#splash configuration

[moonieandi]

snapshots pt. 8 | stanley pines x f!reader 

summary: you and stanley go fishing 

warnings (TW): swearing, panic attack/panic-inducing scenarios, slight gore/violence 

tags: mutual-pining, fluff, angst, action, affection

notes: idk anything about ice fishing so pls don’t get my ass for this okay, this was v different to write than my usual long drawn out heart gutting character analyses that I love (not that that is NOT here) but all the movement was deffff hard so it took me a minute but hey this is what I wanted imma do it ya know 

Also i configured this chapter in like three separate ways in my head and it was so hard to chose? But i think the one i did end up writing is most true to their dynamic so far. To be of note for the v stubble reference im giving here but yall know The Kiss by painter Gustav Klimt? Ya… that…. Thats here (spot it if you can) as always thank you for the kind messages and notes and comments, love yall <3 also comment below if you'd like to be on a tag list I should maybe organize that hehe

word count: 6.5k

| masterlist | ix |

January, 1987

She had found them both nice fold-out chairs at the flea market just that last season, along with fishing poles the nice old man insisted went with the seats also. Talked her ear off about how he used to go ice fishing with his son, before said son went off to college. 

Now he wouldn’t be home during the ice fishing season, so he saw no use for his chairs or his poles. But she did. 

Stan would tell her flippantly about his youth from time to time, usually if not always said stories incorporated Stanford in one way or another. It seemed that the two barely, if ever, separated during their youth. Something that upset her more, that her friend had never spoken of his brother to her in the six years they had known each other. She didn’t think he would speak of it all as fondly, these memories, considering he never confided in her about Stanley, to begin with. 

Stan would speak of the shoreline in New Jersey, of the sharp sand beneath his feet and hidden caves along the coast they both would trek through. Talk of the setting sun, of racing his brother home in the dark down paved streets back to their shared room. 

He spoke most fondly of a boat though, one that had taken both twins years to configure. 

She figured the fishing poles could be some sort of link, at least in her mind. 

That and they spent some of their summers down by the dock at the local lake anyway. Splashing in windy tides off the dock and watching boats go by until sunset was a great way to cool off. That or revisiting the pool, where Stan would insist upon ice cream for the short drive home. 

She figured he would wait for the season opener to go fishing. Considering she gave him the poles and chairs in December, a quick wave to Christmas, a holiday he laughed off on the regular. He would routinely celebrate it with her, just for the holiday cookies and cheesy movies he wouldn’t admit he loved. But he was Jewish, after all. At least raised in a Jewish household, he told her flippantly, after opening his gift this last December. Laughing at her blushing face, and flabbergasted stuttering, asking him why he would bother with all this. She sat straight when he said it was for her. Because she wanted to, so he would. Not that he was a religious man, anyway. 

He found it amusing this holiday season then, to find her struggling to make some traditional dishes his mother would make each year come December for the holidays. Nothing he necessarily missed, but something he found endearing nonetheless. Her usual attention to detail, and odd need to ensure his comfort. 

The fishing poles were a welcomed gift though, and he lit up at them and the differing tackles the nice man at the flea market had also gifted her. Hugged her into his side, while he ranted and raved about being able to fish off the docks come summer. 

But he didn’t want to wait. 

Something she thought rather glumly in the very early morning that January weekday. The sun not even having made its appearance, she had stumbled out of her bed around 4 a.m., having promised to reluctantly go ice fishing with said enthusiastic man. They stood before the porch door now, while he knelt in front of her, lacing up tall winter boots and pulling over her snow pants. Tucking her in, layer upon layer. Putting to use some winter clothes they both had rangled out of donation bins that very first cold season. The snow pants and boots had only ever really been used when they would trek through the outskirts of the woods, searching for clues to Stanford’s other journals. 

She was still half asleep on her feet, falling forward into Stan’s bent shoulder in front of her to groan. For some reason, he was wide awake, and grinning like a fool despite it being 4 a.m. That dumb look on his face reminded her why she even crawled out of her cacoon of blankets. He was beyond happy to be able to go fishing. Something he couldn’t even wait for a warmer season to do. 

He seemed a smidge like his younger self when he was closest to water. Some of his favorite memories are those ones with Stanford by his side and sand intertwined in his hair. His skin dark in the sun and his toes were deep in the tide of the sand. 

It seemed more distant now, as distant as Ford was to him now. He wanted to ground himself here too, and some of his new favorite memories are of them hanging at the end of the dock. His feet in the cold water of the lake, and her nudging his shoulder. Teasing him, edging him off the docks’ wood and into the cold water with her. He preferred the summer to the snowy winters, but he figured they could make some new memories by the water now also. Even if they were colder ones. 

So he more or less begged her to join him. Promising that he would handle the fish after she made a disgusted face at the thought of stripping the fish of their skin and bones for the meal they would make of the catch. She agreed though, happy to tag along if it pleased him. 

He stood from his knelt position in front of her, standing to reach behind him to grab his red coat from the coat rack. Turning back to her to fold her arms into the coat also, her eyes still blurry as she smiled at him slightly giddy. 

He had a gift for her that last December also. A coat folded into shitty wrapping newspaper he had thought to repurpose. She smiled at the blue coat but quickly became confused when she pulled it out of the wrapping to find it was far too big for her own physique to be for her. He had quickly pulled out another present for her, presenting her with another newspaper-wrapped gift. Which she tore open with haste, and rocked up quickly to her feet to dance around their small living room, his old red coat in her arms. 

It was hers now, and she reveled in the shitty coat. His smell still lingered in the seam line, and when she leaned her head far back into the hood she could pick up on his shampoo. It kept her warm, despite also not fitting her physique. 

He had woken up earlier than her that morning, putting the appropriate supplies for ice picking into the trunk next to their foldable chairs, the tackles, and the fishing hooks. So they made their way out into the dark, ducking into the car next to each other to make for the lake in the early morning. 

She hummed along to the radio as per usual, random songs interspersed in between the local morning forecast. She stopped though now, picking her head up from the back of the seat to look over at Stan. 

“We missed the entrance to the dock.” 

“Nah there's another one we can go to. Farther down, less people.” 

She hummed, smiling over at him. What he actually meant was there would be no lake office to report to. So no need to register them for the lake that day, and no stupid state fee to pay for fishing on the lake. Amused at his shortcuts, she turns back to watch the pine trees pass out the car window. 

It was a sharp, nose-burning 10 degrees Fahrenheit that day, according to the radio forecast. Only made worse somehow with the creeping darkness from the horizon line. The sun slinked slowly in the coldness of January. 

He made his way out first, the car’s cabin light flashing on as he grinned over at her. Securing his blue coat closed quickly before getting out to stomp a path in the fresh snow around the car. Pulling around the sides to pull open her door, before chugging around to the trunk to unload the supplies he claimed they needed. 

She knew how to fish, but had never ventured into ice fishing. Mainly because the cold was beyond unappealing to her. But the thermos Stan had presented to her before making out the door that morning heated her hands enough to dismiss the onslaught of negativity thrumming through her. And partially woke her up on the drive over. Stepping out into the crunchy cold snow to help Stan gather supplies. 

He shuffled her chair into her hands, slugging everything else into his own broad arms. He could reasonably carry everything, stomping forward in the snow to make a path for her to follow in. 

They had made a spot on the ice, the snowy shoreline a good bit away. Stan claiming the best spots must be farther out. Because the farther out, the bigger the fish. She sat, glancing around the empty ice. When Stan meant fewer people he meant no people. A frozen dock far off near the shoreline also, its wooden structure covered in ice. She watched him now, the fishing poles cradled in her lap, and the thermos warm in her hands. He’s bent in front of her, his mittened hands working an ice auger to break a solid hole through the thick layer of ice. 

Grunting, he stands back up, hands on his hips admiring his work. 

“Is the ice too thin here?” She observes. 

He tilts his head left, turning to her now. “No, doll. Perfectly fine right here. We’ll only be here until a little after sunrise anyway.” 

He sits in his own foldable chair that she had set up for him while he was finagling with the ice. Their chairs positioned side by side, a little distance between them and the whole he had just made. He reaches between them, opening up the tackle box to shuffle around drawers, looking for something in its depth. 

“Close your eyes, hun.” 

She rolls her eyes, closing them, while shuffling the thermos between her thighs to hold out her hands in wait. He places something in her mittened hands, it’s slightly heavy in them now. 

“Open ‘em.” 

She opens them to see an odd black contraption in her hands. Two knobs, a dark screen, and a long antenna on what she presumes is a battery-powered electronic. Almost too dark to make out what it was, but it hit her and she gasped. 

“Ta-Da!” 

“A radio!” She sings, clutching it closer to her chest and swinging in her seat to knock her knees with his. Clawing at his shoulder to fold herself into his neck and coat’s furry trim. She wouldn’t question where he got it, just revel that he had thought to, for her. 

“I know you weren’t too eager to go fishing with me, doll. But I figured this could make up for some of it.” He chuckled, readjusting his hat on his head after they pulled away. Knee’s still knocking between them. 

“I’d do anything with you Stan.” She hums, unthinking, as she looks down at the device in her hands. Tweaking around the knobs and the antenna to turn it on. She misses his flush next to her. 

She gets it working quickly, the music faintly staticy in the background of Stan attempting to put lures at the end of their poles. 

He gets her’s ready first, leaning forward in his seat to situate the pole in her hands. Pointing out the slack line and the type of lure he put on the end of her pole. She’s too distracted, like she always is when he’s probably explaining something vaguely important. 

The music hums between them, perched on the tackle box he had closed. His cheeks flushed from the cold, his hat slumping down the back of his head, hair peeking out around the rim and sticking to his forehead. He leans in closer, his knee and thigh along her own. His own covered hand reaching for hers, folding it around the pole for her to hold. 

They enjoy each other's company until the sun peaks up along the horizon, a good hour in. As they pass the coffee-filled thermos back and forth, she hums to the radio. Enjoying stories Stan told about tourists from the end of the last season. Telling her about their ridiculous questions he had to work around last minute. 

“Then he asked me if they were extinct!” 

“What you tell him?” 

“Well he couldn’t have been more than eight years old, and he got all teary-eyed when he asked me.” Stan waves his hand around, drumming up the memory of when a child had asked him if the fake displayed plady-beaver was the last of its kind. 

“Annnnddd?” She hums, sipping on the last of their shared beverage. 

“And I may or may not have said they were not.” He shrugs. “Was easy to convince the kid’s dad to buy him a plushy.” 

She laughs, thinking about the stupid merchandise she’s still not used to, that she sometimes restocked in the front of the house. But of course, Stan didn’t have the heart to really crush the kid’s spirit. Sad kids equaled less money probably, in his mind. That and he had a weird affinity of being about to communicate with them like no other. 

There’s a tug on her line suddenly, not the first in the hour they’d been at their spot, but the first real strong one she’s ever felt. Jerking her pole, bending it forward. Both her hands met the pole, yanked straight in her seat suddenly. 

“Woah!” He says, sitting forward and reaching for her pole also. His hands encased hers around the pole. “Hold it tight, hun.” Grunting in her ear. 

But the pulling got worse, had them both standing from their chairs. His arms around hers, helping her reel back the pole, pulling it back towards his left shoulder. His arms encasing her, pulling her flush with his front. 

“I gotcha.” He grunts again, close to her ear. 

“Do you?” Gasping at the strength of the pull along the pole. 

It seems to drag them closer and closer to the ice hole he had put in the ground not even an hour ago. His feet planted firm, yet scrapping against the ice. Hers fumbling, dipping under the strength of being pulled forward. Her hands tight, beginning to sweat and ache in the casing of her mittens. A heat around the ring of her hat. He’s hot behind her, warmth seeping out from his coat and onto her back. He feels firm, and yet they both continue a slow crawl forward. 

Until it tugs. It tugs so hard that she instinctually releases her grip. Her hands were still steady against the pole though, still beneath Stan’s own hands. 

The jerk has them both flung forward, his feet no longer steady, flipping against the ice. She’s still between his arms when they fall forward, inching towards the hole. He turns them somehow, taking the brunt of it on his right shoulder. 

Her head swims, having met the ground rather suddenly. But she’s between his arms, her hands having let go of the fishing pole. He’d let them slip from the pole, his arms tight around her, trying to take the force of the impact. 

“Stan.” She mutters, mushy between them. Her head pounded for a minute, as they continued to slide against the ice. His chin propped on her head, warm around her still. 

He doesn’t respond, because he’s given no time to. Another harsh tug on the pole sent him forward quickly towards the hole. He thinks fast though, bending his arms, hooking his feet along her legs, and pulling her out of his grasp. 

She slides along the ice and snow, his push along her legs and waist burned. She turned, pushing herself up on her hands. Grasping at the snow to get some balance. She had run into the chairs and tackle box. All their supplies scattered along the ice. The radio was static behind her. 

It had all happened so fast, her voice cracking in the cold air. Calling his name but not finding him. One moment he was there, the next gone. The water still. 

They had been pulled forward so suddenly, a quick five-second span between the tug and her head meeting the ice. And he was gone as soon as she had lifted herself again, the ice cracking along the sides of the former small hole. 

“Stanley!” Scrapping, crawling towards the hole. The surface wet and slick from the cold lake water that had seeped through the cracks along the hole now. Stan’s visage far from view, the top of the water dark. 

She stares in what feels like forever but is only quantifiable in the movements of the sun. It’s rising now, around her. Sparkling on the ice and water around her. Something she’d marvel at, have her grasping at Stan’s shoulder. Nudging him to see as she does. 

She thinks only briefly before shucking off her hat and gloves, beginning to unlace her boots. She’d follow him, into the dark depths. 

A deep continuous thump. Running along the ice. First near her feet, then farther and farther from her. It has her racing towards it, the vibrations along the ice guiding her along. It must be him, must be that something that pulled him into the dark murky water. The rhythmic thudding has her racing back to the supplies. Fumbling for the axe Stan had packed to help pick out the ice in the hole. 

Running full force back, the ice cracking beneath her legs. Shoelaces dancing around her feet, her fingers nippy and uncovered around the wooden handle of the axe.

It cracks, sickenly loud and sudden. Water bursts beneath her shoes, seeping up and around her. The ground opens up in front of her, splitting along the horizon line. A flash of blue precariously balanced in the large maw of a blurred creature. 

It shakes the ice, splintering and fracturing it below her feet. The weight of the creature resting the front of its body along the ice. Shaking the striking blue figure in its jaw, trying to subdue it. 

She stands still in the ankle-deep water, trying to make out the blurry figure in the maw of the anomaly. It strikes her then that it could be nothing else but Stanley, confirmed by the sputtering grunts the figure heaves, coughing up cold water from his lungs. 

She stands frozen only until then, stepping forward into the slowly sinking ice bath. Ax swung behind her shoulder, ready to slice along the neck of the beast in hopes it would release her husband. 

He clamors in the cage of teeth above. Raised his large hand into a well-practiced fist, blindly throwing said fist to meet the eye of the beast. 

The hit startles the beast, cracking open its jaw to release Stan, a sudden sharp screech creeping up its large neck through its throat. Rattling her bones as she leaps forward in the ice and water, bringing the ax into the meat of the beast's neck. 

It crawls back further, slinking back into the dark cold waters. She stumbles back through the ice and the water until she feels snow beneath her unlaced boots again, the ax gone from her grasp and embedded in the skin of the anomaly. The beast is there and gone in a flash, scrambling back beneath the water. 

Stan has the air knocked out of him, having landed on his back. His head cracked against the ice and water below, the cold creeping in through his clothes. He opens his mouth to groan but finds only his shallow breath and the puff of heated air leaves his mouth. The sun creeping above the horizon now, something he can only gauge by the heat on his face. The rest of him rock solid and shivering under the weight of his wet clothes. 

A sudden eclipse above his head, the sun, and shadows shaded by a beautiful face. Her face shadowed by the sun, her hat gone and her hair spilling all around her head like a halo. Her cheeks flush from the cold, from the adrenaline. It could be the cold or the way the light looks around her head, but he swore she must have been an angel. 

He’s muttering when she finally reaches him, stumbling through the cracked ice and wet water. Her only thought was getting to him. He was beyond sense when she did make it to him, clutching at his tattered and soaked blue coat. He was soaked, drenched to the bone. His hat gone and his hair icy along his head, his gloves gone also, a boot missing from his left foot. And he’s drenched. It all stuck to his body, freezing quickly in the icy temperature. She had to get him home, get him out of these clothes, and heat him up. 

She runs her hands along his coat first, checking for punctures, for blood. He had been dragged several yards under the water in the toothy jaw of said beast. But no punctures and no blood made themselves apparent through his coat. Something she’ll have to access later. 

A thump along the ice has her whipping her head around. The vibration rippling along the ice and the shards of the broken lake surface. The beast lingered in the area, waiting for them to be off guard again. 

She wastes no time, lifting Stan’s large arm up and above her shoulder. Leveraging his body up to be leaned against her side and her back. All those stories about mothers and daughters and adrenaline ring in her head, a truth to the stories of women and abnormal strength in times of strife. She would ache tomorrow, and be glad of it anyways. 

He unconsciously shuffles his feet, and she makes note that he’s somewhat conscious. The ice helps her slip them both along the good hundred yards she has until they reach the shoreline. Their supplies the least of her worries, and the anxious thought of the beast meeting her back out there in the wreckage of it all. She does not turn back to look when abandoning it all. 

It’s harder folding his stiff body into the passenger seat. His legs flopped into the car last. She curses, reaching over him to buckle him in and then making for the driver's side. She rarely drove them, it was more of a special occasion between the two of them. She had only ever driven once in the winter and had been deeply scared of the slipping ice and heavy snowfall. But the sky was clear and she’d put the thought of ice away for a long while. 

She curses again, reaching over to Stan to feel up the inside of his coat pockets for the keys. He stirs at the movement, shrugging off her touch, shivering in his seat. 

“Not Doc’.” He mutters, his head spinning. 

“What?” 

“You’re not Doc’.” He grunts again, his lips loose. His head hurts like a motherfucker. 

“I am!” She hisses, hands pushing his away, reaching for his pockets again, looking for the keys. 

“Oh.” He looks back, eyes blurry under the odd pressure along the back of his head. This person sounded like his wife, he’d admit. Shifting his head to lean against the back of the long bench, making out the flush on her face and the halo of hair around her head. He thought this was his angel? He guessed it was the same thing in his mind, anyway. 

She’s still ruffling through his soaked half-frozen jacket. “Hi, angel.” He says, smiling down at her frusstrated face. Why was she so frazzled? 

He’s grinning like an idiot, and he just acted like he didn’t know who she was. Like she wasn’t her. Calling her angel? He’d only ever done that in her dream. That achingly sick dream she had of them, of them in this very car. Of his weight above her, of his breath along the crook of her neck. Of his kiss. 

She shakes it off. Finally finding the keys folded into a very frozen and flat pocket along his chest. Turning back to the wheel, starting the car up, and peeling out of the parkway backward. Leaving the same way they had come in. 

She races home, glancing over at Stan stiff in the passenger seat. His eyes hadn’t left her figure but seemed distant. His thoughts far beyond him, and his coat and pants were frozen against him. His hair melts off his head in the car, still wet but no longer frozen to his scalp. Messy wet hair tucked around his big ears. 

She parks and throws open doors as quickly as she physically can. Slipping in the snow, tripping over her loose boots. Fingers frigid when she reaches for him to move him out of the passenger side. 

She knows the signs of hypothermia. Knows the dangers of prolonged exposure to cold, and dropping body temperature. Doing math in her head, hoping he had been exposed short enough for her to physically raise his temperature before his heart began to slow. Before blood began to sludge its way through his veins. 

He looks as blue as his coat, his arm slugged back over her shoulder as she attempts to get him up the stairs. The slurred speech, the confusion, the dulled skin. It made her heart race, taking steps two at a time to drag him to the upstairs restroom. To the bath. 

She sets him against the open door, running and slipping along the tile, turning on the bath to its warmest temperature. The water would be scalding against his cold skin, would sting and tingle in contrast to his wet clothes, but it was the only way she thought to raise his temperature. 

She rushes back to him, kneeling in front of him, grabbing at his coat and pants to pull the wet clothes from him. He’s smiling again, giggling at her attempt to uncloth him. 

“Could have asked hun.” He jokes, but she cries. He’s so out of it, so gone from this reality and it shakes her bones. He’s here and not all at once. 

He thinks he sees her clearer here in the yellow bathroom light, hot fog swelling around them from the facet. She has her hands all over him, eager to get him out of wet clothes that stick hard against his body. Didn’t she know? That all she had to do was ask and he would shed any layer to get closer to her? He giggles again, leaning into her hot hands against his cold blue body. 

She manages to get everything but his boxers and socks off him, a flush to her face. Not for lacking of trying though, but Stan would laugh and shake her hand away. Muttering under his breath between them when she would reach for the waistband of his usual blue loose boxers. So she luggs his wingspan along her back again, leveraging him up to move him to the scalding water. Heat bubbling up in clouds around the water. Bruises along his chest have begun to form from the pressure and weight of the beast's teeth and jaw. They’d turn purple and swell soon, a good sign she sighed. A swell meant blood was flowing fast still.

He hisses, his head rocking back along the edge of the clawed tub when he finally is able to sit in the water. It’s hot, too hot. It hurts to breathe in the heat, and he attempts to lift his lungs above the water to gain air again. The muggy water hurts his skin and burns him. But her hand meets his chest, pushing him back into the scalding water. 

“Stay.” She commands, eyes wavering when she looks at him now. Melted into the porcelain of the tub. He’s still shivering. He doesn’t even register it but his body has been shaking, vibrating, this entire time. Moving his muscles in an attempt to warm him up. 

She reaches to turn the hot water back on, cursing, beating her hand along the rim of the tub when the water comes out cold. It’s all gone. She looks down at him again, her hand moving along his chest, trying to generate heat where her hand was. “Stay, Stan. Stay in the fucking water.” 

“Yes ma’am.” He mutters, still smiling at her like an idiot. God, she was pretty, god her hand felt nice along his cold bitter skin. She was out the door so quickly. Was it possible to miss someone who was just in the other room? 

She’s barreling down the stairs, flipping on every gas burner in her wake on the kitchen stove. Stumbling to the cupboard, pulling out saucepans and the like to put water in. She’d boil it, damnit. Like her grandmother used to do for her when she was preparing her bath. 

She doesn’t breathe until every corner of the stove is full. Leaned over the countertop next to the burners. Her hand rubbed along her chest, along her heart. Self-soothing, the purpose of the continuous motion above the erratic beating. She had tunnel vision up until now, suddenly noticing that she hadn’t even flicked on the kitchen light. Hadn’t even closed the front door. 

She had been scared. Still was. Shaken beyond something she knew. It pained her to be in the next room, afraid of looking over her shoulder and not finding him there. She’d never lead them through crowds again, never let him stray far from her peripheral. Because then he would be gone, could be gone. 

Ice seeps in through her snow pants, and she tugs off her boots too. Socks wet against the kitchen tile. Her hands shake as she pulls her boots loose. 

She had almost lost him. Lost him for good. It was a shell shock beyond her, beyond her imagination. For the last five years, it was hard to conjure up adventures and trips without him. The thought of flippantly leaving him behind never crossed her mind. Hadn’t ever left her mind. Not after storming in through the shack's door, not after his confession to her across the dim kitchen table, across their kitchen table. 

She sits there now, feeling like it was a lifetime ago, but knowing she could blink and mistake the past for the present. He had reached across to her that night, across the table. Held his palms face up when he asked for help. When he confided in a four-second mistake he had made. She had hesitated then, to reach for him. To reach across and find assurance between them, to fold her hands into his own. She had judged initially. But they had both made mistakes. Both made mirror image mistakes, it felt. She didn't want to hesitate to reach for him ever again. She just feared he would be gone before she could. Feared he would disappear along her shoulder line. 

She had thought it was obvious, the unspoken agreement between them. That they both meant something to the other. That her dreams threaded into a deeper reality, and that the jokes they shared weren’t some passing balm to deal with it all. That the late nights in front of the T.V. analyzing movies were for the thrill of each other's company, and that their yearly poker game was a silent promise of convergence. That the shitty driving lessons weren’t so she could drive away from him someday, that chalkboard lessons were so he wouldn’t scoff when she said he was smart with her whole chest. That the yearly diner dates were just that, just dates. Not something flippant, not something as unkind as the upkeep of an image. That he opened doors for her for a reason and tucked her below his chin because he cared enough to. That he reached across tables, palms up, because he never feared her hesitation. 

Something unwritten between them she believed, everything shared in everything but words and letters. She was a calculating woman throughout her years and didn’t know how to trace the beginning of the feelings she had amassed all the way to the end of it. She didn’t know how to explain that her heart clenched when he leaned over the seat to buckle her in or explain how her hands shake when he reaches for the chalk from her now in the middle of a lesson. It was inconsequential, improbable, and entirely unexplainable to well… explain the sum of him to her. It felt little in comparison to his constant devotion. 

The two front pots begin to boil over, she lifts her head, turning off burners and carrying a stem to a pot in both hands. Taking the stairs two at a time again, uncaring about the burning water running down her arms in her haste to make it back to him. 

He’s still the same shade, but he lifts his head to look at her when she enters now. His smile less doppy, more genuine. His hair beginning to dry along his head, no ice to be found in its dark strands. He’s still leaning heavily along the back of the tub, not yet able to hold himself up. Color coming back to his cheeks, to his face. She kneels beside the tub, the floor wet as it seeps in through her pants. She pours in one pot at a time, swiping the water around to acclimate it to the bathwater. His hands move unconsciously, grabbing a strand of her hair to fold behind her ear. To be able to look at her more clearly through the fog of hot water. 

She begins to pour the next pot into the tub, but he tugs her forward, folds her body against the rim of the tub. Something in her makes her stand, lifting her feet into the tub. The way he looks at her, so disorientated and shivering still. It moves her forward, has her crawling into the tub completely clothed just to lay her cheek against his chest. To make sure it continues to rise under her. Like when she sleeps, and he lulls her back to sleep by simply being there. She wants that, for him to lull her racing heart now. Make her forget about his disappearing visage and still water. He does that, hums like he always does, folding her head under his scruffy chin. Comforting her despite his weakened figure. Hoping she wouldn’t notice how cold he still was against her. 

Something unwritten she believed, something she had never had to say out loud because she had never felt this weird depth before. But he was slipping from her grasp now, heavy against the rim of the tub. And so very quiet it made her sick, made her heart chase up her throat. Made her anxious beyond words, because the thing she meant to say to him would stay unwritten. If he was gone she’d only voice such fantasies in her dreams. The dreams she had of him as hers, those other realities her mind conjured where he wore a golden band and called her his. Where she was his. 

“You're mine.” Her voice was unwavering, something unwritten between the syllables of her words. It blooms and bursts from her throat, a growth that had sprouted long ago, stumbles out of her mouth searching for light. Still folded under his chin, along his chest. Her shirt wet from the water, bunched up along her waist where he had put his hands. 

He gets that look in his eyes despite her intensity, a joke on the tip of his tongue. Something to soothe her racing heart, to stamp down the distant look in her eyes. How she had looked in the car scared him, the rush of her chest but the focus of her eyes. Like they had been driving in the dark, through a neverending tunnel. But she chases it away before he can open his mouth, her hand meeting and cupping his scruffy jaw, pulling back from her comfort to look at him. Turning his eyes to her intense ones, ones that held something unspoken. 

“No.” A shake to her voice, eyes blurry. “You’re mine.” 

He nods, his voice stuck in his throat. Running his hands up her back, his warmer hands. 

“Y-you aren’t allowed to leave me like that, Stanley. You can’t l-leave me all alone like that.” Flashes of a towering beast are nothing compared to turning over her shoulder. Of searching the horizonline. Like she does for Stanford, eyes drifting to tree lines. She wouldn’t, couldn’t compartmentalize doing such a thing for Stanley. She’d take back hesitancies and reach across tables palm up if it meant he wouldn’t leave her again. 

“I promise, angel.” He takes her again, tucking her back to his chest. Her racing heart fluttered against his warming chest. “I won’t leave.” 

Her hand fall into that crook in his chest, the other clutching along his back, trying to bring him closer, trying to make the space between them disappear. She sniffling, from the cold and stress, against his chest and he doesn’t think twice about his words. Thinking of reaching for her, of meeting her across bridges and tables and in tunnels to meet her open palms, her warm hands. Unfurling her from his chest to lean down and place his lips near her ear, something unspoken between syllables. 

“You’re mine, too.” 

His lips traveling to her cheek, hovering against the flush skin before tracing her warmth. Kissing the apple of her cheek as she leans into the front of him. His lips warm against her cheek, like she had dreamed of. He had never been this close in the waking world, something she craved more with each passing day. She never pulled away, sniffling as he brings her forward again. No hesitation to be found in the nod of her head along his scruff, a nudge, and nestle of agreement. Something unspoken, unwritten. 

She forgot about the pots and burners. 

[yuki2sksksk]

Instead of a bounty plastered, this time, the merman noticed, the pirate had her face over a large poster, hung almost neatly just by the ship dock. He stayed hidden, still hearing footsteps and chattering echoing through the small port belonging to a small island he had just came across on.

He heard, despite the slurring words of those drunken humans, that the island is under the protection of the Butterfly Pirates ever since those -- what the government branded as criminals -- saved the natives of the island from nasty illness that had reduced the number of their populations. The government had deemed the islanders a 'loss cause' and abandoned them in time of needs. The pirates had saved them and the islanders were so grateful they even propped a picture of the captain by the dock.

He emerged out of his hidden spot once the coast was clear, propping his arms over the dock configuration, careful not to make loud splashing in the water as his eyes darted towards the taken picture of the Butterfly Pirates captain.

Gentle looking, her eyes were, even in the form of a picture. Unlike her bounty poster, she had her mouth opened in this one, the corner of her lips tucking up as if she was almost laughing while the photo was taken. It didn't matter what she wore in this poster or her bounty one, she could have worn a rug and still looked beautiful in it.

He tilted his head, eyes never left the poster, remembering the way this particular captain looked at him with no trace of judgement, eyes twinkling with no hostility and leaving him be in peace when he didn't reply when she greeted him.

" My, aren't you the prettiest merman I have ever laid my eyes on. "

He shuddered, feeling heat creeping up to his cheeks and ears as he recalled her sweet tone voice. Shaking his head, the merman dived back into the water, deciding that, while his dislike for humans still remained, it doesn't apply for this pirate with the name Kanae.

[Masterlist]

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Humans And Mutants - Chapter 9 - Logan Howlett X Female Reader

Title: See No Evil

Previous Chapter | Current Chapter | Next Chapter

Logan Howlett X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Jean, Scott, Kurt, Ororo, Charles (Mentioned), Magneto, Mystique (Mentioned), Stryker, some of the children (Mentioned), and Mutant 143 (Mentioned)

WC: 982

Warnings: X-Men canon violence, X-Men canon storyline, brief mention of death/killing, slow burn, and angst

(Sorry, if this series is a bit odd, I made this in 2018)

Ororo and Nightcrawler slowly got up and assisted all the children. “Everybody okay?” Ororo then asked, there were murmurs of ‘yeses.’ “Alright, follow me, and stay close,” She continued.

Meanwhile, Cyclops sat up, shaking off the effects of Dark Cerebro. He looked over to see Jean in the far corner, holding her head. “Jean..?” He asked weakly. She didn’t look up. He stood, walked over and crouched next to her, tenderly holding her hand. “Hey.” He spoke. She squealed and winced, startled. “It’s okay… It’s me.” He continued, calming her down.

She looked up, her eyes were bloodshot, and filled with fear. She held a shaky hand up to his face and caressed it gently. “Scott.”

Scoot frowned, “What happened?”

Jean shut her eyes tight and rubbed them. He helped her up. She seemed disoriented, she held onto him for support. “I… I don’t know.”

Her com device crackled with Ororo’s voice. “Jean, I’ve got the kids.”

Cyclops heard a faint beeping sound. He turned and saw a charge attached to one of the generators. He looked up and saw the rest. “Alright. Meet us in the west corridor. We’re going to get the Professor.” Jean spoke weakly on her device to Ororo.

“Jean…” Cyclopes muttered. He reached towards the charge, it beeped louder and faster, and the clock started to count down faster. He pulled away and it slowed down to its normal speed. “Jean… We have to go.”

“Scott... Something’s wrong.

Cyclops stared at the charge. “I know.”

~~~

Back in Dark Cerebro, Magneto stared at Charles, who was still in his coma-like state from 143. “How does it look from there, Charles? Still fighting the good fight? From here, it doesn’t look like they’re playing by your rules.” Magneto hovered across the middle of the hole. With a wave of Magneto’s hand, the entire machine began to re-configure itself. Ceiling boards, metal braces, tubes, wires, everything. It was a swirl of metal and movement. He stopped and landed on the platform, “Maybe it’s time to play by theirs.” Through the doorway, Mystique smiled as Magneto turned to walk out. “Goodbye, Charles.” 

He then shut the door.

Cerebro slowly started back up again. The throbbing started again, louder this time. Each light signifying the non-mutants of the world, the rest of humanity, were Cerebro’s new targets.

Stryker was about to open the helicopter door, but he hesitated. He heard it, faintly. He stopped and pulled out a small dart gun, and wheeled around. Logan cut the gun from his hand and threw him to the ground. He pulled Stryker close, his nostrils flaring.

“Now, you were about to tell me something…” Logan began with a growl. Then the ground rocked by an explosion. A loud one. The first of the charges detonated, sending the giant generator crashing into the side of the room. Debris and water splashed everywhere. Then the second charge hit. An alarm blared and warning lights flashed. The ground was suddenly rocked by the sound of two more explosions. Still holding Stryker to the ground, he looked to the spillway beside him. Water began to fill the spillway… Preventing the X-Men from going out the way they came. “What did you do?” Logan asked angrily, glaring down at the man. Stryker’s face curled into a smile. 

“Logan, we have to go.” You spoke, beside him, still holding your head.

He looked back to the tunnel. The sound of colossal rushing water could be heard, as could a distant rumbling. He’s torn between his past - Stryker - and his future - the X-Men - who were confined underground. He grabbed a bundle of chains used to secure the helicopter and quickly chained Stryker around one of the legs of the said helicopter.

“Don’t move, we’re not finished.” Logan turned away. He then took your hand and ran back through the tunnel. 

Ororo, the children, and Nightcrawler came around a corner and neared the giant spinning sphere. They watched in awe. All around them, the creaking and shattering of the base could be heard.

“What is this?” Nightcrawler asked, his eyes wide.

“Cerebro.” Ororo replied, horrified. Just then, Cyclops appeared, guiding a staggering Jean. The low, throbbing hum of Dark Cerebro was once again audible. “Jean, I thought you and Magneto stopped it.” Ororo thought.

“He did, but…” Jean said.

Quickly, Jean closed her eyes, focusing. She placed her hand on the door, using her telepathy. You and Logan came running down the hallway, out of breath he reluctantly let go of your hand. “We have to get out of here, now!” He shouted, “There’s a tunnel that goes under the spillway, Stryker has a helicopter there.”

Jean had her hand still pressed against the door, still concentrating. “No… Magneto reversed Cerebro. It’s not targeting mutants anymore.”

“So who's targeting now?” Logan asked.

“Everyone else. The Professor’s still inside. He’s being… Manipulated… By a mutant.” She replied. The system shook by the sound of the dam coming apart. The kids looked worried. Dark Cerebro’s hum got louder. “Kurt.” Jean called.

“Yes?” He replied, ready to help.

She gestured with her hand slightly, “You have to take me in there. Now.”

“Jean…” Cyclops began.

“I told you. It’s too dangerous. If I can’t see where I’m going, I…” Nightcrawler began stuttering out, but Scott interrupted him.

“Jean, no.” Cyclops said.

Jean then turned in your general direction, “Y/N?” 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.” You muttered, your fingers tingled painfully from your constant mutation usage. “I’m sorry.”

Cyclops stared at Jean closely, and noticed something different about her, the way she’s staring ahead at nothing in particular.

“I have to get in there.” She continued to speak, and - though people couldn’t see - Scott narrowed his eyes.

“Wait a second.” Cyclops said suspiciously. Cyclops grabbed Jean by the shoulder and gazed into her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Ororo asked.

He swallowed, “She’s blind” Cyclops said sorrowfully.

---

@ashdoctor @powergirlsupremacy @weallhaveadestiny

---

Main Masterlist | X-Men Masterlist

[astogurlnikkipinkai]

Elsewhen in Time and Space...

The Odyssey of Athena 15

The crew: Gigi Princeton, Lunar Module Pilot, Nikki Pink, Commander, and Anderii: Command Module Pilot and Medical Specialist pose in front of the Athena 15 rocket that will take them to the moon.

The mission crew pose for some provocative and unapproved photos before launch.

Before they could be grounded, the intrepid crew walk the gantry to their craft...

They are strapped into their seats. Anderii asked for extra tight from the pad leader...

The capsule is secured and the rocket is ready... nothing left to do but LIFT OFF!!!

After a perfect lift off, the crew is soon configured and comfortable for the trip to the moon.

The Glaukopis soon arrives at the moon...

and the crew prepare to make their decent to the surface.

They cross over to the Lunar Excursion Module 'Cygnus' and leaving the command module 'Glaukopis' on automatic, they descend to the Lunar surface...

and despite some anomalous navigation readings... that Gigi was able to work their way through, the trio landed safely.

After securing the ship... they stepped out on the lunar surface and..

placed a memorial dedicated to the people who gave their lives to space exploration.

They soon get to work, collecting rock samples:

Driving to different locations in the lunar rover for more samples

Looking for signs of lunar ice and setting up experiments.

They were very busy but they did have time to try out some Earth games such as tennis...

however, the magnetic racquets needed more work. Gigi and Anderii also complained that the suits were too stiff.

All to soon, it was time to leave the lunar surface...

The Cygnus soon rendezvoused with the Glaukopis and the ladies were heading back to Earth...

Anderii experimented with new launch restraints, with maybe a little bit to much enthusiasm...

After a brief stop at the World Space Station and a call to their loved ones

they were ready to return to Earth.

They splashed down and were soon recovered. Anderii and to Gigi had to get their feet wet to assure themselves that they were back.

Nikki, Gigi, and Anderii go aboard the carrier... wondering where their next adventure would take them.

Thank you for coming along on this Voyage to the Moon.

Astrogurl Nikki Pink

@anderii @gigiprinceton

[foxtamer113]

Darkstache HC's pt.2

● Dark doesn't like Space, but he'll go stargazing with Wilford anytime he asks.

■ Wilford may be the one who got the idea to make a TV show Company, but it's Dark who made it real with his politicking and legal know-how.

○ Speaking of TV Show, Dark was Wilford's camera man and audio crew when it was just the 2 of them. The boom mic hitting Mark during Wilford's interview of him was all Dark's intentional act. Made Wilford laugh about it afterwards.

□ The editing was both of them trying to learn how to use an editing software together. Halfway through, they gave up and decided to use magic for all their CGI needs and upload the raw footage.

● Dark is Genderfluid and a shape-shifter, able to mix and match whatever traits they want and feel comfortable in. Wilford absolutely adores every body configuration Dark has, and gladly explores each and every one.

■ Wilford is Pansexual (and a Monster-lover) and adores Dark in every form. Male, Female, Eldritch, and In-Between.

○ Dark is a Night Owl, and NOT a Morning Person. Often grumpy when they wake up after sleeping for more than 3 hours. It's why they eat breakfast in Private and not with the rest of the Egos. Dark has no energy other than to lay of their table and wait for coffee.

□ Wilford thinks Dark is adorable in the mornings, when they're still so sleepy and slump on their table in their fluffy cotton pajamas. Wilford hands them their sweetened coffee, grinning as Dark chugs it down, as he serves themselves some toast and eggs that he made.

● Dark cooks dinner, while Wilford makes breakfast. They both do the dishes together. Wilford's on drying duty, because he kept splashing Dark with water playfully, whenever he washes the dishes.

■ Wilford likes buying Dark colorful clothes, smiling to himself as he sees them wearing it. Knowing that only both of them know that Dark is wearing a Bright purple shirt under his monochrome aura.

[sensualautopsy]

DEAR Penthouse-Forum. I can't believe it happened to me.

There I am, with Betzy, you've seen a pig, right, not 3 minutes in of a 30 minute orgasm when I hear farmer What's-his-name walking this way. He fed me oats this morning, I know what that means. He fed me oats!

I know what that means again.

I look down and Betzy's not even a pig! She's a pile of hay wrapped in a blanket! What the shit, tricked again!

Farmer gets there, I know he likes to watch but I'm not into that, but he's too polite he won't kill me till I'm done finishing. And I look around, spotting a bucket of milk. Obviously, Milk = Jizz, I pull the milk underneath me, dipping my paw and taking my hoof, splashing the pile of hay (so long as he sees some white fluid), wheh. I can do this for hours.

And I do.

And halfway through the bucket of milk I realise he's too polite - If I pretend to have a heart attack he'll get worried and come help! So I clean the milk off my hoof and then ghah! And he comes in and bends down and that's when Shit Attack! And I shit all over him, especially his face and he's writhing around and I use that opportunity to go behind him and pick up a shovel that he dropped, and also I brought Betzy with me don't forget that.

I try to tornado attack but the shovel didn't do nothin' cus I'm a pig and then I'm like woooo- and I run over to the tractor that's parked over across the way and I toss Betzy by the pedals and I'm like; "when I say the word you Floor it!" and I climb up and I push buttons and I pull levers and it rumbles to life and I yell "FLOOR IT!"

Nothing happens.

And then I remember that Betzy's a pile of hay, duh.

So I jump down and toss Betzy out the window and watch as she lands in the thresher blades - NOOOOOO-

Oh but it's okay because she's made of hay so she reforms perfectly into the exact same bale of hay on the back-side of the tractor with the blanket wrapped around her, she's even better cus she's not all beat up by me fuckin' her, and then I floor it right towards the farmer but then I realise that the wall of my pen is made of stone so the tractor just goes right into the stone wall -and Doink- and nothing.

And at that point I realise that the farmer always keeps a loaded, cocked, ready to go Shotgun, hanging on the back wall of the cab of the tractor, and even though I don't have fingers I can probably get the thing down close enough to hit him and then trigger with something so I'm like I'll shoot him his stupid face!

So I get the gun out of the tractor, plant it and sorta aim it then try 'n pull the trigger and kill him with the shotgun.

....

Blank. Fuck.

He's so nice! He just had blanks in his shotgun! He wasn't gonna kill me at all, Maybe he wasn't gonna kill me!

I apologise. I say; "Hey. Bro. Maybe I misread the whole situation. Can you please forgive me. You did me right by that halebale, gotta be honest, couldn't tell the difference.

Why don't we just put all this behind us? Pal?" I put my jizz, shit covered hoof out there for him to shake. "Pal, Buddy?"

And he looks at me, through his shit-covered eyes, and he grimaces, and he says, "I'm gonna eat you myself"

And I look around frantically 'cus I realise he's not gonna forgive me, and there's an oil-lamp hanging up on the rafters of the barn and I'm like; "well I don't know if I'll make it out but maybe we'll Both die you son of a bitch!"

And I jump up and I smash the oil-lamp so that it burst into a huge thing of flame and the entire barn is engulfed in a configuration of flame 'cus it's all filled with hay and all kinds of flammable shit.

And the farmers laying there still trying to get his bearings back from the shit and I stare into his eyes as realises that he's gonna die and it's all my fault.

And as we're all burning and hanging in there he rises from the embers, like you know how when V from vendetta stood in the flames all like OOOOOOOH? like that's what he did, then and there and he's naked too, well I mean I'm naked too but I'm a pig but that's okay, and then I see, Behind him.

Betzy.

She's walking right into the flames right behind him, he doesn't see, he's too busy screaming, about to kill me, removes the blanket off of herself, wraps him And her in the blanket I'm like -Nooooooo!- My bacon sizzlin' But she's sacrificing herself to take this guy down once and for all because the blanket's gonna seal them both up - They wil both burn and I, I might live.

But he will die.

(I have a clarifying question.. Is Betzy at this point still just a pile of hay?)

(It's a bale of hay wrapped in a blanket. Oh yeah.)

Anyways. She wraps them both up in the blanket, turning them into a hotpocket, and I'm like oh. I will get the rest of my revenge on his family.

I go hop in the tractor and drive up towards the farmhouse, then as the tractor is floored right at the farmhouse I find another oil-lamp 'cus it's an old tractor, then I smash the oil-lamp all over the outside of the tractor and now it's a big rolling fireball and it crashes into the farmhouse to kill the rest of his familly.

[inkformyblood]

just for a season (09Ghoap, YoOTP25)

Hanahaki Disease (non-fatal), Historical AU, Mer AU. 09Ghoap, minor John Price x John Soap MacTavish

MacTavish didn’t think he would stay for long at the lighthouse when he’d first arrived on the island. The village itself on the shore just beyond had been more familiar, a low-slung huddle of thatched cottages on the outskirts that congealed into brick and mortar, some storefronts and the bones of a marketplace, a few pubs and he could be content there for a time. The lighthouse had been a scar on the horizon, some artistic rendition of a wizard’s tower thrown on a drunkard’s pottery wheel, and MacTavish had staggered from the small boat sent to ferry him across to it wearing the remnants of his final pint splattered across his boots into the arms of one John Price. 

“Only need you to stay for a season, lad,” Price had said, one hand pressed to MacTavish’s forehead to keep him upright, the other resting above the keys at his waist. “Just a season and we’ll send you off to your nice soft bed with some coins in your pocket and a few hairs on your chest.” 

MacTavish couldn’t say what colour Price’s eyes had been, but he sketches them in charcoal on the corner of tattered sailcloth strung up along the side of his bunk that first night, the roar of lighthouse horn enough to pluck him from fitful sleep minutes before it sounds. He spends that first breakfast tipping forwards into his plate, a fry-up for the first day after a resupply, strips of bacon fried in their own fat and bread neatly hacked from the loaf and toasted in front of the fire, while Price chuckled, wreathed in smoke and salt like some deity of old. His fingers were crooked, weathered and pale as driftwood, but he’s fast with them, smacking across MacTavish’s knuckles with the flat of his knife to keep him awake, to keep him alert, and just because he could. 

He’d hated the man and adored him in equal desperate measure.

One season bled into two, to three, to one bitch of a winter when MacTavish curled up in Price’s bed to steal any memory of warmth from his sheets, and then another.

Then, there was war.

Two men left the lighthouse.

One man returned.

“They’ve asked me,” MacTavish begins, tapping the ash from his cigarette into his mug. It’s mostly paper and char by this stage of the month but he returns it to his mouth all the same, tastes the stale tang of damp tobacco. “If I want to stay on the rock for another season.”

He plucks two cards from his hand, their edges soft with age and warped by the salt in the air, holds them aloft before he adds another, laying them all down on the stool that sits between the two men. It’s a strange configuration; MacTavish slung in the low-backed armchair, the frame moulded to fit a different man’s shoulders, the angle of his hips. He sits forwards, legs spread wide and laces trailing from his boots, half-loosened as the evening stumbled onwards, and sinks back against protesting springs. Riley presses himself upright, the cloying scent of brackish water clouding the air like a lover’s perfume, and the water sloshes against the side of the copper bathtub he’s folded into. If Riley had been any other man, it would be a private affair, MacTavish busying himself with his sketchbook or the snarl of his thoughts. 

Riley blinks at him, first one set of lids — milky white like death’s first kiss — then the other, dark lashes spilling shadows across his cheeks. “What did you say to them?”

There’s dark indentations splashed across his forearms from the edge of the tub, harsh lines woven over the paler sheen of scale and skin. Riley leans closer with a slosh of water, three cards held between thumb and forefinger before he drops them on the stool. He has a way of looking up at MacTavish — a necessity given their seating arrangements but it runs deeper than that — like he’s studying him in the same way a religious man bleeds over his bible. 

“They’re not wrong for asking, there’s meant to be some new blood on the rock for years now.” MacTavish drags blunted fingers over his jaw, scratches at the line of his neck. “Could be a younger man for you to bite at over cards, with a pretty wife and a baby. More interesting company for you than an old man.”

Riley hums, his jaw tight. It doesn’t sit even, the scars at the corner of his mouth drawing his grin jagged, the curve of his teeth constantly on display. “No, you’re fine.”

“It’s like you’re trying t’make me blush.” MacTavish shifts his cards between his fingers, places them all flat on the stool, only to pick them back up again. The evening air is cool, a distant prickle against the nape of his neck, the edge of his wrists, and he considers rising from his seat and crossing the expanse of four steps to the huddle of the stove and throwing another piece of driftwood in. It would burn beautifully, a riot of purple flames devouring the pale sculpture, but that would be a step away from Riley, from the deliberate weight of his gaze.

MacTavish stays where he is.

“What would you do in town?” Riley asks, his teeth exposed in something more than common flesh healed jagged. There’s seaweed tangled in his hair, dark against the sodden curls, never able to fully dry but golden all the same. “Your own pretty wife, a baby?” 

MacTavish laughs then, really laughs with his head thrown back and chest aching from the effort. His ribs had never healed right from his first tumble into a foxhole, fresh blood on his palms (his, Price’s, the laughing lad next to them) and every breath sends a pang echoing through the memory, crashing into the swell of the present. Price had pulled him from the stinking mud, slapped him on the back before his hand rested on MacTavish’s shoulder, keeping him upright, keeping him steady. 

“No, lad.” MacTavish chucks down his cards, clearing his throat before he swallows down the mud of a foreign field he hopes to never see again. He draws another pull of his smoke, the dull glow burning steadily to his fingers, and breathes out through his nose. “No wife, though it wasn’t for a lack of them trying when I was younger. Must’ve told you this before—” He looks to Riley, tipping his head to one side in question. They’d spent countless nights together living in the same cramped quarters, the aging lighthouse keeper and the mermaid in his bathtub, and the details blur together in MacTavish’s memory, faded like an old photograph that’s been exposed too many times and the image beneath bleeds through. Riley shrugs, layering his arms over the edge of the bathtub and resting his chin upon them. Could be an oil painting of a cherub torn straight from the church walls and MacTavish abandons his cards on the stool without a second thought, reaching for the bloated curve of his sketchbook, pencil jammed between the pages. 

“Anyway,” he says, scratching out the blunt beginnings across an empty corner of a page. “When I was younger, back when I kept saying I was only staying on the rock for a season, I had a handful of girls trying to court me.” It had been a heady, if uncomfortable, sensation as a young man, giddy excitement of being craved warring with the bitter panic that something isn’t right, something with no shape or name but it existed all the same. His older sister had brought home an unbroken colt once and he’d felt the same as that beast; trying to flee a world that did nothing but exist. “Few of them were Heartsick over me, wore their flowers in their hair so I’d notice.”

He couldn’t remember their names, but he remembered their flowers, the same ones that would likely litter their pillows in the morning or be chewed and swallowed along with their food, a bouquet of red roses, some pink, daisies, primroses. Their scent hung heavy on the morning air, mixing with the smoke of the incense in church as MacTavish took one hand between his own, lowering his face to whisper a blessing that would be devoured in one starving blink. The affliction wasn’t fatal, a byproduct of God’s love for his creations or some quirk of human biology if the doctors were to be believed, but it could be inconvenient for the sufferers. The radio plays and serials would use it to raise the stakes in their romantic subplots, sending out the fresh-faced female leads with a wreath of roses woven into her hair or the plotting step-sisters with fresh blooms cut from the garden. 

“Although,” MacTavish tears himself free of the memory, the remnants of it clinging to his arms, his hands like dust. “If you’re asking because you’re a siren, Riley, then you’ll have a poor last meal from me.”

Riley chuckles, the sound closer to the scratch of a match than anything a human could produce. His tail shifts, the dark fins stretching above the water to counter his movement, a ripple of muscle down its surface as Riley lifts himself upright, seawater sloughing off his skin. He’s human from the waist up, the sharp concave line of his belly warring against the onslaught of pale scales, his navel blank except for the scars that stretched across it; one set over his hip, another straight up the centre of him, a handful more curving over shoulder and forearms, before the deliberate devastation of his throat and jaw. There’s a few tattoos visible on his upper arms, the edges of one on his collarbone, and another on his ribs, and MacTavish marks them quickly on his sketch, smudges his thumb over the hurried outlines. Riley doesn’t move when MacTavish isn’t watching him, dark eyes catching the embers, the faint glow of MacTavish’s smoke. He holds out one webbed hand expectantly, and MacTavish hands the cigarette over with a rueful sigh. He doesn’t mind, not truly. The end glows a pittance in Riley’s hold, the smoke barely more than a wisp as he breathes it in, the memory of it rolling from the gills in his neck like morning mist inland, pale and barely there. 

“I don’t think I’d see much of you if I left the rock,” MacTavish says, returning his gaze to the cards spread out in front of them, his sketchbook balanced on his lap, his pencil tucked behind his ear. There’d be grey lines over his temple later, dark against the silver shot through his hair. 

Riley drops his set of cards down, nudging them into place before he returns the cigarette to his mouth. It’s down to the paper now, grey ash falling free over Riley’s fingers, floating on the surface of the water like soap scum. “I could go with you.”

MacTavish first met Riley the night after a storm. It had been his second or third season at the lighthouse, his legs growing steady with every step over the slick rocks, the salt crystallising down to his bones. Price had dropped a basket onto his chest, mercifully empty, and sent him out with a smack to the back of his head, Price’s jumper sitting wide on his shoulders and long on his hips. Seagulls wheeled high overhead, shrieking to each other and dropping out of the slate-grey sky to pick at something on the ground, barely visible at first as MacTavish made his way over. He’d expected some fish, their eyes already glassy or missing, just empty husks staring up at a sky they were never meant to see; but what he found was a man, his skin scraped raw and bright over his hip, his elbows, blood and feathers clinging to his palms, his mouth. 

“Fuck off,” Riley had snarled, his voice barely louder than a rasp behind the display of his teeth, and MacTavish only laughed, a mixture of disbelief and wonder rattling through the empty spaces between his bones, the universe reshaping itself because of one chance encounter.

“You’d go with me?” MacTavish asks, leaning back in his chair and letting his legs slide wider. He’s got a small cottage back on the mainland, it had been Price’s like so many things that MacTavish owns now, just another thing folded into his hands alongside a black-edged telegram that was too small to contain the full breadth of the man it trapped in dark typeface, the man who would be forgotten as just another name amongst the war dead. 

It’s big enough for two.

MacTavish hums quietly, reaching for a smoke he no longer holds. He pushes himself up from the chair, the creaking of the springs only masked by the cracking of his knees, a line of pressure caught tight in his back. He staggers his first step towards the low slung cabinet, but catches himself on the second, the third. Another wail of the horn high overhead, the carrion call of some enormous bird, and MacTavish pulls fresh rolling papers, a folded paper package of tobacco. “Another?” he asks over his shoulder, drinking down the shadowed lines of Riley’s features as he slouches against the line of the bathtub, his fingers twisted in the seaweed caught in his hair. 

“No,” Riley murmurs, far gentler than he has any right to be. Drawing him wouldn’t be enough, MacTavish could fill every inch of the lighthouse with his visage, carve the smooth curve of his form into the rock itself so someone, somewhere can dig it out of the ruins and marvel, and it still wouldn’t be enough. MacTavish is stubborn and sullen, a ruined husk of a ship from a bygone age left to rot in the sun, with salt on his hands and an anchor looped around his neck, never more than a handspan away from the terrified lad who breathed in the thick scent of blooming roses and wondered why he didn’t feel anything.

MacTavish dampens one edge of the paper, tapping out a thin line of tobacco, rolls, and lights it. Riley wins the game, his grin sharp behind his facade of indifference, blood scented in the water and leapt upon, and MacTavish blackens his lungs with every inhale, the taste sharp across his tongue. 

“Going to be a storm tonight,” Riley murmurs. The fire has long since burnt to embers, the room cast in pale shadows, and his eyes gleam strangely in the low light, dual eyelids shimmering with every blink. “You should sleep.”

“Aye.” MacTavish stands, presses his hands into the small of his back as he leans against it. Riley lifts himself partially from the tub to sit on the edge of it, the sharp bite of the sea ever present. 

He’s solid in MacTavish’s arms as he lifts him, Riley’s arms locked around his neck and the curving tattoo on one bicep the point of MacTavish’s focus as they breathe in tandem, for a moment, a single entity. The lighthouse howls above them, around them, and Riley twitches, his tail fin flaring wide in a ripple of muscle down the length of it, his jaw clenched tight as he turns his face into MacTavish’s neck, his breath damp against his skin, the fall of his crucifix. 

“You alright, Riley?” MacTavish murmurs as he makes his halting way down the stairs, his shoulders turned to keep Riley’s tail clear of the narrow stone walls. 

“Yes,” Riley answers, his voice thick. His hands twine in the loose strands at the nape of MacTavish’s neck, the sharp edge of his claws scratching delicately at his scalp. 

Their parting is inevitable, the roar of the sea against the edge of the broken sluice gate louder than the lighthouse overhead, the marrying of their two worlds. MacTavish kneels, the stone damp and soaking into the light fabric of his trousers, matching the ocean already emblazoned across his chest and belly, the rivulets slipping over the edges of his spine, and he hasn’t been inside a church in years but here is sacred enough for him to worship. Riley slides from his hold, catching himself on the edge. “Sleep well,” he murmurs, his words almost lost beneath the roar of the water, and then he is gone. 

MacTavish returns to the huddle of his rooms, a thin trail of smoke fluttering behind his every step like a bridal veil. His thoughts are muffled, echoing through shattered bone and tangling around the snarl of his ribs, the stagnant cling of his heart, and he thinks of Riley, Riley in the old-wheeled chair gathering dust in the corner of Price’s, of his front room; the double bed that always felt too big for him so he spent his nights stretched out in front of the fireplace, seeking salvation from cool stone and the distant hiss of the ocean. He sleeps but he doesn’t dream, and wakes with a rose petal between his teeth. 

It tastes like his ma’s perfume, a deliberate steeping of the fresh spring cuttings, and he spits it out into the trembling cup of his palm. Dark enough that he can barely make out of the shape of it in the gloom, the air trembling with the aftermath of the lighthouse’s call, but he knows it by the musky tang coating his tongue, the scent heavy in the air and the space behind his teeth. MacTavish brushes his fingertips over the gentle crush of it and tucks the petal behind his ear, blinking out into the darkness. 

In the distance, inside the emptiness of his thoughts, he hears the roar of the ocean. 

[lonestarbattleship]

January 7, 2023 update from the Battleship Texas Foundation

Battleship Texas in dry dock 1/7/24.

"DRY DOCK TOURS

Tours are now full through the entire month of January. We look forward to welcoming five hundred of you into the shipyard to see the amazing progress made to Battleship Texas!

A Dry Dock Tour wanders underneath 27,000 tons of Battleship Texas.

Dry Dock Tour participants sign one of the COME ON TEXAS banners that have hung on the gangway for many months.

STEEL REPAIR - Steel repairs have been completed on the hull of Battleship Texas. Some troublesome areas were found once the ship was sandblasted, so additional repairs have been made. These areas will be blasted and coated before the ship submerges in the water once again.

New steel being placed near one of the ship's docking keels. This area will be lightly blasted and coated.

HULL - The ship's hull has been coated in PPG

SIGMASHIELD 880 GF to protect the steel from potential corrosion. While the hull is supposed to be red below the black band at the waterline, the Battleship Texas Foundation has chosen to not spend the extra funds on a cosmetic choice that will not be seen once the ship is back in the water. The coatings that have been applied are plentiful and should protect the ship for many years to come.

NAVY BLUE 5-N - Above the boot top (above the black band) the ship has been painted Navy Blue 5-N. This color was matched from existing examples found aboard (both internally and externally) the vessel. The ship was painted in this camouflage scheme (Measure 21) prior to deploying to the Pacific Theater in World War II. At this time Battleship Texas is the ONLY museum ship painted in this scheme and only one of two Battleships in their wartime measure.

The ship's draft numbers have been installed and painted on the bow and stern

HULL NUMBERS - The new hull numbers have been extensively researched so each number is not only the correct font, but applied in the appropriate position it was in 1945. The numbers have been applied to both bow and stern.

The ship's name and hull number have been applied to the stern.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS:

KEEL BLOCKS - Yes, the keel blocks supporting Battleship Texas can be moved. Each block is moved so the area atop of them can be blasted, repaired (if need be), and coated.

SPLASH! - The ship will be put back into the water in February 2024, but is dependent on the weather.

WHAT'S NEXT? - Battleship Texas will remain at Gulf Copper Shipyard for the time being. WHAT'S NEXT? - Battleship Texas will remain at Gulf Copper Shipyard for the time being. Additional steel work, removal and replacement of the ship's deck, and superstructure/aft fire control restoration will continue.

Scaffolding surrounds the ship's superstructure as repairs in these areas come to an end.

The ship's aft fire control continues to be restored to its 1945 configuration. The installation of the windows and more has already begun.

The areas that the ship's six 5"/51 cal. guns sat have been blasted and coated. A wood decking will go down next.

Part of a Dry Dock Tour ends their tour with a picture in front of the ship's bow!

Live, Laugh, And Flood your Torpedo Blisters. To donate to the preservation and operation of Battleship Texas, please visit: https://battleshiptexas.org/

Support Battleship Texas by making a purchase through the ship's store: https://store.battleshiptexas.org"

Posted on the Battleship Texas Foundation Group Facebook page: link

[jgroffdaily]

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/10/09/theater/jonathan-groff-bobby-darin-broadway.html

Jonathan Groff, Fresh Off Tony Win, Will Return to Broadway as Bobby Darin

“Just in Time,” a new musical about the “Mack the Knife” pop singer, will open next spring at Circle in the Square in Manhattan.

Jonathan Groff performed a concert version of the show, then called “The Bobby Darin Story,” in 2018 at the 92nd Street Y in Manhattan. Credit Richard Termine

Jonathan Groff, who won his first Tony Award in June for starring in a hit revival of “Merrily We Roll Along,” will return to Broadway next spring to play Bobby Darin in a biomusical he has been developing for years.

The musical, “Just in Time,” is to begin previews March 28 and to open April 23 at Circle in the Square Theater in Midtown Manhattan. The theater, with its close approximation of an in-the-round experience, will be configured to accommodate an immersive nightclub-like staging, with a 16-person cast, an onstage big band, two stages and some cabaret-style seating.

The show began its life in 2018 at the 92nd Street Y as a five-performance concert called “The Bobby Darin Story,” and has been developed through a number of workshops. In an interview, Groff said he hadn’t been sure what to expect from that initial run, but that “it lit me up.”

“There is some sort of kinetic magic that happens with the live execution of his material,” said Groff, 39, who was also a Tony nominee for “Hamilton” (he played King George III) and “Spring Awakening” (his breakout role). He has worked extensively on television (“Glee,” “Looking” and “Mindhunter”) and reached global audiences with his voice work as Kristoff in Disney’s “Frozen” films.

Darin, a singer-songwriter whose pop career peaked in the 1950s and ’60s, is best known for the songs “Splish Splash,” “Mack the Knife” and “Beyond the Sea.” He suffered from a heart condition, and died at the age of 37.

“Dramatically he’s really interesting, because what do you do when your whole career is on borrowed time?” said the musical’s director, Alex Timbers, who won a Tony Award for directing “Moulin Rouge!” “His life was lived at high-octane speed. A woman he thought was his sister ended up being his mother. He went on a whole voyage into folk and pop and then decided he was a nightclub animal.”

The musical has a book by Warren Leight (a Tony winner for “Side Man”) and Isaac Oliver and will be choreographed by Shannon Lewis. The show was conceived by Ted Chapin, who wrote the initial script and produced it at the Y as part of that institution’s long-running Lyrics & Lyricists series.

“We all got invested and excited about the idea of telling his life story in this environment of a night club,” Groff said. “We’re playing with the genre of the biomusical, trying to find our own unique point of view and way into not only his story but also the genre itself. There’s a bit of experimentation happening here.”

The lead producers of “Just in Time” are Tom Kirdahy, Robert Ahrens and John Frost; the musical is being capitalized for up to $12.5 million, according to a filing with the Securities and Exchange Commission.

[thesims4blogger]

New Patch: The Sims & The Sims 2 (February 4th, 2025)

The Sims and The Sims 2 have just received their first patches since they were re-released last Friday, January 31st.

Both updates bring bug fixes that have been reported by players. You can read all about them on the blog post below.

Sul Sul, Simmers!

We hope you’ve been enjoying revisiting The Sims and The Sims 2! It’s been super exciting seeing all the joy and enthusiasm from our community for these classic games. We’ve also been focused on the reports of technical issues that some players have had, and have been diligently working to address them. We wanted to say thank you to the community for sharing your detailed reports via the forum to help us improve these games.

– The Sims Legacy Team: – For the most current bug updates, please visit The Sims Franchise forums here.

February 4, 2025 Patch Notes: 

The Sims 

Fixed Issues: 

Alt+Tab or Alt+Enter can sometimes cause a crash

Alt+Enter can sometimes cause the Windows title bar to be hidden

Alt+Enter can sometimes not toggle between full screen and windowed modes

On some systems, The Sims can appear to launch and then immediately exit (no splash screen displayed)

The Sims should now launch in most situations

In some cases where there is an underlying graphics issue, The Sims will display a message

Some players are unable to click on various parts of the neighborhood map

The travel screen, when traveling between neighborhoods/worlds, can sometimes appear garbled or glitched

The Sims might crash if you are not on the default neighborhood, interact with another Sim, and then save

When using Alt+Enter to cycle window and zoom sizes, the HUD could be clipped. At this zoom level, The Sims will now instead clip from the top of the screen.

In some situations in windowed mode the title bar might not be visible

The Family friends counter could sometimes not be visible

The Sims General Notes: 

Several players have had problems (e.g. walls, floors, objects not showing up; game not launching; other oddities) that are addressed by updating graphics drivers to the latest versions. Please make sure your drivers are up to date.

The Sims game window is of a fixed size that can’t have its basic properties changed after it has launched. Moving the window from a monitor to another with a different, lesser resolution can lead to unexpected results, possibly even crashes. If you want to run The Sims on that second monitor please use the option “-monitor:” to force it to launch on the other monitor. “0” is your primary monitor, a second monitor is “1” and so on. We are investigating adding this as a menu option in the future.

In some situations, players have noted that music only plays in Live mode. Please check your computer sound options and make sure that everything is properly configured (e.g. on a 5.1 surround system make sure that your center speaker is functioning).

You might be prompted to “Enable the help system” every time you return to a house. This is the game trying to have you complete the tutorial. This will continue to happen until you complete the tutorial.

The Sims 2

Fixed Issues: 

Alt-Tab or Alt+Enter can sometimes cause a crash

Some players on EA App received an error message indicating that certain needed files were corrupt

The game would sometimes crash after creating a family

The game sometimes launched at a small resolution (800×600) and then scaled that small format to fill the entire monitor

In certain situations the game will launch and then immediately show a “DirectX” error, requiring use of the “-w” option to work around the problem

Sometimes a Sim (or multiple Sims) would disappear after the player moves to another lot or neighborhood, or after leaving and rejoining the game despite saving

Sometimes non-adult Sims (children, pets) would disappear

Some interactions that result in a transferable reward (e.g. a dog returns from work) can cause the game to crash

Addressed some infinite loading screen issues

The Sims 2 General notes: 

Several players have had problems that are addressed by updating graphics drivers to the latest versions. Please make sure your drivers are up to date.

Remember that the “boolProp testingCheatsEnabled” cheat will cause the game to periodically show various dialogue boxes with debugging information in them. The cheat is working as expected.

We are investigating an issue where during certain cinematic events (such as Alien Abduction), the Sim can be reset and the event fails. While we are investigating this, you can work around the issue by making certain there are no other Sims on the lot to observe the event.

While some issues may not be listed here, they may still be in the process of being addressed. Some topics can require an extended investigation on our end, so even though these fixes may be in active review, it’s not a guarantee that we’ll have an immediate fix for it in the upcoming patch.

Thank you for playing these games that are such a storied part of our history – starting 25 years ago! Please continue to share and report any issues on our forums, and join our official Discord community for tips, tricks, and news!

Dag dag,

The Sims Team

[3dspecbio]

Thanks to @hotkoin for the splash screen/home page for my setting's Wiki! I hope to share that as well once I configure it to be properly online.

[ofbluercses]

( art by @kneel-to-seto-kaiba )

He wasn't one to do much in celebration for his birthday really. He just wasn't used to it, and in all honesty wasn't entirely sure what exactly to do outside of the seemingly cliche things he had seen in the occasional movie. Birthdays were always sort of a mystery to him, always just another day. Yet he always felt an odd pang in his chest...like he was missing something.

That was why he was surprised when he saw a gift was waiting for him. Tucked carefully next to the outstretched leaves of one of the plants close to his desk. Yomi tilted his head, shutting the door to his office. There weren't many who were allowed up here...well unless someone snuck in he supposed. There was one or two he could think of who might be able to pull that off. His mind wandered, trying to configure who it may be from and why.

His office wasn't large so it did not take long for him to reach where the gift was, his fingers gently tugging at the bow atop the small box. He felt oddly excited, the anticipation of seeing what a gift may be. A feeling he didn't too often experience. Yomi brushed the ribbon aside, moving to lift the box lid.

Inside rested a metallic yoyo, the colors a mixed splash of purple and green. He could feel a smile creep onto his lips before he could even consider what he was actually feeling. Joey left this here. He picked the yoyo up, looking over the ombre color, tilting it to examine it better. This certainly wasn't a low quality one that was for sure.

While he couldn't comprehend the affection that he felt at the sight of the gift, nor why the gesture felt so special, he smiled, the tiredness in his eyes leaving for a brief moment in time and replaced with a quiet joy.

Perhaps he was beginning to understand now...

[furnihaven]

Comfy Cloud Couch Sectional 3 Seat Sofa With 2 Ottoman, Chenille Sofa Sleeper Deep Seat Sofa With Throw Pillows For Living Room Beige White

Description

Comfy Chenille Sofa Cover: Our sofa is wrapped in ultra-soft chenille fabric, providing a luxurious feel and a warm, inviting atmosphere. You can feel the smooth touch when you sit on the fluffy couch covered by chenille fabric. IPKIG loveseat sofa will make you feel physical and mental comfort. Arrange the pieces for a lounge that's perfectly configured to suit your needs.

Stunning Comfortable Cloud Sofa: oversized couch features upholstered 2-layer seat cushions with high-resiliency foam and a 30" extra-deep seat, which provides a cloud like seating experience. This sectional sofa effortlessly combines modern style and sophistication, instantly enhancing your living area with a splash of splendor and is ideal for watching movies, lounging and reading.

Quality And Durability: The frame of this cloud couch is made of high-quality wood which will give you good support. Its soft and breathable chenille fabric is supported by a sponge structure and spring pack, and the weight capacity for each seat is 330 lbs.

PLACE YOUR ORDER

[lonestarflight]

"The Skylab 4 Command Module splashes down in the Pacific Ocean southwest of San Diego, California at 10:17 am. The Command Module bobs in an apex-down configuration (stable two) in the calm water of the Pacific Ocean 176 miles southwest of San Diego, California, following a successful splashdown and 84-day mission in Earth orbit."

"A smiling William R. Pogue pauses in hatchway of Skylab 4 command module during recovery activities today aboard the USS New Orleans at the completion of man's longest space journey to date. Pogue splashed down with astronauts Gerald P. Carr and Dr. Edward G. Gibson, 84 days after the trio was launched by a Saturn IB rocket from Kennedy Space Center. Circling the globe 1, 214 times aboard the sophisticated Skylab space station during the nearly three-month flight, the astronauts demonstrated man's ability to live and work in space for extended periods."

Date: February 8, 1974

NASA ID: S74-17741, S74-17742, S74-17133, KSC-74PC-32

[sholiofic]

Whumptober day 2: You got away with the crime ...

No. 2: TRUST ISSUES Amusement Park | Role Reversal | “You got away with the crime while the knife’s in my back.” (Charlotte Sands, Rollercoaster)

700 words, Biggles in the Blue tag, EvS character introspection and all-emotional-hurt-no-comfort. Also posted on DW.

"You are an utter fool, Stalhein. The great spy from the war, reduced to a patsy of the British. I cannot believe you let this Bigglesworth fellow play you so thoroughly. A fool!"

Erich knotted his jaw and turned a look of disdain on Zorotov. "If I am a fool, then so are you," he bit out tightly. "I don't recall you coming off better against Bigglesworth, after all."

He was somehow unexpected for the man's clumsy swing. Perhaps it was the drink, toasting their failures, that had slowed his reaction. Perhaps it was only that, even after all these years, he was braced for blows from the other side but not his own.

In any case, though his reflexes should have been an easy match for Zorotov's clumsy thuggishness, he was only able to partly sidestep the man's fist. He took the edge on his jaw, snapping his head around.

Erich clenched his fist as he wiped the blood away. Almost reflexively, he thought of a dozen ways he could kill Zorotov with simple items in the room, ways to conceal it, hide the body, slip off into the night ... He did nothing, of course.

"You are stupid and weak," Zorotov ranted at him. "You were supposed to be one of the best, or that's what I heard. I suppose your skills have degraded badly since the war."

Taking out his own failures on the nearest easy target, Erich knew. The words of a man like Zorotov were less than nothing, yet somehow, they landed -- without the bleeding barbs of Bigglesworth's quiet condemnation, but but edged nonetheless.

"--Or was it always nothing but the lies of the capitalists and the nobility protecting their own? Soft, weak men, unqualified, raised to positions they were never meant for and lavished with praise for the smallest success. Yes, that's it. I see it in your eyes."

Erich swallowed an angry retort that would have done nothing except make the flight back more uncomfortable. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked out onto the balcony of their Kingston hotel.

Although the night was humid, the sense of peace at leaving behind his unwanted roommate brought a small measure of relief. The harbor lights were lovely from above. He leaned on the railing, felt his jaw, and let his other hand drop forward over the rail.

Behind him, he heard Zorotov stomping about, the splash and gurgle of pouring alcohol. It would not be a pleasant evening. Erich thought about going out for a while. He didn't have to go anywhere in particular, just walk about the town at night. He had enjoyed doing that kind of thing, once. Maybe Zorotov would be asleep when he came back.

He raised his eyes to the stars. Beautiful, even now, and tantalizingly almost-familiar in their stranger equatorial configurations. A sparkle of brighter light glimmered against them, flashing rhythmically -- an aeroplane, taking off from the airport below.

Flying away into the night sky.

It must feel fine to be able to do that.

He could not even feel angry about it, merely tired. Bigglesworth was right, he had created his own circumstances and he had no one but himself to blame. It was indeed shameful, and it was no wonder that Bigglesworth had nothing but contempt for him.

Erich rubbed his split lip, winced as it left a smear of blood on his thumb. He could just walk away into the night, he knew.

But a man had to eat. And he had honor, whatever degraded shadow of it remained to him. He had a structure to put his back against. He had people to report to. He had someone to notice if he lived or died, if only to mark it down on a report.

Dreams of running away were a child's fancies. Whatever his failings, whatever his flaws, he could do this, at least. He would do his job, go back and make his report, take whatever punishment landed on him for his failures, and receive his new orders.

When he went back inside at last, Zorotov was in the bathroom. Erich poured himself a drink, sat on the edge of his bed, and drank the bitter taste of the only kind of victory that was still left for him: the knowledge that he would not, at least, let down the people who depended on him by abandoning his duties.

[sky-fire-forever]

Happy friday! For some Hawke/Anders/Justice (or any configuration thereof), ""will these actions haunt my days?" (from the Epic the musical prompts)

Thank you so much for this prompt! This one has some Anders and Justice fighting and also some suicidal thoughts on Anders' side, so please be aware of that going in. For @dadrunkwriting

My Hawke in this one is Scorpius, who uses they/them pronouns.

Several weeks after the explosion of the Kirkwall chantry, Anders is still having nightmares. He wakes up shaking, covered in sweat and still hearing the screams of the people trapped in places he couldn’t reach. The innocents in the surrounding buildings, the mages who turned to blood magic and demons to escape the templars, all the people Anders killed with his decision to unleash the waves of war. 

There are others who are dying that he doesn’t even know. Mages in Circles all across Thedas are being punished for his crime while he’s been allowed to escape with the people he loves. Their names will never be known and he’s killed them, hurt them, destroyed their sense of hope. 

He hardly speaks anymore and Hawke has to encourage him to eat. It’s hard to sit with the consequences for his actions, to acknowledge them. Justice isn’t fully happy either despite him being the one to urge Anders into this course of action. He’s not happy with all the innocents who have to die to see their war won, but he still doesn’t regret what they did. Not like Anders does. 

It was necessary. That’s what he tells himself and it’s what Hawke says too when they’re comforting him, but he doesn’t know if he believes it. If he can believe it. 

Awake after yet another nightmare, Anders gets out of bed. He extracts himself carefully from Hawke’s hold, doing his best not to disturb them as he gets up. Hawke makes a noise in their sleep, but rolls over to hold Fenris instead, gripping the elf like he’s some kind of lanky teddy bear.  

Anders slips out of the room and makes his way outside, breathing in the cool night air. It hits him like a splash of cold water to the face, but that’s what he needs right now: a reminder that he’s awake and alive and not back in Kirkwall. 

But he should be back in Kirkwall. He should be nothing but a corpse kicked into an unmarked grave. That’s what he and Justice planned, after all; they were supposed to die at Hawke’s hand after bringing forth the revolution. That’s what would be just. 

But they’re not dead. They’re alive with the knowledge of what they’ve done and how are they just supposed to live while knowing the consequences of their actions? There has been no immediate change, no glorious rebellion and revolution, only death and destruction and pain. What if the revolution never comes? What if it was all for nothing? 

Tears hit Anders’ cheeks and he realizes that they’re his own. He wipes them away, but more fall to take their place. He’s crying and he can’t stop and he feels so hopeless. 

“This is your fault,” he says bitterly. “You changed me.” 

He’s greeted with nothing but silence. “Nothing to say?” He demands. “I never should have let you possess me. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d let you return to the Fade when Kristoff’s corpse decayed.”

Another moment of silence. And then,

“It was your choice to let me in.” Justice’s voice is familiar within Anders’ head, loud and clear and certain. 

“I shouldn’t have done it.” 

“And yet you did. You allowed it, welcomed it. We can not change the past.”

“I hate you,” Anders mutters. “I wish I’d never met you.”

“Without me, you would have died to Rolan’s sword.” 

“Good!” Ander snaps. “I should have died then!” 

“Anders?” Anders turns to see Hawke standing in the doorway, concern written on their face. 

“Hawke, I–” He wipes at his tears, but he can’t seem to be rid of them. 

“Are you alright?” Hawke asks like they don’t know the answer. 

“I’m fine, love. Go back to sleep.” 

Hawke steps towards him. “Talk to me,” they say. “Please.” 

Anders sniffs. “There’s nothing to say. I did what I did. We did what we did.” He clenches his hand and then unfurls it. There’s so much tension in his body that he doesn’t know what to do with. 

Hawke sighs. “Anders, you did something extreme, but it was necessary.” 

“Necessary?” Anders rubs at his face. “That’s what you keep saying, but it wasn’t, was it? There– there might have been other ways.”

“That you didn’t already try?” Hawke crosses their arms. “People spoke out against Meredith and they were punished at every turn. The mage underground was wiped out. Innocent mages were being tortured and made Tranquil every day. Meredith was mad and would’ve called for the Rite of Annulment eventually.” 

“I made it happen that much sooner.” 

“Yes, but we were able to save lives and take down templars who would follow orders to kill every mage on sight.” Hawke sighs. “It– it wasn’t a perfect solution, but you had to do something after years of watching your people be oppressed. I understand.” 

They understand. So what if they understand? So what if Anders can’t think of anything else he could’ve done? He’d still committed a huge, horrible act. He and Justice share the blame, but that doesn’t relieve any of the guilt from Anders’ shoulders. 

“Will these actions haunt my days?” Anders asks. “I wasn’t supposed to survive with this guilt.” 

Hawke’s face falls. “I know.” They pull him close. “But you did survive and I’m here to help you live through it.” 

Anders closes his eyes and holds onto the shame.