to rile him.

He huffed—a ghost of a laugh—and you caught the flicker of it in his eyes before he masked it. You closed the book with a snap, tossing it onto the crate. 

“Medical alchemy crap. Boring as shit,” you said, stretching your arms until your shoulders popped, kusarigama swaying at your hip. 

His gaze tracked the motion, lingering on the weapon’s glint, then up to your face. 

“You’re still reading it,” he pointed out, deadpan. 

“Masochism’s my specialty,” you shot back, grinning. 

“Explains why you’re still awake talking to me,” he said, and there it was—banter with teeth, sharp enough to cut.

You stood, pacing the tight space, the chain of your kusarigama rattling against your leg. 

“You’re one to talk, caffeine fiend. Those bags under your eyes got bags.” 

He leaned back, arms crossed, watching you move. 

“And you’re a ray of sunshine, huh?” 

“Only when I’m annoying you,” you said, stopping to lean against a shelf, facing him. 

“Which is always,” he muttered, but his lips twitched, betraying him. 

“Good. Keeps you sharp,” you said, tapping the sickle’s handle at your hip. 

He didn’t argue, just kept staring, like he was peeling you apart layer by layer.

“You don’t have to play lone wolf all the time,” you said, softer now, cutting through the snark. 

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. 

“That a suggestion or an order?” 

“Take it how you want, Law. Just saying—you matter more than you think.” 

The words landed heavier than you meant, and his jaw tightened, just a flicker, before he smoothed it over. 

“You’re full of shit,” he said, but there was no venom in it—more like he was testing how far you’d push. 

“And you’re a stubborn asshole,” you replied, stepping closer, close enough that the lantern threw your shadow over him. 

“Rest sometime, yeah? Don’t make me chain you to your bunk.”

He smirked, faint but real. 

“You’d like that too much.” 

“Maybe,” you said, matching his grin, then turned for the hatch. 

“Night, Captain.” 

“Night,” he called after you, voice lingering as you slipped out, the metal clang of the hatch shutting behind you.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Law stayed put, slouched in that shitty chair, staring at the spot you’d been. The library felt colder now. Urgh, what a load of crap. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard. You’d gotten under his skin, and he hated it—hated how your words stuck, how that damn kusarigama of yours glinted like it was mocking him every time you moved. 

He’d noticed it again tonight, hooked at your hip like an extension of you, all fluid menace and style. 

He didn’t touch it—wouldn’t, not when it was yours—but he’d thought about it, the weight of it, the way you swung it like breathing. Fuck, he was losing it.

He stood, pacing the tight space, boots scuffing the deck. 

The sub groaned, metal flexing under pressure, a reminder of where they were—trapped in this steel coffin, chasing a fight they might not win. 

Lead by example. 

What a joke. 

He wasn’t some shining beacon. He was a bastard with a plan and a crew dumb enough to follow it. But you’d said it like you meant it, like you’d seen something he hadn’t. 

He stopped, leaning against the desk, staring at the hatch. 

You’d left, but he could still feel you—the weight of your stare, that smart-ass mouth. He muttered a curse, low and vicious, and sank back into the chair. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You were back in your bunk, sprawled out, kusarigama propped against the wall within arm’s reach—never out of sight, never left behind. 

The room was a steel box, bare except for a locker and a porthole showing nothing but black water. The sub’s hum vibrated through the mattress, steady, relentless. 

You couldn’t shake him—Law’s tired eyes, that half-smirk when you’d pushed his buttons, the way he’d gone quiet when you’d said he mattered. 

Asshole. 

Why’d he have to look at you like that, all guarded and raw, like he didn’t know what to do with you?

You rolled over, glaring at the ceiling. 

You weren’t some lovesick idiot. 

He was your captain, a cold-blooded prick who’d cut out his own heart if it got in his way. But you’d follow him into hell, and that’s what pissed you off most—not the loyalty, but how it twisted something deeper, made you notice dumb shit like the ink on his skin, the way his voice dropped when he was too tired to hide. 

You punched the pillow, muttering, “Fuck off, Law,” to the empty room, and shut your eyes.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

Next night, you were in the library again. Same lantern, same chair, different book—surgical logs, bloodier and less bullshit than the last. The hatch creaked, and there he was, same sweats, same hoodie, same shirtless crap that made your pulse kick despite yourself. 

“You’re predictable,” he said, dropping into the chair across from you. 

“Says the guy who keeps showing up,” you shot back, not looking up. 

“Touché,” he muttered, slouching like he was daring the chair to break.

“Still can’t sleep?” you asked, flipping a page. 

“Still nosy?” he countered, voice dry.

 You smirked. 

“It’s my job to keep you honest.” 

“You’re shit at it,” he said, but there was a spark in his eyes, a challenge. 

“And you’re shit at resting,” you fired back, closing the book. “We’re a pair.” 

He snorted, leaning forward. 

“A pair of what?” 

“Idiots, apparently,” you said, standing, kusarigama clinking as you moved. 

His gaze flicked to it, then back to you. 

“You ever put that thing down?” 

“Not when I might need to whip your ass into shape,” you said, grinning.

He stood too, stepping closer, cutting the space between you. 

“Keep dreaming,” he said, voice low, teasing. 

“You’re the one who can’t stay away,” you replied, holding his stare. 

The hum of the sub faded, the air tightening. 

“Maybe I like the view,” he said, and it wasn’t just banter anymore. 

You laughed, sharp and quick, breaking it. 

“Smooth, Captain.” 

“I try,” he said, smirking, and you both let it drop, the tension simmering but unspoken.

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

The third night, he found you on deck instead. 

The library had felt too small, too warm, so you’d taken your brooding outside, leaning against the railing with the sea stretching endless and black around you. 

The air was cool, salted, the stars sharp overhead. Your kusarigama dangled from your hand, chain swaying with the ship’s motion. 

Law appeared beside you, silent as a shadow, hands in his pockets. 

“Not the library,” he said, voice rough from disuse. 

“Change of pace,” you replied, not looking at him.

He leaned against the railing too, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched. The wind tugged at his hair, his hoodie, and you caught the faint scent of him—ink, antiseptic, something sharper underneath. 

“You’re predictable,” he said after a while. 

“Says the guy who shows up every night,” you countered, twirling the sickle absently. 

He didn’t laugh, but his silence felt amused. You stood there together, the sea lapping at the hull, the quiet stretching long and easy.

“You ever stop?” he asked eventually, voice low, serious. 

“Stop what?” 

“Worrying about me.” 

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the night sky. 

“You ever stop giving me reasons to?” 

He didn’t answer, just looked out at the water, jaw tight. 

You sighed, letting the kusarigama’s chain clink against the railing. 

“You’re a stubborn bastard, Law.” 

“Takes one to know one,” he said, and this time he turned, meeting your eyes.

The space between you shrank, not physically but in every other way, the air humming with something unspoken. 

You could’ve pushed, could’ve said more, but you didn’t. Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light, deliberate. 

“Lead by example,” you murmured.

He didn’t reply, but his hand brushed yours on the railing, fleeting, intentional. 

And for once, he didn’t pull away. 

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[cursed-40k-thoughts]

What imperial vehicle or weapon tends to have the most "silly little guy™" machine spirit?

So, the "silly little guy" energy usually goes to servo skulls and the like when it comes to machine spirits. Occasionally you might get a slightly quirky ship spirit, but the reality of the situation is that vehicles (especially military vehicles) and weapons have spirits put into them that are strongly aligned with their functional purposes, and so are usually more anti-social or cranky or murderous than silly.

That said, since we are on the topic of vehicular machine spirits, I would be remiss not to bring up Rynn's Might. Rynn's Might was a land raider belonging to the Crimson Fists chapter, whose fortress monastery was blown up by a missile during an Ork invasion, killing everyone present and almost destroying the entirety of the local chapter.

Rynn's Might spent several hours extricating itself from the ruins, then spent three days hunting down Orks, shooting them, stalking them at night, running them over, all the while blasting bizarre, metallic prayers to the Emperor. It made its way towards ever-larger battle groups before coming upon the Warboss and his entire Nob guard amidst an enormous force of Orks. Rynn's Might made to run through the horde and kill the Warboss, but had its track blown off and was capsized. In a final act of "go fuck yourself", the machine spirit opened all all its hatchways and assault ramp, enabling the Orks to swarm it and loot it. When the Warboss went inside, it slammed every hatch shut, overloaded its reactor, and killed the lot of them.

So, silly little guy? Not really. Fucking excellent chonky boy? I think so. Also a good example of why taking the time to befriend overactive machine spirits is usually seen as worth it by various individuals.

[arctrooper69]

As Iron Sharpens Iron

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." Proverbs 27:17

Chapter 13:

Previous // Next

Warnings: Pheromones, sexually suggestive scenes (nothing explicit), major misunderstandings.

--------------------------------------------------

Hunter threw the essentials into his bag and secured his armor with a satisfying click as the magseal activated, locking the plates into place.

“Hey you,” a warm voice sounded from the hatch.

Hunter looked up to see Tara standing on the ramp, leaning against the hatchway with her hand on her hip. She smiled.

“Ketch and Bozo over there let it slip that you were going after your friend. Need an extra hand?”

Hunter grunted halfheartedly, “No, not really.”

“You sure?” she asked, smiling coyly, taking a step inside, “Because you look like you could use all the help you can get.”

He frowned, “I told you I’m fine. We don’t have time for this right now, Tara.”

She sighed, “Hunter, she ran away from you. You got into an argument and she left!”

“I know!” he growled.

Tara sighed, “Hunter look, do you really think you should be going after her?” she asked gently, “She needs time.”

Hunter shook his head. “I can’t,” he snapped, “She needs me. She could be in trouble!”

Tara smiled softly, folding her arms, “Hunter, trust me. You need to give her time. That’s how women work! She’s a perfectly capable adult. You know this. Just give her some time. You need to rest too, you know.”

Hunter sighed, She is capable. Am I overthinking? Too overprotective?

Omega had said that to him before. He supposed he did have a bit of an overprotective nature, but he chalked that up only as his role as the team’s Sergeant during the war.

A good leader protects his squad.

“Nothing good comes from rushing headlong into things, Hunter,” Tara continued, “You and I both know that.” She paused tentitively then spoke softly, “I care for you too much to let you just run in blind.”

“I’m not running in blind!”

“Oh yeah? What’s the plan then?”

“Get to the coordinates. Find her. Bring her home.”

Tara nodded, “Okay, then what?”

I don’t know. Tell her I love her? Tell her that I can’t live without her?

Hunter didn’t know what to say so he was silent.

“Hunter…” Tara began, taking another step forward, “I…”

Hunter growled, “What is it that you want me to say, Tara? That I don’t know what I’m doing!? I...”

He could feel his heart beat pounding. The air felt different. He'd never said it aloud before. His mouth felt dry, almost as if he said the words it would mean that his feelings were real and that he’d be forced to face them head-on.

“You don’t understand, Tara. I love - “

She stepped forward placing a hand on his arm - a smile speading across her face.

Hunter froze at the touch, quickly turning away. He could smell her - the sweat on her dark skin, the relaxant in her hair. The pheromones in her perfume. It seemed to grab ahold of his senses, begging him to face her - to give her his full attentions. He stilled, taking a breath to steady himself.

“Do you like that, Hunter?” She said softly, tapping the panel beside the ramp as the hatch hissed closed.

Hunter felt himself begin to sweat. The scent enveloped his senses - warm and sweet. Intoxicating. It slipped through the cracks on his armor, pooling in a heat below his skin. It felt so good - so easy to relax. He bit back a groan as her fingers skimmed the skin below his chin, lifting his face towards her own. He felt his codpiece tighten.

So good. You’re so good to me.

He closed his eyes and there you were - eyes lit up in wonder at seeing the purrgil dance around the ship in hyperspace. There you were - dragging him to cover in a firefight, eyes full of concern. There you were - holding a cup of caf out to him, eyes glittering in the dim cockpit lighting.

“There you go, Hunter.” Tara murmured, “Relax. I bought this for you. For us.”

He inhaled slowly, feeling lighter than he had felt in a long time.

“I knew you’d like it,” she whispered, “Can I touch you?”

Hunter moaned - the throbbing beneath his codpiece felt stronger than ever. He wanted this - your fingers, your voice.

So good. So right. So… not you.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

His eyes flew open - alarm bells blaring dizzily through his skull - the scent too thick. Too much.

Not you. Not you. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

He gasped and stumbled backwards. “Stop!” he panted, holding up a hand. “I don’t… What the kriff are you doing!?”

Tara stood up, tearing her hand from his chest, nearly falling as she stumbled backwards, hand forcefully slapping the bulkhead behind her until she hit the exit ramp and it hissed open.

“Oh my gods!” she gasped, hands flying to her face. “I thought… I thought you wanted this! I thought…” she sputtered horrified, “You said…you said… I thought…. Oh gods… I’m so sorry, Hunter!”

Tara backed down the ramp as Hunter stumbled into the open, gasping for air. He shook his head, guilt springing to the forefront of his mind, shame sprouted in his gut making him feel sick.

How could I have let this happen?

It was the essence of you, not Tara, that had blossomed up through that musky haze. It was your hands that had touched him, not hers.

Did I tell her that I wanted this? Did I inadvertently lead her on?

He looked up, seeing her stood frozen on the bottom of the ramp, eyes wide in embarrassment, heart beat still rapid in the aftermath of horror.

She shook her head.

How could I have been so stupid? The thought was written all over her face.

“It was never me, was it.” The words came as a quiet statement rather than a question.

Hunter stood up, gritting his teeth as he composed himself. “No, Tara. It wasn't.”

“You love her, don't you.”

Hunter paused.

Saying it aloud makes it real.

Saying it aloud would prove beyond a doubt that you belonged to him and he to you.

Tech's words echoed through his brain. “According to this, you are in fact, in love.”

He took a breath. “Yes. I do love her.”

Tara nodded and turned away, “Then you should probably tell her.”

--------------------------------------------------

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[sassenach77yle]

7x11 “A Hundredweight of Stones”

The door opened, and Jamie stepped in, closing it behind him. He saw me, stood stock-still for an instant, and then I was in his arms, the overwhelming warmth and size of him blotting out in an instant everything around me.

I didn’t know where my blood had gone. Every drop had left my head, and flickering lights danced before my eyes—but none of it was supplying my legs, which had abruptly dissolved under me.Jamie was holding me up and kissing me, tasting of beer and his beard stubble rasping my face, his fingers buried in my hair, and my breasts warmed and swelled against his chest.“Oh, there it is,” I murmured.“What?” he asked, breaking off for a moment.

“My blood.” I touched my tingling lips. “Do that again.”

Oh, I will,” he assured me. “But there are a number of English soldiers in the neighborhood, and I think—”The sound of pounding came from below, and reality snapped back into place like a rubber band. I stared at him and sat down very suddenly, my heart pounding like a drum.“Why the bloody hell aren’t you dead?”He lifted one shoulder in a brief shrug, the corner of his mouth turning up. He was very thin, brown-faced, and dirty; I could smell his sweat and the grime of long-worn clothes. And the faint whiff of vomit—he’d not been long off a boat.“Delay for a few seconds longer, Mr. Fraser, and you may well go back to being dead.” John had gone to the window, peering down into the street. He turned, and I saw that his face was pale but glowing like a candle.“Aye? They were a bit faster than I thought, then,” Jamie said ruefully, going to look out. He turned from the window and smiled. “It’s good to see ye, John—if only for the moment.”John’s answering smile lit his eyes. He reached out a hand and touched Jamie’s arm, very briefly, as though wishing to assure himself that he was in fact solid.“Yes,” he said, reaching then for the door. “But come. Down the back stair. Or there’s a hatchway to the attic—if you can get onto the roof—”Jamie looked at me, his heart in his eyes.“I’ll come back,” he said. “When I can.” He lifted a hand toward me but stopped with a grimace, turned abruptly to follow John, and they were gone, the sound of their footsteps nearly drowned by the noises from downstairs. I heard the door open below and a rough male voice demanding entrance. Mrs. Figg, bless her intransigent little heart, was having none of it.I’d been sitting like Lot’s wife, shocked into immobility, but at the sound of Mrs. Figg’s rich expletives was galvanized into action.

My mind was so stunned by the events of the last five minutes that it was, paradoxically, quite clear. There was simply no room in it for thoughts, speculations, relief, joy, or even worry—the only mental faculty I still possessed, apparently, was the ability to respond to an emergency.

I snatched my cap, crammed it on my head, and started for the door, stuffing my hair up into it as I went. Mrs. Figg and I together could surely delay the soldiers long enough…[...]

The next little while was going to be interesting, I saw.I didn’t care. While I was quite sure that Jamie wouldn’t shoot John under any circumstances, I was under no misapprehensions about the danger to either of them. I could smell it; the scent of sweat and gunpowder hung thick in the air on the landing, and the soles of my feet still vibrated from the slam of the heavy door below. None of it mattered.

He was alive. So was I.

101 REDIVIVUS ~An Echo in the Bone

[skepwith]

More Parts of the Revenge for OFMD Fans

Part of a series: Revenge Master Post.

This post is about stuff in the body of the ship, going more or less from top to bottom. I’m saving the sails and rigging for my next post. If you want to know more basic terms like fore and aft and bow and stern, look for “Parts of the Revenge” in my master post.

Obviously, using these terms is entirely optional, since David Jenkins et al. are free and easy with the ol' historical accuracy. This list is for pedants like me and people who like historical and specialized language. Enjoy!

Main Deck

The low “walls” on the sides of the open decks were called the bulwarks—they were to keep people from falling overboard. On the Revenge, the bulwarks are topped by a rail (railing).

A gap in the bulwark, together with a set of rungs on the hull, was called an entry port. It allowed people to climb aboard from a dinghy.

The top edge of the bulwark was the gunwale, pronounced gunnel. The expression “loaded to the gunwales” is still used to mean very full. The top edges of a dinghy are also called gunwales.

An opening in the deck is called a hatchway. I wrote about hatches a while ago, but what I didn’t realize was that the hatch is the part that covers the hatchway. The wooden grid that lets light and air through is called the grating.

In the bow, the curving rail that goes from the figurehead to the hull is called the head rail, which would’ve been really helpful to know for my toilet post. Oh well.

Stede’s journal could at a stretch be called a logbook (or log). This was a book in which an officer noted details of the ship’s daily progress and journey. Probably a bit less fanciful than Stede’s version.

Weaponry

The Revenge has guns (the word used for cannons) on her main deck and her gun deck. Before a gun was fired, the barrel was cleared with the sponge, then loaded with gunpowder and shot and wads of cloth, all of which was tamped down with the rammer. There were different types of shot, or ammunition; cannonballs were called round shot.

To fire a gun, a lit fuse (usually a slow match) was brought in contact with the vent at the top of the gun—called the touchhole—to ignite the gunpowder. (The wick added in OFMD isn’t accurate. Shocking, I know.) The slow match was usually held with a staff called a linstock, tucked into a notch on the end. You didn’t want to be right next to the cannon when it went off, because there was a non-zero chance it would misfire and explode in your face.

Despite what you see in movies, cannons didn’t produce a lot of fire and smoke; the cannonball did damage by going unstoppably through hulls, masts, and people—often many at a time—like a deadly Energizer bunny.

The gunpowder was kept in kegs in a small room called the powder magazine. (A magazine is an ammunition storage area.) This room was in the hull of the ship, below the water line, to minimize the chances of a stray spark sending the whole ship up in flames. The shot was kept in the shot-locker, a small room in the hold (though this word wasn’t recorded till 1805). As we know, Stede calls this the ball room.

Besides the regular cannons, the Revenge also has swivel guns, small cannons mounted on swivels. These were too small to damage another ship; they were there to fire at boarders and approaching boats. Or, you know, to set off fireworks.

To take an enemy ship, sailors might use a grapnel (or grappling hook). These were attached to a rope and thrown at enemy bulwarks or rigging so the ships could be pulled together for boarding.

The Gun Deck

Everything on a ship had to have a special name: stairs were always called ladders; the floor was called the deck; and a wall or partition inside the hull was called a bulkhead.

Some of you may know that a ship’s kitchen is called a galley. However, this usage wasn’t recorded until 1750; the earlier word was cook-room.

Likewise, the mess is where you eat on a ship, but this sense wasn’t recorded until the late 1800s. In OFMD’s time, mess meant “a group of people who eat together,” like officers of the same rank or sailors on the same watch.

You might know a berth as a shelf or box to sleep on, like Stede’s (and Ed’s) bed, but this usage wasn’t recorded until the 1790s. The earlier meaning, used from at least 1706, is “a room where a particular group (such as officers or midshipmen) eats and sleeps.” So you might call Jim’s room a berth—except that it changes hands, and its name has been firmly established as the Room.

A berth is also a place in a port or harbour where you can moor (park) a vessel, and thirdly, the safety margin around another vessel or object, which gives us the phrase “to give [it] a wide berth.”

Finally, the area where the animals (remember them?) were kept was a small triangular area in the bow called the manger. This seems to be where the Revenge’s en suite is, at least as far as I can figure, but if you want to include the animals for whatever reason, they’d probably live somewhere around there.

Storage

Some of the stuff on board was stored in casks, a.k.a. barrels. These could be any size, but a large cask was also called a butt. A scuttlebutt was a butt full of water attached to the deck for sailors to drink from. Unfortunately, the word wasn’t recorded before 1800, and the “gossip” meaning not till a century after that. But it’s a great word and you should use it anyway.

A keg was a small cask, usually less than ten gallons, used for things like gunpowder or rum.

A sea chest was a wooden box used to store an officer’s personal effects—or to confine a nosy hombrecito.

The Ship’s Bottom

(As it were.)

In several of my posts and diagrams I said the lower decks of the Revenge were the gun deck, the orlop, and the hold. But my friends, I made a grievous error: the Revenge has no orlop. I know!

In season 2, for the first time we get to see what’s below the gun deck. When Frenchie opens the secret passage in the kitchen, he reveals a set of stairs—sorry, a ladder—down to a grim, damp space. The kitchen is on the gun deck, so this is the deck immediately below it, and while on most ships that would’ve been the orlop, in this case it’s the hold.

The hold was the lowest compartment of the ship, used for storage and cargo. It also sometimes held the ballast—heavy stuff (e.g., pig iron, gravel, stones, lead) put there to improve the ship’s balance. The lowest part of the hold itself was called the bilge or bilges—the area where bilgewater collected and had to be pumped out.

Episode 3 shows the water on the floor—sorry, deck—making it pretty clear we’re in the bilges of the hold. On top of that, an Instagram post by crewmember Will Giles (shared on Tumblr by @ourflagmeansbts) mentioned repurposing the “bilge set.”

Which all proves that the Revenge’s hold is immediately below the gun deck, with no orlop in between.

The keel is the structural piece that runs lengthwise along the middle of the hull’s bottom. Keel-hauling was to drag someone along the outside of the keel, underwater, as a punishment—very nasty, often fatal.

Also underwater, at the stern, is the rudder, whose movement makes the ship turn. On a dinghy you steer by moving the tiller, a horizontal bar attached to the rudder post. On a ship like the Revenge, you turn the ship’s wheel, which is attached to the tiller via cables, and that moves the rudder.

That’s all for now! Coming next: sails and rigging, in port, and more sailing lingo.

Sources: Wikipedia, historicnavalfiction [dot] com, Oxford English Dictionary

[the-golden-vanity]

Is there anything that’s stood out to you as different or unexpected the first time you went sailing? Especially if you’ve ever spent long trips out at sea. I’m writing a seafaring character and I’d love to hear any firsthand experience about it 👀✨

Hello, shipmate!

Firstly, I'm honored to be asked such a question. I'm far from an expert, but I suppose crewing a tall ship on the open ocean is an experience few are lucky enough to share in this day and age.

I signed on to the Pride of Baltimore II for a voyage up the coast with the idea that after reading so many books about pirates, whalers, explorers, and other seafarers, and after watching so many movies and TV series set during the Age of Sail, the only way I could feel truly complete was by experiencing the Age of Sail firsthand. I think I told more than one person on Boat Tumblr that this would either fix me or it would make me worse.

...I'd like you to guess which one happened.

Much of what I encountered on the ship was familiar to me from history and fiction. However, what reading and watching movies can never quite capture are the physical sensations. Here are a few:

The ship makes noise. All the time. It's very rhythmic and predictable, and it is constant. Timbers creak, ropes strain; if the wind is variable or unfavorable, the sails flap loudly. Some of my fellow guest crew were bothered by this, but I loved it. At the end of a watch, especially one where a lot of work needed doing, the rhythmic noises and the rocking motion of the ship were just what I needed to fall asleep for the next seven hours, or until I was called up for standby. I understand now what it means to be "rocked in the cradle of the deep."

If your vessel is well-ventilated, your vessel is sinking! When you are belowdecks, you are essentially in a wooden box. If it's warm on deck, it is oppressively hot and stuffy below, and although my berth had a door, I kept it open most of the time to catch what little breeze came through the main hatchway. The temperature cooled down as we sailed north, and was eventually pretty decent, except when the auxiliary engines were on. I can only imagine in the 19th and early 20th centuries, with steam-powered auxiliary engines, it would have been even hotter!

No one knows what day it is on board. Everyone's on watch on a "4 hours on—4 hours off—4 hours standby" schedule, so you're on duty for 8 hours total, split between opposite sides of the 24-hour day, so "days" don't really have much meaning. This would probably also explain why I saw several of my shipmates wearing an outfit multiple days in a row–it just didn't occur to them that it was a different day.

Before you get your sea legs, you will spend a lot of time stumbling around, falling on your ass, holding onto things for dear life. This, I think, is pretty common knowledge. What I don't think is common knowledge is the fact that once you get your sea legs, land feels like it's moving under your feet. While you're fully awake, it goes away pretty quickly. However, I was waking up for days afterward—like, 4 or 5 days afterwards—convinced that my room was rocking like a ship. Deeply strange, but absolutely worth it, since it meant I had been at sea.

That's what I can think of right now! Let me know if you have any other questions, I'm always happy to answer them.

[floridaboiler]

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead When the skies of November turn gloomy…

With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed When the gales of November came early

The ship was the pride of the American side Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most With a crew and good captain well seasoned

Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms When they left fully loaded for Cleveland And later that night when the ship's bell rang Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound And a wave broke over the railing And every man knew, as the captain did too, T'was the witch of November come stealin'

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait When the gales of November came slashin' When afternoon came it was freezin' rain In the face of a hurricane west wind

When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin' Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya At seven p.m., a main hatchway caved in, he said Fellas, it's been good to know ya

The captain wired in he had water comin' in And the good ship and crew were in peril And later that night when 'is lights went outta sight Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Does any one know where the love of God goes When the waves turn the minutes to hours? The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay If they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er

They might have split up or they might have capsized They may have broke deep and took water And all that remains are the faces and the names Of the wives and the sons and the daughters…

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings In the rooms of her ice-water mansion Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams The islands and bays are for sportsmen And farther below Lake Ontario Takes in what Lake Erie can send her And the iron boats go as the mariners all know With the gales of November remembered

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed, In the maritime sailors' cathedral The church bell chimed. It rang twenty-nine times. For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee Superior, they said, never gives up her dead When the gales of November come early…

~ “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” by Gordon Lightfoot

Image: “Every Man Knew” by David Conklin

[thescarleteagle]

Can we talk about how in the U.S gets Constance Hatchway who is a really cool dynamic character don’t get me wrong, but, she looks like this…

Versus Disneyland Paris who gets Melanie Ravenswood who is also a really cool character that is almost the same as Constance, she but looks like this…

I WANT JUSTICE FOR CONSTANCE!!!🪓

[marimayscarlett]

'Rosenrot' turns 19 years old today 🎶💿

On the 28th of October, 2005, the fifth studio album 'Rosenrot' was released, about a year after 'Reise Reise'. The band worked with their usual producer Jacob Hellner in the El Cortijo Studio in Spain as well as in the Teldex Studio in Germany on this album, yet it has to be mentioned that the recording process for 'Rosenrot' was significantly shorter than usual and according to Till, the band felt kind of rushed. Seven songs were already recorded during the sessions for 'Reise Reise' and were left in their original form: Rosenrot, Wo bist du, Mann gegen Mann, Zerstören, Ein Lied, Feuer und Wasser and Hilf mir. New songs for this album developed out of already existing demos, and thus Benzin, Spring, Stirb nicht vor mir and Te quiero puta! were born and added to the list.

To the press, this album was announced under the title 'Reise Reise II'/'Reise Reise (Vol. 2)' in a posting on the official Rammstein website on the 24th of June 2005: Good news: Rammstein are already working on a musical successor, which is expected to be called "Reise, Reise ( Vol.2)". The management explained as follows: "After the production phase of the last album, there were many songs that had not found a place on 'Reise, Reise' at the time for dramaturgical reasons, but could now be finalised. It's nothing unusual . Just as 'Ohne Dich' came from the production time for the album 'Mutter', numerous songs have been waiting for more than a year to be perfected and are now to see the light of day. It's up to the band alone to decide which ones to release."

On the 17th of August 2005, the band decided on naming the album 'Rosenrot' instead and a day later, on the 18th of August, this was officially announced. The first song which was presented to the public was 'Benzin', which was performed by the band at a concert at the Wulheide, Berlin, on the 23rd of June, 2005.

To present the full album to world of music journalism, the band held an event in Paris to showcase the album through a sightseeing tour. Journalists were given a discman with the album and headphones during a bus tour through the city, covering the route from Place de la Bastille to the Seine riverside, where they could board a ship and interview the band members about the album.

Here's an interview with Olli and Paul in Paris. Olli talks for example about how 'Rosenrot' is a calmer record than 'Reise Reise' and Paul mentions how much sex and sexuality plays a major role in their music and in music in general:

Eight days before the official release of the album, listening samples (about one minute each) of six songs from the album were released online as part of the promotion for the album. These listening samples were also released as a CD.

The album debuted at number 1 on the German album charts in its first week and stayed in the Top 100 for a total of 41 weeks. Over 200,000 copies were shipped, reaching platinum status in the first week. It also achieved platinum status in Switzerland and gold in Austria, the Czech Republic, Denmark, and Finland. 'Rosenrot' reached number 23 in the "Top 50 Albums" chart of 2005.

As a cover, the band reused the Japanese cover of the 'Reise Reise' album. It depicts the US wind-class icebreaker (USS Atka) during an expedition under the leadership of commander Buster E. Toon; the picture was taken on 13 March 1960 at McMurdo Station, Ross Ice Shelf, Antarctica, after it arrived there in a howling blizzard one day earlier. The print on the CD as well as on the DVD (with live perfomances of 'Reise Reise', 'Mein Teil' and 'Sonne') is designed to look like a hatchway of a ship.

The promotional pictures were taken by Mat Hennek. Flake had fallen ill with Mumps, which already prevented him from attending the Paris promotion, and as a result, he was also unable to participate in the photo shoot. He was replaced by his brother, which is why "Flake" (his brother) is always turning his face away from the camera or why it's hidden behind sunglasses or in the shadows.

Some more little facts about the album and quotes from promotional interviews:

Paul on the song 'Zerstören': We are basically holding up a mirror. The lyrics we written during the war in Iraq. We were interested in the parallels between a marauding pack of kids after a game of soccer who roam the street and destroy everything, and states which invade other states and destroy everything there. Our main thought was that there is no difference. We perceived it as boldness, that the Americans simply bomb a country and get away with it. At the moment George W. Bush is nothing else but another disgusting hooligan.

Olli on 'Mann gegen Mann': We don’t want to discriminate against gays. The song is more for gays. We simply wanted to take the weight off the topic and make it more natural.

as well as on the album name and cover: Actually, the album should be called 'Reise, Reise Vol. 2’. We quickly forgot about that title. Since we see the new album as an independent one, we needed a new title. That was a bit unfortunate, since the cover was already finished. So the ship on the cover picture is now called 'Rosenrot’ and everyone can think about what it stands for. Opposites? The cold world? Where has the love gone? No idea. But the ship does not symbolize the now and us as a band.

Till on the idea behind 'Benzin': One day, I actually watched a movie called Love Liza. It’s the story of a guy who loses his wife and his job and gradually becomes addicted to gasoline. He goes to gas stations and smells the pump. It’s a sort of tragicomedy. Many films have been made about addicts, but never about gasoline sniffers. I think that was the starting point for this song.

Olli on recording the album in Berlin: It’s the first time we’ve recorded in Berlin, at home, and I’m not sure, looking back, that it was a good idea. Our families living nearby, we might tend to look at our watches whenever we had a break : What am I doing ? Do I take the opportunity to drop by home ? As a result, we were necessarily less focused and it was almost impossible for us to be there 100%.

Schneider on 'Rosenrot' as the end of an era:  For me, this is the closing of a chapter for the band. Everybody needs a break, they need a bit of distance from this band and time to look forward and ask, ‘Where am I?’ And, ‘What do I want to do?’ We need to find other ways of being inspired.

additional sources: rammwiki, Rammstein history, affenknecht.com, navy.mil

[thebrickinbrick]

Preliminary Gayeties, Part 1

LAIGLE DE MEAUX, as the reader knows, lived more with Joly than elsewhere. He had a lodging, as a bird has one on a branch. The two friends lived together, ate together, slept together. They had everything in common, even Musichetta, to some extent. They were, what the subordinate monks who accompany monks are called, bini. On the morning of the 5th of June, they went to Corinthe to breakfast. Joly, who was all stuffed up, had a catarrh which Laigle was beginning to share. Laigle's coat was threadbare, but Joly was well dressed.

It was about nine o'clock in the morning, when they opened the door of Corinthe.

They ascended to the first floor. Matelote and Gibelotte received them.

"Oysters, cheese, and ham," said Laigle. And they seated themselves at a table.

The wine-shop was empty; there was no one there but themselves.

Gibelotte, knowing Joly and Laigle, set a bottle of wine on the table.

While they were busy with their first oysters, a head appeared at the hatchway of the staircase, and a voice said:

"I am passing by. I smell from the street a delicious odor of Brie cheese. I enter." It was Grantaire.

Grantaire took a stool and drew up to the table.

At the sight of Grantaire, Gibelotte placed two bottes of wine on the table. That made three.

"Are you going to drink those two bottles?" Laigle inquired of Grantaire.

Grantaire replied, "All are ingenious, thou alone art ingenuous. Two bottles never yet astonished a man."

The others had begun by eating, Grantaire began by drinking. Half a bottle was rapidly gulped down.

"So you have a hole in your stomach?" began Laigle again.

“You have one in your elbow," said Grantaire. And after having emptied his glass, he added: "Ah, by the way, Laigle of the funeral oration, your coat is old.”

“I should hope so," retorted Laigle. "That's why we get on well together, my coat and I. It has acquired all my folds, it does not bind me anywhere, it is moulded on my deformities, it falls in with all my movements, I am only conscious of it because it keeps me warm. Old coats are just like old friends."

"That's true," ejaculated Joly, striking into the dialogue, "an old goat is an old abi” (ami, friend).

"Especially in the mouth of a man whose head is stuffed up," said Grantaire.

"Grantaire," demanded Laigle, "have you just come from the boulevard?"

"No."

"We have just seen the head of the procession pass, Joly and I."

"It's a marvellous sight," said Joly.

"How quiet this street is!" exclaimed Laigle. "Who would suspect that Paris was turned upside down? How plainly it is to be seen that in former days there were nothing but convents here! In this neighborhood! Du Breul and Sauval give a list of them, and so does the Abbé Lebeuf. They were all round here, they fairly swarmed, booted and barefooted, shaven, bearded, gray, black, white, Franciscans, Minims, Capuchins, Carmelites, Little Augustines, Great Augustines, old Augustines, there was no end of them."

"Don't let's talk of monks," interrupted Grantaire, "it makes one want to scratch oneself."

“Bouh! I've just swallowed a bad oyster. Now hypochondria is taking possession of me again. The oysters are spoiled, the servants are ugly. I hate the human race. I just passed through the Rue Richelieu, in front of the big public library. That pile of oyster-shells which is called a library is disgusting even to think of. What paper! What ink! What scrawling!

"And then, I met a pretty girl of my acquaintance, who is as beautiful as the spring, worthy to be called Floréal, and who is delighted, enraptured, as happy as the angels, because a wretch yesterday, a frightful banker all spotted with small-pox, deigned to take a fancy to her! Alas! woman keeps on the watch for a protector as much as for a lover; cats chase mice as well as birds. Two months ago that young woman was virtuous in an attic, she adjusted little brass rings in the eyelet-holes of corsets, what do you call it? She sewed, she had a camp bed, she dwelt beside a pot of flowers, she was contented. Now here she is a bankeress. This transformation took place last night. I met the victim this morning in high spirits. The hideous point about it is, that the jade is as pretty to-day as she was yesterday. Her financier did not show in her face. Roses have this advantage or disadvantage over women, that the traces left upon them by caterpillars are visible. Ah! there is no morality on earth. I call to witness the myrtle, the symbol of love, the laurel, the symbol of air, the olive, that ninny, the symbol of peace, the apple-tree which came nearest rangling Adam with its pips, and the fig-tree, the grandfather of petticoats. As for right, do you know what right is? The Gauls covet Clusium, Rome protects Clusium, and demands what wrong Clusium has done to them. Brennus answers: ‘The wrong that Alba did to you, the wrong that Fidenæ did to you, the wrong that the Eques, the Volsci, and the Sabines have done to you. They were your neighbors. The Clusians are ours. We understand neighborliness just as you do. You have stolen Alba, we shall take Clusium.’ Rome said: ‘You shall not take Clusium.’ Brennus took Rome. Then he cried: ‘Væ victis!’ That is what right is. Ah! what beasts of prey there are in this world! What eagles! It makes my flesh creep.”

He held out his glass to Joly, who filled it, then he drank and went on, having hardly been interrupted by this glass of wine, of which no one, not even himself, had taken any notice:—

“Brennus, who takes Rome, is an eagle; the banker who takes the grisette is an eagle. There is no more modesty in the one case than in the other. So we believe in nothing. There is but one reality: drink. Whatever your opinion may be in favor of the lean cock, like the Canton of Uri, or in favor of the fat cock, like the Canton of Glaris, it matters little, drink. You talk to me of the boulevard, of that procession, et cætera, et cætera. Come now, is there going to be another revolution? This poverty of means on the part of the good God astounds me. He has to keep greasing the groove of events every moment. There is a hitch, it won’t work. Quick, a revolution! The good God has his hands perpetually black with that cart-grease. If I were in his place, I’d be perfectly simple about it, I would not wind up my mechanism every minute, I’d lead the human race in a straightforward way, I’d weave matters mesh by mesh, without breaking the thread, I would have no provisional arrangements, I would have no extraordinary repertory. What the rest of you call progress advances by means of two motors, men and events. But, sad to say, from time to time, the exceptional becomes necessary. The ordinary troupe suffices neither for event nor for men: among men geniuses are required, among events revolutions. Great accidents are the law; the order of things cannot do without them; and, judging from the apparition of comets, one would be tempted to think that Heaven itself finds actors needed for its performance. At the moment when one expects it the least, God placards a meteor on the wall of the firmament. Some queer star turns up, underlined by an enormous tail. And that causes the death of Cæsar. Brutus deals him a blow with a knife, and God a blow with a comet. Crac, and behold an aurora borealis, behold a revolution, behold a great man; ’93 in big letters, Napoleon on guard, the comet of 1811 at the head of the poster. Ah! what a beautiful blue theatre all studded with unexpected flashes! Boum! Boum! extraordinary show! Raise your eyes, boobies. Everything is in disorder, the star as well as the drama. Good God, it is too much and not enough. These resources, gathered from exception, seem magnificence and poverty. My friends, Providence has come down to expedients. What does a revolution prove? That God is in a quandry. He effects a coup d’état because he, God, has not been able to make both ends meet. In fact, this confirms me in my conjectures as to Jehovah’s fortune; and when I see so much distress in heaven and on earth, from the bird who has not a grain of millet to myself without a hundred thousand livres of income, when I see human destiny, which is very badly worn, and even royal destiny, which is threadbare, witness the Prince de Condé hung, when I see winter, which is nothing but a rent in the zenith through which the wind blows, when I see so many rags even in the perfectly new purple of the morning on the crests of hills, when I see the drops of dew, those mock pearls, when I see the frost, that paste, when I see humanity ripped apart and events patched up, and so many spots on the sun and so many holes in the moon, when I see so much misery everywhere, I suspect that God is not rich. The appearance exists, it is true, but I feel that he is hard up. He gives a revolution as a tradesman whose money-box is empty gives a ball. God must not be judged from appearances. Beneath the gilding of heaven I perceive a poverty-stricken universe. Creation is bankrupt. That is why I am discontented. Here it is the 4th of June, it is almost night; ever since this morning I have been waiting for daylight to come; it has not come, and I bet that it won’t come all day. This is the inexactness of an ill-paid clerk. Yes, everything is badly arranged, nothing fits anything else, this old world is all warped, I take my stand on the opposition, everything goes awry; the universe is a tease. It’s like children, those who want them have none, and those who don’t want them have them. Total: I’m vexed.

[hms-lurking-latinist]

There's rather a lot that's unclear in Mutiny/Retribution actually. Captain Sawyer has bruises and injuries all over his face after falling down the hatchway. But one of the few things that's unambiguous in the shot of his fall is that he falls backwards. He lands on his back. When does he hit his face?

Unless we're meant to understand (although I doubt this) that the shot of his fall is unreliable. (After all, this is all a flashback, theoretically still being told by Horatio. Oh dear. Oh no. Oh it is unreliable isn't it?)

[educatedinyellow]

A Few Recs, 2024

Hey friends, I'm just going to look through my bookmarks from this year and share a few with you for the fun of it. Not all these stories were written this year (though many were), this is more about what I was reading in 2024 :)

Below the waves, the ocean by Dorinda / @adnirod. (Patrick O'Brian novels, Jack Aubrey/Stephen Maturin, rated T, 8K, near-death experience, hurt/comfort) How long since the bubbles had died? It felt too long, a deadly eternity. But Stephen couldn't count, and didn't: he simply rolled himself over the edge of the gaping hatchway and fell. I simply love the way this author writes: the elegant prose, period details, authentic characterizations -- Stephen begins the story steeped in guilt, but the key scene centers on the perfect surrender of blind trust, and it's beautiful.

cornerstone by houndsteeth / @gracefreakdean (SPN, Destiel, rated E, 28K) I find the quiet blossoming of this romance so appealing; Cas is calm and forthright -- he can be trusted to mean what he says, and for Dean, that's a revelation. There's a wild and abundant devotion here that's worked up to in slow and ordinary ways: a leap of faith from two people who haven't worked everything out, but who choose to believe in each other. <3

Operation Friendship Helmet by @goldenraeofsun (Batman, gen, rated T, 33K, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd) When Red Hood meets Dick Grayson, he seems almost friendly, compared to the violent hostility he showed Batman and Robin. Tim sees an opportunity. Dick can work Red Hood’s human angle, while Batman and Robin do more clandestine intelligence gathering out of sight. For his part, Dick’s happy to go along with the plan and make a new friend. Maybe, if he plays his cards right, he can turn Red Hood from a crime boss to a vigilante. But the closer Dick gets, the question nags louder and louder: why does Red Hood seem so familiar? Okay, guys, I really love Dick Grayson, and this story absolutely nails his narrative voice -- earnest & funny & cheerfully unhinged in his own inimitable Batfamily way, but also at times as desperate, confused, and sad as they all were in the wake of Jason's death. And then there's Jason, bitter, jaded, and betrayed, but with a furious sense of justice, a deep kinship with the people he's trying to protect, and *extremely* mixed feelings about his former brother. This story grabbed me and would not let me go.

the way it travels in and keeps emitting light by populuxe / @x-populuxe (X-Men prequels, Charles/Erik, Erik & Raven, rated M, 30K) Charles and Erik aren’t friends: their mutual dislike was both instant and enduring, from that very first day Raven introduced them. But when Charles gets into a life-altering accident, the connections between all three of them start to fundamentally shift, too. This author writes Erik & Raven's friendship wonderfully, with nuance and charm in both its affection and its conflicts. Erik starts out profoundly irritated with every aspect of Charles, but dammit he can't just leave him alone at the hospital. What starts as a slow thaw graduates soon enough to real warmth between them, and there's a vulnerability to both of them that touches me.

I dare you to try by equestrianstatue / @justlikeeddie (SPN, Destiel, 5+1, amnesia kisses (until they aren't), rated T, 9K) Dean wrenches their mouths apart, and looks furtively up and down the street. Castiel isn’t sure what he is looking for: there is nobody here. “Okay,” says Dean, in a strange, stilted voice. “I know you don’t get how this stuff works, but rule one— don’t do that.” Five times Castiel kisses Dean, and one time Dean remembers. An elegant character study of Cas's changing perceptions of Dean, and of himself, over the years. A heartfelt story.