#that title may not stick

[dittomander]

okay so Close Enough is done! and I've had a few days to process that but am still pretty excited, and I'm trying to harness that energy toward working on the next project right away. i've kinda talked about it in my author's notes and occasional post tags, but the next Big thing I'm working on is something of a sister fic to CE, set in the same iteration of the timeline but focused on Gabe & Mateo's friendship instead of Naomi & Mateo's. It's set to be a little bit shorter than Close Enough since they don't meet until episode 1 and I don't have to cover any pre-series stuff. the draft is currently about 40k words with roughly 7/20 chapters fully drafted and several others in varying states of completion - overall I estimate it's about half done.

but realistically it's gonna be a while before I start posting it since I want to at least have it all drafted before I do that, so in the interim, the other thing I want to try and do this year is write more oneshots. I've got a lineup of like a dozen that I've got outlined enough to realistically work on, so if all goes well I'll start getting those up this month.

(as for when I will start posting the new friendfic... obviously I'm still writing it so it's way too soon to promise anything, and obviously I don't have to make a decision about this right away, but considering the kerfuffle with close enough's (attempted) posting schedule, I'm debating if I either A: do like what I did with CE where I finish the rough draft and post chapters as I finish editing them or B: finish editing the fic entirely and post chapters on a consistent schedule. pros of the former - I start posting sooner. cons - posting is more likely to be sporadic and may end up with lengthy gaps. pros of the latter - consistency. posts are predictable and there aren't ultra-long waits between chapters. cons - will take even longer to start posting it. like I said, I'm nowhere near the point of needing to decide that, but I'm willing to take input from folks if anyone has strong opinions on that, lol)

[abyssal-ilk]

duncan telling an aeducan warden to collect darkspawn blood has got to raise an eyebrow. aeducan has presumably been fighting darkspawn for years, and usually the goal is to Not Touch The Blood. bc you know. the taint. wdym we need to collect it for your weird warden ritual you won't say anything about??

[teardropwolf]

Just some self indulgent doodles

[owl-by-night]

Kembleford timeloop - the faeries did it!

So a while ago there was this post about the Kembleford Timeloop and I shared the theory that the timeloop is so impossible to resolve that the only explanation was that Monty and Felicia were disrupting time with their arguments, a bit like Titania and Oberon disrupting the seasons in Midsummer Night’s Dream. Which turned into ‘if they are Titania and Oberon then Flambeau is Puck’ and, well, it turned into fic accidentally. Thank you to @anneofkeys who encouraged that first conversation and came up with the idea for how the time loop was eventually broken.

Fic below :)

Hercule comes to her in spring, walking into Kembleford churchyard with a bunch of flowers. 

“For you,” he says, “in celebration of the changing season.”

He offers the bouquet but she doesn’t take it. He smiles and places it on the bench beside her instead. 

“1954 at last,” he says and lights a cigarette. “Thought it would never happen.”

“Why are you here Hercule?” Felicia looks steadily at him. She appears calm but he can feel time shifting around him, sticking and slowing as she pulls them out of the flow. He loves how she does it, how skilful she is. He won’t be caught by the trap, but he can feel the tug of it all the same. 

“May I sit?”

“If you must.” 

He lounges on the bench beside her and listens to the church clock ticking slower and slower. “You don’t need to do that,” he tells her. “You can’t hold me.”

“Of course not. You’re a trickster, aren’t you? Not bound by the rules we follow.”

He smirks, holds his hands up, somewhere between an exaggerated shrug and surrender. “It’s a gift.”

She hums, unimpressed. “I wasn’t trying to trap you anyway. I thought you wanted some time to talk. Time where we wouldn’t be overheard.” She nods to the people visible beyond the churchyard wall, moving as slow as flies in honey. He wishes her skills were not so alluring to him but power always draws him in. 

As if she can read his mind, she picks up the bouquet and touches a drooping flower. It blooms back into perfect beauty as he watches.

“Call it the irresistible urge to make sure you didn’t need rescuing,” he says. 

“From my husband?” She arches one brow at him. 

“He did hold you in a time loop for… well… I’m not sure how one measures time when time has stopped. How long did you spend in 1953?”

“Oh how sweet,” she says. “Did you think that was all Monty?”

It disconcerts him for a moment but even she can’t pin a trickster for long. 

“Oh, my mistake. Did you want to be trapped in 1953?”

She glares at him, showing a flash of the power behind her eyes. It thrills him. 

“1953 was an excellent year. Perfect weather. They say the strawberries have never been better.”

He just looks at her and waits. She sighs. 

“My husband and I were fighting for a long time, Hercule. Long before you appeared. Yes, sometimes he pulled time back. Sometimes I did the same when I was angry with him.”

Well that explains the apparently endless summer. And the secret behind the award winning scones. 

“And then? Why did you break the loop?”

“He offered to sacrifice himself for me.”

He scoffs. “At the hands of a mortal doctor with a knife? Such a sacrifice was worthy of you, was it?”

“Oh, no, you don’t understand. That blade was cold iron, Hercule. There was no question of what he risked.” She shudders and leans over to steal his half smoked cigarette. 

Cold iron. The thought of it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Braver than I gave him credit for,” he mutters. 

“Why else would I have married him?”

He lets that pass. “And when you accepted his sacrifice he let time move forward as well?”

“We agreed. You’ll notice changes here in Kembleford. New faces. Old friends gone forward into the world.” She drops the cigarette and crushes it neatly beneath her shoe. Her mouth is pinched. It always hurts to let the mortals go on with their short little lives. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, inadequately. She shrugs. 

“It was for the best.”

“What will you do now?”

“Oh… this and that. Travel perhaps.”

“You could have travelled with me.” He puts a little charm in his voice, short of full persuasion but enough to let her know what he could offer. 

“You’re a rogue,” she says without heat. 

“I am what I am.”

“You are indeed.” The voice behind him is male and powerful. The air has a sudden chill. Hercule turns to see Lord Montague in the flesh for the first time. 

Not an imposing presence on first sight, but where Lady Felicia is full summer, his lordship is the cold depth of winter. Hercule shivers. He had waited to meet Felicia until late spring, when her power would be in ascendancy, but he may perhaps have underestimated the Earl. No wonder so many versions of New Year’s Eve 1953 had ended in an all consuming blizzard of snow. 

“Is he troubling you, my dear?” 

“No.” Felicia smiles at her husband and the chill suddenly melts. A warm breeze ripples over the grass, full of the scent of blossom. Hercule can breathe again. 

Lord Montague leans against a crumbling monument to some long dead resident of Kembleford. Hercule wonders if he remembers them. 

“What do you want, thief?” 

“Monty,” Felicia says in a chastising tone. 

“Merely visiting an old friend. Although I should be going...” Hercule’s self preservation instinct has always been strong. 

“Perhaps you should. Felicia?” Lord Montague offers her his hand and as they touch, Hercule feels the ripples of time and power. These two will love and quarrel and love again for all eternity. An ancient dance, waxing and waning with the seasons and yet impossibly fixed in a way that is anathema to Hercule. Anathema and so, of course, it draws him from the bottom of his magpie soul. 

“I’ll return in the summer,” he says and steals a kiss, hot as the sun and sweet as strawberries. Felicia’s eyes catch him, alive with mischief, and this too is part of the dance. 

Then he is gone, slipping away through the strands of time before the chill of winter can touch him. 

In St Mary’s churchyard, the clock resumes its usual pace. Father Brown prepares for mass. The weather is perfect. The Lord and the Lady walk arm in arm and all is well. 

[jamiethebeeart]

(Ref/insp: 8eyestheband on youtube/tiktok - the conversation mashups and the song association game) supplemental info/explanation in the tags

[great-master-airplane]

it's always titles, isn't it?

[hopeinthebox]

tagged by the effervescent @cordiallyfuturedwight and @jiminsproof for the november receipt <33 thanks lovelies!!

just a touch late to the party, but if you haven't already: @dearedwardteach @pauls-mccharmly @thvinyl @btscontentenjoyer @kimchokejin @jihopesjoint @eoieopda @monismochi 💜 MWAH

[flufallo]

Ok, so people are saying 'how the hell are such beautifulness related to such a rat?' refering to the millers, but I don't, and I'm going to tell you my amazing headcannons.

Ok, look at this (warning: your eyes might burn watch out)

Ew.

Anyways, now them:

Much better. Anyways, he only similarity is Brenda's hair colour- it's not even the same shade fgs (mabye the eyes too but we ignore that)

Ok, that proved nothing I'm sorry.

But, my crazy headcannon is that Christine cheated on him with someone who's actually pretty hot (suprise, suprise, nobody blames her) and get pregnant with the twins. W!LL!am Dosent find out until day and Brenda are 8, so starts shouting at her. Christine encourages Brenda to go to her friend's house, and David the arcade (where he met exer :3) and it's not till there 11 that they get that long deserved (for Christine) divorce. Then Linda falls into the ugly ass rats trap and they get married.

There is my crazy thing on why David and Brenda look so hot and there 'father' looks like he was dropped into a skip the second he was born because he was so horrible to look at.

Thanks for listening if you did :)

[peachcitt]

it’s about to be june everybody :)

[avo-kat]

u gotta be ur own biggest hypeman!!!!!!

thanks to hiring an editor im back to working on my book and i reread the first chapter and im just surprised at how good it is. look at me!!! its soo good!!!! i can write words good, wooooo!

and im so hilarious. i love my humour. i keep making myself laugh. and thanks to adhd i keep forgetting what i wrote so i keep making myself laugh at the same jokes. its awesome.

[half-doomed]

I dont understand the hate for what a time to be alive. Why do you hate fun!!!!!!!

[atlasdoe]

i'm currently writing the most fucked up band au ever and i really wanna talk about it someone please ask me about it

[cienie-isengardu]

Cienie's Sidenotes: Human Mandalorians or vassals? (Pre-Mandalorian Wars era)

Up to the Mandalorian Wars, humans living on planets like Concord Dawn and Gargon, were part of Mandalorian society yet fulfilled the role of vassals to their Mandalorian (Taung) overlords, as was stated in "Industry. Honor. Savagery: Shaping the Mandalorian Soul” [The Essential Guide to Warfare, 2012]:

The Jakehans, for one, welcomed their new Mandalorian overlords, as did knots of worlds populated by humans centered on Concord Dawn and Gargon. Those worlds—along with the likes of Hrthging, Breshig. Shogun, and Ordo—became part of Mandalorian Space.

Bounty Hunter Code implies too that humans were officially accepted into Mandalorian ranks thanks to Mandalore the Ultimate and the Great Adoption:

“Of the ancient Mandalores, we hold none in higher esteeem than Mandalore the Ultimate, the Great Shadow Father of our clans. On Shogun, then as now planet of visions, Mandalore the Ultimate received a staggering prophecy: The age of Taung was ending, but their great work was unfinished. To survive, the Mando’ade must be transformed. It was a terrible burden, but Mandalore the Ultimate bore it with honor. He opened the clans to all who proved themselves in battle and followed the warrior code. Non-Taung were no longer confined to vassalship, but could be full-fledged Mandalorian warriors. Our forefathers were among these new Mando’ade, and soon proved that they were ready to lead the clans.”

The History of the Mandalorians (2005) also notes the "ethnic" uniformity of the original Mandalorians

"Though in modern times the Mandalorians have became a grab-bag of alien races, including humanoids, Togorians, and Kerestians, the Mandalorians were once strictly a gray-skinned warrior race. Xenoantropologists believe that this original Mandalorian species was descended from the ancient Taung Shadow Warriors of Dha Werda Verda legend."

and non-Taungs - beside Mandallian Giants - were just accepted and treated as equals in the period between Sith War and Mandalorians Wars.

"[...] the temporary defeat precipitated a frenzied conviction that the "Great Last Battle" was at hand. For 20 years, the Mandalorians zealously invaded small non-Republic worlds on the fringe of Known Space, raiding their resources and building up a powerful army. Anticipating an apocalyptic war, the Neo-Crusaders began accepting members of other species into their midst, treating these "converts" as equals."

However, Knights of the Old Republic Campaign Guide suggest that humans, like Ordo Canderous, fought in the Sith Wars already as Mandalorian Crusader - albeit Canderous himself would be pretty young from what I gathered about his history. In the KotOR game in one of his dialogues Ordo proclaimed “I've been fighting across the galaxy for 40 of your years” and the game was set in 3956 BBY. The Mandalorian Wars ended four years before, in 3960 BBY.  The Sith War ended in 3996 BBY.  The time difference between Sith War and the events of the game adds up to 40 years (and whether Ordo stated exact amount or rounded number, is up to debate). So even if his fighting experiences dated back to the Sith War, he would rather be a novice warrior than a seasoned veteran. Additionally, The History of the Mandalorians states that Ordo Canderous was "recruited or "converted" to Mandalore's the Ultimate's cause during Mandalorian Wars, where he was among those to serve as a battle tactician rather than a foot soldier. What confirms Ordo's great skills/war experiences in the later conflict, yet implies the not-equal status during Sith War.

At the same time, as Taung were already dying species, it makes sense to enlist human members of Mandalorian clans as additional troopers, as vassals usually are bound to support their lords in time of war. There is also a possibility that humans living in Mandalorian clans were naturally assimilated into culture through the ages - if they were considered to be part of Mandalorian society each human wishing to earn the warrior rank should only need to prove themselves in fight to gain Taungs’ recognition as Taungs in general didn’t care for species, only for skills, loyalty to clan and Mandalorian creed (honor). 

This is especially important as the Crusaders (traditional Mandalorians) did not proselytize people around them,as was stated in KotOR Campaign Guide:

The traditional Crusaders do not proselytize; rather, they attract others to their cause throught the examples they set. Veterans see the later Neo-Crusaders movement, which actively converts outsiders in its hurry to conquer the galaxy, as a perversion.

which suggests the will to join warrior ranks needed to come from an individual human/non-Taung - and who knows, maybe those who didn’t want be warriors were simply allowed to life in peace as farmers, blacksmiths, artisans and any other job that supported the warrior culture of their Taung lords? Especially since some Mandalorians are known under the Fett surname (originally written as Vheff) and the word means literally a farmer. In contrast, the Mandalorian movement known as Neo-Crusaders that started in the period between Sith Wars and Mandalorian Wars and who became the majority part of Mandalore the Ultimate’s army actively converts humans and Aliens alike to warrior culture, even against their will, as could be seen in Knights of the Republic and KotOR:War comics series. 

Thinking about the issue more, in those two mentioned comics, only Mandalore the Ultimate is recognized as Taung in tie-in materials, so the Neo-Crusader movement may be itself a result of the Great Adoption (change of traditional laws?) and made by former vassals who spread the culture further than Taungs would normally did.

Personally I like to think that individual human members of Mandalorian clans could earn the warrior title before Sith War, especially since humans (vassals) slowly grew into numbers while Taung species was dying out. This may be supported by Knights of the Old Republic Campaign Guide that states:

“The traditional Mandalorian Crusader - from the days before the Neo-Crusader movement - lives like his ancestors. Many are born into the clans. The majority are Human, although members of the Taung species remain, as well as some alien converts.”

My conclusion at this moment is that the relationship between human vassalship and Taung lords naturally grown into clan dynamic between those two groups and those who proved themselves in battle earned the respect of Mandalorian warriors yet from a legal point of view and/or commonly recognized customs there still was a distinction between Taungs and human members of the society, at least until Mandalore the Ultimate officially abolished the division by opening the rank to anyone willing to join.

This could also affect the type of weapon and its dependence on social status. Thus the right to carry traditional and/or ceremonial Mythosaur axes could be for some religious or social reason restricted solely to Taungs (especially the experienced warriors?) and that is why we do not see officially recognized non-Taung carrying mythosaur ax, beside Ulic Qel-Droma while dueling Mandalorian the indomitable.

Of course, there is not enough data to make a proper analysis of the social-economy situation of human vassals and those voluntarily converted to warrior religion. However the mass indoctrination to Mandalorian Way for sure happened during Neo-Crusaders era which was the starting point for human dominance that lasted to modern time, as now there are few Aliens in Mandalorian ranks, while axes (Taung traditional weapons) gave way to swords more commonly used by humans, like Darksaber or beskad (sword made out of mandalorian iron).

[nickyroethemarinebiologist]

Hey (with malicious intent) here's another one!! We're halfway through now. Had a momentary struggle right in the middle of writing this however it is here and it's pretty alright!! Bon appetit

Chapter VII

‘What are those, up there?’ Timor said, stretching out his neck to look up at the dawning sky; a pair of gulls swept out far overhead, sweeping in circles about the cliffs and sailing on the cold winds caught up beneath their black-tipped wings.

Linsey looked up from unfolding his fresh linens, raising a shielding hand when the light caught his face; he paused in watching the birds, furrowing his brow and frowning a little in thought. ‘They are only gulls, Timor,’ he said, ‘Quite common, I should think, but impressive, no?’

‘Oh, very.’ Timor sighed a little in admiration; Linsey paused to watch him from across their small clearing, an involuntary smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He rubbed the fabric of his shirt between his fingers subconsciously, admiring the impressive curve of Timor’s wings, half-raised and shining like bronze in the morning sunlight. Then he blinked and righted himself, and turned to pull his shirt over his shoulders, shivering a little from the constant winds blowing over the cliffs; he shook out his coat and made himself a little more presentable, by the standards of an aviator, then crossed the clearing and laid a hand upon Timor’s warm hide to turn his attention.

Timor looked down and nosed him fondly, rubbing the side of his head against Linsey’s palm and making low rumblings, like the purring of a cat. Linsey laughed softly and petted him back, holding the great head in both of his hands and stroking his nose.

‘Are we flying again, today?’ Timor asked, with palpable excitement.

Linsey grimaced a little; Davis had been relentless in their drills and flight manoeuvres, sending them around and around again until Timor could turn about and stoop at the flick of a wing--and then still more, so that Linsey felt he might never regain his balance, though he had not ever had an abundance of such on land, being rather prone to scrapes in his boyhood, and adjusted to the rolling of a ship for years afterwards.

Still he smiled at Timor and said, ‘If it suits you, dear fellow,’ and took his hair grudgingly into a queue; then he fastened his carabiners tightly around his waist and climbed into the harness, linking the two chains to the metal rings set into the leather just before him. He pulled on them briefly to be certain they were made fast, then took up the reins and patted Timor’s neck. ‘When you are ready, Timor,’ he called.

Timor raised his wings and stretched impressively; Linsey could feel the muscles gathering beneath the smooth hide. Then he launched upwards and spiralled into the air, wheeling far out above the cliffs, with the sea stretching wide and rolling off to their left, and the meandering sprawl of the covert on their other side, oddly familiar after their long weeks of service.

They did not turn immediately for the courtyard; instead Timor stooped to sweep low over the cliffs, setting the long grass quivering in his wake, and then spiralled impressively upwards, tucking his wings close to his body, with the tail stretched out completely behind them. Linsey bent low to his neck and tensed against the winds and the great spinning motions, faintly sickening but wholly exciting. Then Timor stopped abruptly and levelled out, sweeping in a wide, slow circle; Linsey released his grip on the reins and threw his arms out wide, relishing in the feeling of the wind pulling at his hair and coat, and drinking in great gulps of cold fresh air.

The next few weeks passed similarly, with scarcely any liberty except that which they took gladly in the mornings and evenings, when Davis had released them from their training, and Gardner had walked back down to his own quarters. They spent their suppers together, with Linsey taking up his meals to their small clearing and bringing along with him a lamb put freshly to slaughter, until Timor made the tentative request to hunt for himself, and went wheeling out ahead to snatch at the cattle and flocks of sheep, licking the blood from his scales and rumbling in self-satisfaction while Linsey took supper beside.

He sang to Timor each night afterwards, uncertainly at first, and when his voice grew rasping from the constant signals called across dragonback in training, he turned instead to tales of his earlier seafaring years, though some were perhaps exaggerated, or made foolish in their reputation: a fault more of the unreliable memory of a younger man than of his own arrogance.

Timor was growing all the while, until he doubled Linsey in height, then still more; and when he seemed to slow and get no taller he grew instead in length, in the tail and wings both, filling out in the chest and legs and becoming lithe and swift. His scales hardened somewhat, but stayed astonishingly soft and flexible, and speckled pleasantly with gold and dark tawny along his crest and around the tips of his wings. He was impressively proportionate throughout, taking on a shape much like that of an eagle, only longer and lither; his wings tucked smartly against his side, and stretched out at great lengths when raised, perhaps far smaller than those of the larger dragons about the covert, but surpassing them easily in beauty.

The first weeks passed and Timor finally slowed in his growth—and thankfully, for the harness would no longer need its regular adjustments. He began to develop a spiny ruff around his head, joining with the crest and bristling at every motion he made to look about. This itched awfully in its first week of growth, and Timor scarcely paused in scratching at his head and neck, despite Linsey’s persistent coaxing and bribes of extra lamb at every supper; but he seemed proud enough of this change in appearance, and shook his head occasionally to feel the way the short spines moved and quivered about it, humming curiously and rolling his eyes back to see them better.

Linsey laughed and presented him with their guide; thankfully the sketched Goldcrest shared this same ruff, and so Timor could inspect its appearance without trouble, asking at every moment for assurances on his looks, which Linsey answered with all truth: he did indeed look lovely, like a rare treasure carved in gold, plundered from the furthest breadth of the seas.

With this ruff having grown in, the scales on Timor’s neck around the fresh spines began to harden and fall away, revealing softer hide beneath. ‘Fellow—are you ill?’ Linsey said, upon finding these discarded in the brushwood around their clearing, still golden and shining. Timor scratched at his neck and looked at Linsey with amusement, marking the worry in his tone.

‘I do not feel ill. Is something wrong?’

‘I certainly hope not,’ Linsey said, ‘But I suppose Cates will be able to tell me, if he is smart as he says.’ He crouched to take up one of the loose scales, though his knees complained at the motion; it fit quite nicely in his palm, and was surprisingly light; he likened it to a golden ring, like those on his ears, or looped over the edges of his sash. ‘And if you do not mind, fellow, I might keep this; it would certainly help my repute. What do you say?’

He held the scale before his chest in demonstration, as though it were hooked on to a string around his neck. Timor inspected him closely, then flicked his tail in satisfaction and said, ‘Oh, that is very nice.’

Linsey laughed and patted him fondly on the snout; he tucked the scale safely into his coat, feeling rather smug: there certainly was no other seaman with adornments quite so fine. He felt some gesture was due, but had little to give in return, for all his best effects were left safely upon the Delight. ‘I would have given you my sash, but it is with the crew,’ he said regrettably, ‘Though I suppose we can fashion you a new one; Grayson will teach me how, and we might tie it to your harness.’

Timor rumbled in delight and pushed his head gratefully against Linsey’s palm. ‘Oh!’ he said, happily, ‘That sounds lovely; and then we will suit each other.’

They had formed a rather reluctant bond with Tolerans and his captain throughout their training, for Riley was there at each moment to advise him, and was infuriatingly cheerful in every ordeal. Tolly was wholly impressed by Timor’s new ruff and quick growth, though he himself stayed a nice bit taller throughout—he walked around Timor in a circuit and nosed at him repeatedly, sniffing curiously at the shorter, quivering spines, while Timor stayed begrudgingly still and eyed Linsey in a silent plea.

The two dragons were in the midst of training on one cold morning when Timor pulled abruptly out of an elaborate stooping manoeuvre and turned to look about. Tolerans paused also, slowing a little to sweep up alongside Timor, his head tilting inquisitively; Linsey followed and saw a small grey dragon winging towards the covert, so far above it nearly passed the cloud cover.

He called a signal to Riley, who nodded to show he had understood, then turned about to wave down to Davis and the watching cadets. The little dragon levelled out overhead and stooped abruptly, like a diving hawk, snapping its wings open and wheeling about to draw alongside them. The rider raised his hand to Riley; he wore his aviator’s coat buttoned up to the neck, oddly tight, and his hair loose and windswept, falling in dark curls about a pair of goggles; these he pushed up onto his head, to reveal a serious face with a nose that hooked sharply, making him look rather dragonlike himself.

His dragon was lean and hawklike, with sharp eyes set quite deep in its head, and bristling grey spines running along the length of its neck and back, much like a ruff of feathers. It glanced at Timor as it circled slowly, the yellow eyes wide and searching; Timor blinked curiously back, twitching a little in his unease.

They landed neatly in a great fluttering of wings; Linsey dismounted and stood with Timor, watching uneasily as Davis came up to greet the younger captain. They spoke quietly for a moment, with Riley looking on in curiosity, and throwing questioning glances over his shoulder at Linsey. Then Davis called them over, somewhat urgently; Riley patted Tolly’s hide and sent him aloft, and Timor hesitated before going up after him, sweeping in a slow arc overhead and looking down over their small party.

‘Linsey; I take it you have not met our Captain Lacey, of Fresna.’ Davis said, indicating the dark-haired fellow, stood beside him and frowning; he had removed the goggles, which did little to help his overall appearance: there was now a pale mark around his eyes, striking in contrast to the cheeks flushed with sunburn and giving him an appearance much like a windswept badger.

‘That is Franz, thank you,’ he said sharply; he had a very serious look, despite a rather boyish face. He could not be much older than the hands of Linsey’s crew.

Davis waved this away with one hand and said, ‘Yes, yes; Captain Franz has just come in from the Atlantic. Our fellows in the Navy have found themselves without ship nor shelter—’

‘They’ll be needing a flight home, if they have survived this long,’ Franz said impatiently, cutting in. ‘The Spanish Fleet came upon them with—Lord, I shan’t believe it—a great beast, so they tell me, harnessed from the ocean itself.’

He said this quite dramatically; a gasp went around the watching crowd of cadets, stood by the fence and elbowing one another sharply at having announced themselves. Franz cast them a severe look, and all fell silent at once, glancing about as if feigning innocence.

Linsey looked at him sharply, unsettled somewhat. He was not a man prone to superstition in the same such way as his crew, who would rather throw themselves overboard than be subject to any curse or poor fortune, but Franz’s grave expression had set his mind to the stories told by his first crew, who he had joined as a cabin boy, and deserted the very moment the opportunity came.

‘Listen, man,’ he snapped, taking the man roughly by the shoulders; Franz blinked at him in surprise. ‘You talk of a beast, a legend told by sailors; born of the depths, bred of hunger and rage, larger than any vessel crafted by the hands of men—’ He shook him, roughly, with hands that began to tremble. ‘This is the Kraken you speak of—is it, damn you, or are you a fool?’

He released Franz abruptly, frowning at having allowed himself to be lost to such foolishness, and at the sense of quiet fear brought up by the tales he now imagined: a great writhing, dripping mass rising from waves turned black and stormy, casting sailors into the ocean and swallowing their vessels whole.

A murmur of laughter went around; Franz only looked darkly at Linsey. ‘Ordinarily I would have called you a fool,’ he said, ‘You were a pirate, were you not? And just as superstitious as the rest of them.’ Seeing Linsey’s rising anger, he added sharply, ‘But there is certainly something in those waters, and if not the Kraken, as you say, then it is only something far worse.’

‘Thank you, that is quite enough—Captain Riley,’ said Davis, eyeing Linsey disapprovingly; Riley blinked and snapped sharply to attention. ‘You are to go with Captain Linsey, and recover any officers you can carry; Fresna will lead you. Gentlemen,’ he waved a hand, by way of dismissal.

Linsey was assigned his aerial crew, a smaller arrangement than Tolly’s, him being far larger and sturdier than Timor: Malcolm took the head as first lieutenant—which Linsey felt not a little dismay for, a sentiment mirrored plainly in Malcolm’s bitter frown—with three young midwingmen, who took position with the gunners and senior officers along the main body of the harness. One such man was a young Sampson, who Linsey recognised as the pale-haired boy sent to fetch Captain Riley, bright-faced with admiration as he clambered into position; his fellows were introduced as Mr. Tobin and Mr. Morgan, a small boy, wide-eyed and nervous, who said very little but proved very capable in his work.

The other officers were older, though not any less nimble, and grave with the news of the stranded Navy officers. Linsey watched their movements about the harness with concealed interest; he had not yet bore witness to the proceedings of a full aerial crew, for Caritas was much too small to take on the added weight, and Linsey realised belatedly that he had not paid any mind to the operations of the other dragons, and their crews, when going aloft, having been far too occupied in pitifully considering his own wretched predicament.

The midwingmen went up first and hooked their carabiners on to the metal rings between the sections of the harness. They were joined immediately by the senior officers, the gunners and surgeon among them, who settled neatly just behind Timor’s shoulders and reached down to take up the netting and flintlock pistols, stuck into straps which were then fastened to their carabiner belts; the former was hooked to the harness over Timor’s lower back and loaded with gunpowder and padding. Malcolm climbed up and took his place just in front, having ordered the other officers into position, and pulled at the netting to be sure it was not loose.

These operations complete, Commander Davis walked a circuit about Timor, pausing occasionally to pull at the straps and netting; all held fast, so he hummed approvingly and slapped Timor once upon the side, with some finality, then came to stand before he and Tolerans and Fresna, waiting just beside.

‘Fair winds, gentlemen,’ he said simply, and all three went aloft at once.

They came upon the fray nearly two hours west of Plymouth, far out upon the Atlantic; the wreckage of the Salisbury, a fourth rate of fifty guns, bobbed lonely in the ocean with the mast struck down upon the deck. The remnants of her bow were scattered and rolling with a gentle swell; many of the men were crowded upon the deck or holding to the mast, and those overboard could only cling to her holdings, set loose from the bowels of the ship.

Fresna swept out ahead and peeled away from a dragon of scales in black and white and yellow, with claws outstretched and grasping; it twisted sharply to make chase, the long tail lashing out behind it like a whip. Fresna stooped abruptly, then beat upwards in great frantic thrusts; the larger dragon roared enormously as it followed, tight on his tail, matching his fast manoeuvres with little difficulty. Franz shouted something indistinct, one hand raised in a fist; there was a momentary pause, then his men loosed a volley of gunfire, cracking sharply and sending up smoke. The black dragon roared and pulled aside, levelling out and shaking its head at the noise; then it turned abruptly and dove again for Fresna, who folded his wings and dropped away, scarcely avoiding the long, hooked claws.

‘It is a Threadtongue, Captain; a Spanish breed.’ Malcolm called, for once without insolence. Linsey nodded and called to Riley, who shouted something back, then set Tolerans towards the Spanish dragon before Linsey could make sense of his words.

Linsey shook his head a little, watching as Tolly joined the fray; he turned his attention instead to the wrecked vessel below. Her crew had obviously spotted Timor wheeling overhead, and were calling and waving frantically, clinging to one another for joy.

‘Do not try to pick them up, Timor, you must land. Gently,’ Linsey called, leaning over his shoulder to point him toward the ship. Timor nodded to show he had understood, and then stooped abruptly, fluttering a little to slow his descent. The Navy men scattered below them as he landed, rocking the ship, then came up all at once, reaching to haul themselves onto the harness; Linsey’s crew took them by the arms and shirts and pulled them upwards, shouting orders and guiding them into position. The younger officers, cabin boys scarcely out of their schoolroom years, could not pull themselves up with quite so much ease; Linsey paused briefly to struggle with uncharitable resentment, then he leaned down to offer a hand, and began to haul the men over to his aerial officers, grunting a little at the effort.

The Salisbury’s crew were almost delirious with relief, with eyes that stared about wide and fearful, and hair pulled from its ties and slicked to their foreheads. Many of the faces were youthful and pale with fright; Linsey could not help but feel a sudden sympathy—and a great resentment also, for whichever fool had a heart cold enough to send them out so young.

The crack of gunfire sounded overhead; Linsey snapped his gaze upwards and saw the Threadtongue coming towards them. It had broken from the fray and was angling itself sideways, with its crew set in position along its back, and reloading their guns for a second volley.

Linsey looked about the deck of the Salisbury in dismay: scarcely half the men were up and settled in the harness, and those still stood on the ship had set to pulling at the straps upon seeing the dragon approach, pleading frantically. Another slew of gunfire came down upon them; Timor was caught sharply upon the shoulder and neck, and thrashed in a panic, throwing off the men still climbing the straps.

‘Away, Timor—away!’ Linsey roared, all but breathless for fear; Timor made no hesitation, launching out first and then upwards, blood seeping from his shoulder. A couple of the Navy officers slipped from the harness and shouted as they were cast into the waves, or landed sharply upon the deck; their fellows stared after them with wide eyes, clinging fearfully to the midwingmen beside.

Malcolm climbed up from his post as Timor swept out above the Salisbury, clipping his carabiners to the rings as he went. He stopped at Timor’s shoulder and pressed a hand to the wound; his sleeves were stained at once by the deep red of dragon blood, but he paid it no mind, and paused a moment in thought before he called, ‘Shallow, Captain.’

Linsey at once felt he could breathe again, though kept his hands gripped about the reins, so tightly that his knuckles went pale. He reached up to put a hand upon the scratch on Timor’s neck; Timor twitched and whined about the pain, but this too was thankfully shallow: the hide was only torn a little, barely bringing up spots of blood. ‘Go around, Timor,’ Linsey called; Tolerans was winging uncertainly about the ship, he could not come in for the rest of the men with the Spanish dragon still circling overhead.

Timor nodded his understanding and pulled out of his climb, levelling out briefly before he stooped, dropping past the black dragon and drawing back up just behind, so that it thrashed momentarily in confusion, looking after him with odd, twitching motions at the head. Linsey took up his own pistol with hands that trembled but stayed steady; his crew made themselves ready at his order, he took a deep, shaking breath and roared, ‘Fire all!’

The Threadtongue flailed as their fire was loosed upon it, screeching in a panic when it was caught upon the wing. A couple of its men were struck and slipped backwards; their fellows cut the straps of their carabiners to set them loose while the captain made his orders, calling assurances to his dragon and hastily making his own gun ready. Linsey turned about to order a second volley, hastily-aimed and sporadic, and then Timor stooped abruptly, dropping away from the gun-smoke and shaking his head in discomfort at the noise.

The Spanish captain roared something which Linsey could neither hear nor understand; still he shouted back, standing in the harness with his gun levelled out before him. He loosed his fire as Timor drew up again beside the Threadtongue, and ducked with the return volley, which caught at his clothes and stirred his hair. One young man was struck through the chest; he went slipping from the harness while his fellows clasped at his coat and arms, a dead weight dropping pale into the water below.

Timor roared and spiralled away again, setting the world spinning; Linsey pulled against the reins to keep himself steady in standing, then they levelled out again, the great wings snapping open and jolting them upwards. Then Malcolm was there and shouting something at him; Linsey tried to shake his head and gasped about the pain, pressing a hand to his shoulder, where blood was seeping already through his coat.

‘You are hit, Captain,’ Malcolm shouted again, taking Linsey by the shoulders to steady him. He took the coat away and put a hand firmly over the wound, then turned to call for the surgeon.

Then they were turned sideways again; Timor was wheeling away from a fresh volley of gunfire, his tail spinning out behind as the Threadtongue gave chase. Already its crew were climbing up to set padding over the wounds, and so it came at them again with claws outstretched, sending up a shrill roar; Timor ducked sharply, and Linsey groaned again as the motion jostled his shoulder.

‘Linsey!’ Timor called, turning his head back; the spines quivered anxiously along his neck. ‘You are hurt.’

‘All is well, Timor; keep flying,’ Linsey tried to say, but his voice would not remain steady, and he was afraid he sounded a little strained.

Timor hesitated but obliged, holding himself in a slow, wide circle for as long as he dared, reluctant for Linsey’s sake; then he stooped abruptly and went sweeping over the Threadtongue, pursued by another around of fire and gun-smoke. ‘You must get under him, Timor,’ Linsey called; Timor flicked his ears in understanding and stooped to catch speed, then twisted and beat upwards in great, sweeping thrusts, his claws stretched out and reaching.

He caught heavily at the Threadtongue’s belly, roaring savagely and ripping at the softer hide; the dragon shrieked and raked its claws dangerously close to Timor’s snout. Timor ducked and roared again, pushing away from the injured dragon with all the might in his hind legs; then they were wheeling about for another attack, with the crest quivering in rage along his neck. Linsey tugged hastily on the reins to pull him away: Tolerans was coming towards them, crowded with Marines shouting and clinging to his harness, and roaring terribly. The dragon wheeled in the air, blood streaming from its wing and belly, and fled.

Riley shouted something as he drew up beside them, pointing frantically; Linsey could not summon the strength for a response, so only looked on as Malcolm stood to call over, one hand still held to his shoulder, beneath Malcolm’s own. Fresna came up on his other side, twitching as the few Navy officers upon his back clambered about; Franz raised a hand and gestured sharply east, then the smaller dragon peeled away and went winging back towards Plymouth.

Their return flight to the covert passed uncomfortably, what with Linsey injured as he was, and the added weight of the Navy officers, unused to flying and shifting nervously at every motion. Linsey laid a hand upon Timor’s neck to calm him, for the long spines were still twitching anxiously; already his strength was fading, and twice he felt himself begin to slip. Malcolm called for fresh bandages; these he packed into the wound, then he sat just behind to hold Linsey steady with a firm hand upon his shoulder and back.

They were welcomed upon landing by a small party, Davis and Gardner among them: Franz had gone ahead to warn of Linsey’s injury, and that of the dragons; for Tolly had been struck quite severely upon the wing, and Fresna was not without his own set of scratches, though these were inflicted mostly in a panic by the Marines upon his back. Davis came forward to assist Linsey in dismounting; Linsey waved him away with a muttered rebuke, but he stumbled on his first steps, and was begrudgingly grateful when Riley stepped in to steady him.

‘Well flown, Captain,’ Davis said; Linsey could not be sure if it was reluctance he saw in the commander’s expression, or perhaps pride, though he might just as easily have imagined it. He nodded uncertainly; his legs would not hold him, and Malcolm leaped down from Timor’s back to support his other side.

‘Steady, man,’ Malcolm said, which Linsey could not in the moment summon the strength or courage to condemn him for. Timor nosed at him softly, his eyes drawn wide and anxious; Linsey patted him on the nose, though his shoulder complained at the motion, and he drew his hand sharply away, barely restraining his gasp of pain.

Davis frowned a little, and called for Mr. Dowset; the surgeon glanced up from tending to the rescued Marines, huddled together and eyeing the dragons warily, and paused only to pat the young man whose scrapes he was treating upon the shoulder; then he came up and stooped a little to look Linsey over. He pulled at the bandages, placed hastily over the wound during their flight to the covert, and hummed thoughtfully, while Linsey was made to direct his focus wholly into making himself stand straight, lest he succumb to his exhaustion and collapse.

Dowset spoke briefly with Davis; Linsey observed the frown upon the surgeon’s face with a mild sense of unease. Then he was guided to the sick-berth, a large tent of thick grey canvas, set deep in the sprawl of the covert; Timor nearly would not let him go, and growled when Dowset first approached, a low sound which resounded deep in his throat. Linsey was scarcely more composed himself, made foolish in his fatigue; he spat curses at the men who came forward to support him, and might even have struck them down if he had the strength. It was only after Riley made a frantic vow to keep company with Timor in his absence that he finally relented, with some reluctance.

He slept for a day and a night, waking only to take a little water, or to observe quietly while the surgeons tended to his wound. The rifle-ball had struck him in the shoulder and lodged there, which provided an unending source of discomfort until it was taken out and discarded; then the wound was stitched swiftly and pronounced otherwise relatively minor, and Linsey was put to bedrest for the rest of the week.

When he had sobered enough to make his report without confusion, Davis came down to consult the surgeons of his condition, then listened with mild interest as Linsey recounted their encounter with the Threadtongue, whose crew had been the cause of the day’s injuries. ‘You might call yourself lucky, Captain,’ Davis said, upon hearing his description of the black and white hide, and the scales turned a pale yellow around the slitted eyes. He frowned a little, and Linsey did not think he imagined the look of quiet worry in his expression, though indeed it was greatly disconcerting. ‘You say your lieutenant identified him as a Threadtongue? Yes, very lucky indeed: they are a nuisance, no doubt, and the pride of Spanish Fleet. Timor was not bitten?’

‘No, only struck on the shoulder.’ Linsey said, faintly puzzled. ‘Is he hurt?’

‘He will do very well, thankfully; his wounds are shallow, though he has complained all the while.’ Davis said, ‘No; but these Threadtongues have venom in their teeth. It is only lucky Timor had sense enough to keep away.’

Linsey was not a little unsettled by this; to have put Timor to such a risk was a notion sickening as much as it was shameful. But he did not think he could summon the strength enough to make the rebuke Davis surely deserved, with the feverish ache of fatigue still lingering over his every motion, so made himself silent, and was only grateful that such a terrible fate had not befallen dear Timor. Davis nodded, apparently satisfied, and then turned swiftly on his heel and left.

He woke again a little later, though he remembered nothing of falling asleep, to find Malcolm standing over him and talking with Mr. Dowset. Malcolm frowned a little upon seeing him awake, and waved the surgeon away as Linsey pushed himself up into sitting, blinking his eyes back to focus and looking blearily about him—for he had spent the better part of the last days sleeping, and had not yet found the time or sense enough to consider his surroundings.

‘Captain,’ Malcolm said; Linsey blinked and looked over at him, and the lieutenant paused, frowning as if in thought.

‘Lieutenant.’ Linsey prompted, neglecting to conceal his disdain; he had not forgotten the unpleasant manner which Malcolm had held towards him throughout their short fellowship. Malcolm marked this with a furrowed brow, though he looked neither bitter nor insolent, as Linsey had grown accustomed to, but strangely shameful, presumably conscious of some private guilt.

‘I am very sorry, Captain, I beg you forgive me,’ Malcolm said, very quietly; the words were a little stiff and halting, and sat not at all in his mouth, but the shame upon his face was startlingly genuine. ‘You must think me a scrub, and I suppose I shan’t fault you for it; I felt the very same for you. And Lord knows I have not enjoyed your company, pirate or not.’

This stilted attempt toward apology was very strange, and not a little unsettling; still Linsey raised a brow in questioning, and concealed his rising outrage, made somewhat curious by the unsaid sentiments in Malcolm’s quiet voice. Malcolm paused to look over him, as though searching in his face for a way to go on, or convincing himself of the worth of this endeavour, which he so clearly found struggle with.

Then he took a deep breath and said, ‘But you are assigned my captain, and my duty is to you first before the Fleet. Perhaps you have been as unpleasant as I, and perhaps you deserve what has come to you,’ he glanced over the bandages padded onto Linsey’s shoulder, ‘But I am not the sort of fellow to ignore a man in danger—and I will not stoop to the likes of an officer who turns from duty for sake of a personal qualm.’

Linsey was quiet; then he said, a little uncertainly, ‘You would pledge your duty to a felon?’

‘Oh.’ Malcolm said, and frowned. ‘No, I will not turn to piracy for your sake; but you have me at your command.’ He said, somewhat harshly, before he caught his temper and paused, tucking his hands under each arm in the impression of folding them; then he sighed and went on, with perhaps the smallest hint of warmth in his tone, ‘Oh, but I am damned sorry for it, Captain, and forgive me for saying so: I thought you a scrub, and a lame one at that, and I have ignored any evidence otherwise. Yes, you are a pirate, and a felon, and by all good reason you should have your neck in a noose—but you are a brave enough fellow. You’ll have my respect, and I only ask of your pardon in turn.’

‘Well,’ Linsey said, slowly; he was not a little surprised to hear such obvious remorse in Malcolm’s tone, after all his impudence prior. Indeed, the odd inclination to insult still unsettled him somewhat, but he could not deny that the sentiment was a genuine one. ‘I won’t lie to say I am glad to have your loyalty.’ He paused, then added, more quietly, ‘But I shan’t refuse an honest man.’

Malcolm blinked at him, perhaps in surprise; his brow furrowed a little as he said, ‘Thank you, Captain.’ And then he smiled, a thing which Linsey had not yet seen him do.

[the-dyke-of-handsomeness]

GUYS I FINALLY FINISHED THE INTRO TO Worm (derogatory)

[theswedishpajas]

People finding the roachmallow art and going “what is this? What a strange crackship lmao” is really funny to me cus they’re missing the important link in the whole deadbeats OT3.

I wouldn’t ever say Beej and Mars are in love honestly, they just happen to hang around me and, in turn, each other.

BJ loves to be a lil shit to Mars and Mars loves to see me happy (and begrudgingly enjoys BJ’s pranks and puns, humor is a weakness of his 😔).

I’m sorta like the glue holding them together AND apart, a bit like an auspistice, if you will?

I wouldn’t describe my relationship to either as “romantic” either? Very close, more like a very fluffy moirallegiance, prolly?

And yes, I am using homestuck terms. What can I say? Hussie came up with a way to describe romantic connections that actually makes sense to my brain. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯