#two birds on a wire au

[mintiicinnamonii]

NAVIGATION

FANDOMS

tmnt

lego monkie kid

honkai star rail

genshin impact

WRITING

1. how to cope by leo and mikey: trigger warring for S//H. perfect for angst lovers. original by veritas_dolos on ao3. you are not alone.

2. blue skies: an au where future!leo travels back in time to stop the kraang instead of casey. canon-divergence and f!leo lovers arise.

3 . teenage mutant hero turtles: a fanmade tmnt iteration based off the outsiders, analog horror, 2000’s superhero cartoons and the struggles of teenage life. a more grungy, ‘teenage dirtbag’ aesthetic.

—

year of the dragon: a mei villain arc au where she becomes macaque’s successor. dramatic irony and angst my beloved.

—

two birds on a wire: an au where lumine, instead of meeting paimon and going on a quest to find her brother, presumes him dead, and tries to move on by starting a new life in fontaine as a lawyer. inspired by helluva boss.

MINTII’S ROLES

- masky from maskys’ prize battle. a flamboyant yet sadistic and manipulative performer. host of maskys prize battle. - rainbow marshmallow from maskys prize battle. masky’s number one fan. socially awkward, naive, and soft spoken. - ink bottle from crystal hijack. an arrogant prankster with no regards for others. probably kins jax from tadc and popee the performer

FRIENDS

@eclipsecatsstuff

@mads-does-stuff

@idkwhydoah

@thatonesmartkidfromschool

@dumbbitchtusdays

@jiaojiaoworks

[billygoat26]

I remember the EXACT VIDEO that I first heard Two Birds On a Wire on.

THE EXACT FUCKING VIDEO

So like, I was deep into the Undertale fandom, looking into the AU’s and Dreamtale

Animation memes were the shit for me back then

So the one I saw made me sob

(I was an emotional little shit then lol)

Anyways, I remember this video so ridiculously clearly. Watch it if you haven’t already. It’s really damn good.

[confuzzled-crow77]

What Could’ve Been… (JJK Fix-It Fic)

Synopsis: What if Gojo and Shoko had noticed Geto spiralling? What if their blue spring ended but they still stayed together, even in summer?

A/N: This fic is completely based off of @ziyuanyuan1113 artwork; every scene is from it, so please check it out - I hope I did it justice! I haven't emotionally recovered from Jujutsu Kaisen and I doubt I ever will, but in the meantime, here's this in a feeble attempt to erase it from memory! :')

Word Count: 2.7k

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“You should go first, Gojo.” 

The young man - boy, really - turned with his hand still on the doorknob and raised a skeptical eyebrow at his peer, teammate, and friend over the rim of his shades. Shoko crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, returning the pointed look without an ounce of humor. “You sure?” He asked with a small grin, but he didn’t try the doorknob. 

Would Geto come to the door? 

Would he open it with a smile and a quick knab at the bag he was holding? 

Gojo wished Shoko hadn’t told him about Geto’s less than stellar physical checkup results in a dark alley behind the school like it was top secret information. Every little nagging thing he’d grasped in the few days they’d been able to see each other had rushed back in a new light. 

What about Geto letting his hair fall in stringy clumps? There’s really no reason for him to keep it in a tight knot all the time. 

So what if he's more tired; they’re growing up and getting older, of course the missions are tougher. 

But Shoko had blown her cigarette smoke to the side and scowled lightly and Gojo thought for the first time that maybe there was something his Six Eyes had missed. 

“I’m sure.” Shoko nodded toward the door, urging him on. 

He sighed dramatically and turned the knob. 

It wasn’t locked. The door opened smoothly into a dark room; the light from the hallway poured inside, casting a thick bar on the wooden planks and dirty clothes. Gojo leaned his lanky frame on the door and peeked in; the heavy plastic shopping bag hanging from his middle and ring finger spun back and forth, clanking against the door like a bell. 

“Suguruuuu?” He called. 

Nothing stirred. The window blinds were shut air-tight. The nightstand beside the bed, piled high with covers, was cluttered. Everything seemed so… dead. He glanced over his shoulder at Shoko. She shrugged. He shrugged back. 

“Suguru?” Gojo hissed again. 

The mountain of blankets shifted the slightest bit, and he almost laughed. He propped himself off the door and skipped toward the bed. Suguru Geto’s inky black hair was splayed in a messy starburst over his pillow. 

“You awake?” Gojo whispered noisily, cupping his hands to his mouth. No matter how much he hopped up or scooted to the side, he couldn’t see a glimpse of his best friend’s face. “Pretty dark and gloomy in here, don’t cha think?” He stretched over the bed, his fingers grasping for the blinds’ chain. He precariously balanced on his tip-toes until he gripped it, almost ripping the blinds from their hinges as they snapped open. 

Noonday sunlight softened the room but fell like daggers on Suguru’s blanket-massed form. The man rolled around from facing the wall to shield his eyes from the window’s view, but was met with Gojo’s victorious pose.

“There he is! Shoko said you’ve lost a bit of weight, so I brought over some healthy, filling food to help: cookies, soda, and spicy chips!” Gojo tossed the bag from hand to hand as he spoke, pushing up his ridiculously round glasses at the end like he’d said something tremendous. Geto said nothing. 

Gojo’s arm holding out the bag slowly lowered as the silence stretched. He frowned at the eyebags Shoko had mentioned. He grimaced at the greasy hair and dead stare. His eyes wandered from Geto’s blank face and drifted to the nightstand; the picture frame had fallen - or maybe Geto had set it down. 

Why? 

Shoko poked her head in and passed through silently. As Gojo stared at the face-down picture frame and then to his friend, she kicked the dirty clothes into her arms and disappeared into the back of the room. 

Gojo blinked twice before the brilliant grin flashed back on his face; he pointed finger guns at the small mountain range of blankets. “Sugrrito. Burrigu. Sugrrigu. Burrigito… nothing?” His finger guns died too as he set the bag of soda cans and sweets on the ground with a clatter. The strongest sorcerer of the modern age sank to the floor and rested his head on the bed, right in front of Geto’s face, as if admitting defeat. 

For the first time, Geto spoke. “Nothing for now, Satoru.” His voice cracked a little from disuse and exhaustion; as if mocking his tired eyes and Gojo’s frown, he smiled in what was supposed to be a reassuring way. Gojo didn’t need the Six Eyes to see through it. “I’m fine, y-” 

“You’ve somehow risen to another level of bullshit than before,” Gojo muttered. He instinctively brushed some of the black tendrils of hair from Geto’s face, pushing them and the covers back over Geto’s shoulder. Now the sunlight streaming through the window reached his friend’s face and he could see whatever color remained in the inky depths of his eyes. Now, he really saw the long lines, the sickly paleness, the tiredness that oozed from every pore. 

How did I not notice this? 

Gojo’s fingers drifted from Geto’s shoulder to his arm, down to his hand that rested under his chin. He gripped it tightly, as if it would wake him up; if it did, if it would, he’d never activate Infinity again - there would never be endless space between them. Never. “What’s wrong? Tell me and I- we can fix it before… dinner. Before lunch. We always do.” Geto met Gojo’s eyes; twin slivers of aquamarine above the new moons of his shades. The gold light reflected in the jewel blue like the setting sun on the vast sea: too deep, too far. 

“Not always.” He still said it with that determined, warm, fake smile as if giving up were a beautiful thing. Gojo could almost believe it was, but he didn’t smile back; he leaned in even closer, his eyes wide and almost soft. 

“So that’s what this is. Last year’s mission. Riko and… whatever.” 

Geto shook his head the slightest bit. “It’s not just that, Satoru. What are we protecting as sorcerers?” Gojo didn’t answer in the pause that followed. 

If you don’t know, I don’t know. 

“Crowds that clap for a dead child,” Geto answered for himself. The words were almost sweet; they blended with the yellow light turning Gojo’s pure white hair to cream, weaving in between the soft clinking of dishes as Shoko washed them. The sugary blades sliced whatever was left of Gojo into pieces; that incessant clapping, like a siren that wouldn’t shut off, came to him in the early hours of the morning - he couldn’t remember much besides that of that day: just the clapping. Just the clapping and Suguru telling him that there was no point in making it stop. “The higher ups that use you as a weapon with a pulse. The infinite slog of curses that we’ll never get to the end of.” He looked down and sighed through his nose, still with that sad, small smile. “We can’t fix this by dinner, Satoru.” 

Gojo leaned his cheek on the back of their clasped hands, searching for the eye contact Geto broke. He said nothing for a long while. 

If you don’t know, I don’t know. 

But it was never, ‘If you can’t, I can’t.’ He looked at Geto’s smile and didn’t know how or why. He’d never know how a curse tasted, only the candy he gave his friend after. But Gojo Satoru never doubted for a second that they could turn the world upside down and inside out - one way, or another. 

“Maybe not by dinner,” he murmured with his cheek half smushed. “Maybe not tomorrow or next week. We’ll fix it, though. And if we don’t fix it, we’ll change it.” Geto huffed again, but he squeezed Gojo’s hand back. Now, Satoru had a reason to smile. “It won’t be like this forever; trust me, I’m not busting my ass every day for some mangy old men. Changing the world is a 50-50 split for your sake and mine.” 

That familiar sparkle, just a glint of candlelight off of obsidian but still there, glimmered in Geto’s eyes. He scooched closer. “How will we do it?” 

Gojo shrugged simply. “Don’t know yet. We could level the higher ups into dust, or reveal Jujutsu to the world and make it mandatory for cursed energy control, or maybe start a coup with people we like!” He pitched the silly ideas as just that: silly ideas with a dumb grin. It was a starting point, though. It was, ‘We could… we might…’ “I could even become a teacher, leading the next generation of sorcerers with my awesome lessons and homework assignments!” 

Geto chuckled softly. “That’ll have the higher ups quaking for sure.” 

“Sensei Satoru Gojo? HA!” Shoko cawed in the back, tying up a trash bag. 

Gojo grinned as he shot a glare at her, but quickly crouched back down when Geto squeezed his hand again. “Satoru, I don’t know if I can… go back to how I was before.” Gojo nodded immediately, but his thoughts lagged like an old computer. 

Will his dead eyes stay?

Is he going to leave?

‘No, no,’ he thought as he smiled. ‘Same Suguru, different dream.’ “Okay,” he replied. He didn’t need his Six Eyes to know Geto’s next smile was real. “As long as this Suguru will still eat my spicy food, I have no problem walking beside him throughout Heaven and Earth.” 

“I’m glad.” 

-~-~-

“A good shower and a better bag of chips freshened you up a bit!” Shoko remarked. She tapped her cigarette lightly; the gray ashes flitted down from the windowsill she sat on like shriveled snowflakes. 

Geto huffed a laugh. He sat criss-cross in front of her; his hair was tied up in the normal knot - messy strands fell around his face and it was lopsided, but he didn’t mind. Shoko’s steady hands, adept at crafting cursed energy into new flesh and stitches, couldn’t seem to get the hair tie to work how she wanted it to. It was almost satisfying. 

“I’m worried about Satoru,” he murmured. His eyes followed the gray ashes on their way down to the alley below his room. Noon had lost its peak and the shadows gradually grew and shifted through the window; he didn’t meet the eyes of the buggy cars on the distant highway, nor the gleaming skyline of the city. 

Shoko chuckled lightly as she took another draw of her cigarette. She turned to stare at the view, slowly blowing the smoke out of her mouth in a puff. “He’s just getting take-out, Suguru. I know it’s the universe’s duty to spite whoever says this, but what’s the worst that could happen?” 

“I suppose you’re right.” 

They sat in a comfortable silence, but Shoko didn’t miss how Geto’s eyes never met hers. She doubted that her friend was talking about Gojo terrorizing the poor noodle shop’s workers. 

“Here.” She held out her small box of cigarettes to him. He slid one from the top and slipped it in between two fingers as she sprang a flame from her lighter with a clean whisk. The tip of the cigarette burned like the horizon line during sunset before he pressed it to his lips. “You know,” she started as Geto blew a cloud out the window. “I’m okay with whatever you two idiots do, but if one idiot wanders away from the other and sulks, that’s not really doing anything, is it? It’s just waiting until something breaks, like walking on a fractured bone.” 

Geto sighed through his nose. “Then what should I do, Ireri? Go back to eating popsicles? Play basketball in the gym? Just forget?” He smiled fondly at her, as if she were already a childhood friend moving away. The shadows on half of his face seemed deeper than before, but the smile seemed the same as it had been a year ago. She rolled her eyes and jerked her head to the side at the room. 

“Cleaning your dishes yourself is a start.” She wagged her cigarette at him like a conductor’s wand. “I didn’t say go back to how things were. Just… turn around and go back to your idiot, is all. Then wander off together.” She leaned back on the frame of the window and crossed her arms as Geto mulled over her words. 

“And if the higher ups don’t let me turn around?” Geto’s eyes darkened. No. That wasn’t the problem. “If they don’t let Satoru…” A weapon with a pulse, is he? There is no going back to how things were because everything was always with him. 

Shoko blinked; the cigarette between her fingers sagged. “You’ll have solo missions, Suguru. Satoru will be away, and I’ll be lonely in my little med-den. But…” She groaned dramatically before spitting out, “You two are the most powerful sorcerers of the modern age, so it’ll turn out fine. Bleh, there I said it.” 

Geto chuckled as she stuck out her tongue and gagged. He rubbed the cigarette tip on the windowsill to put it out just as a holler echoed through the alley. 

“See? There he is: in one piece and with Tokyo intact.” Shoko waved back at Gojo who stood triumphantly at the mouth of the alley, holding up the take-out bags. Geto motioned for him to run and watched the white-haired blur streak down the street and barrel through the door to the building. He made to scooch off the windowsill and back inside, but Shoko caught his shoulder. “Suguru, no matter how blue eyed beauty acts, we know this isn’t some little crisis, okay?” 

Geto gently placed his hand over hers and removed it from his shoulder. “Okay.” 

“And we’ll figure this out with more than dramatic battle plans, okay?” 

“Okay.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. 

“Okay.” She squeezed back and together they climbed inside, just as Gojo kicked open the door.

-~-~-

Suguru snored. For the first time in… weeks, months, since that twisted day, his mind let him rest. 

Perhaps Satoru’s avalanche-worthy gurgling blared above the questions and memories. Maybe it was the presence of his two best friends on either side of him, lying in bed even though the day hadn’t yet been swallowed by night. Maybe it was the noodles and donburi in his stomach, or the empty soda cans rolling the slightest bit, pushed by the cool breeze coming through the open window. Maybe it was the plans for the future. 

Whatever the reason, he slept deeply. He couldn’t see the dawn of a new, better world for sorcerers and non-sorcerers alike with those eyebags, right?

-~-~-

Shoko was slowly being asphyxiated. Geto’s heavy arm laid directly over her chest as if he subconsciously knew she’d attempt to sneak away once he fell asleep. The twittering of evening birds, the echoing voices of people in the alley below, Geto’s snoring, Gojo’s whale mating calls, and the text typing of her phone all blended together into an annoying, homey symphony. 

‘HELP ME…’ To the best of her pinned arms’ ability, she took a selfie of the trio and sent it. 

‘Sorry, I can’t. I’m on a mission with Haibara. Glad to see “the talk” went okay.’ 

Shoko pouted at Nanami’s response. ‘started a plan to overthrow the gov. you’re doing the paperwork.’

‘All of it?’

‘Yes.’ 

‘No, thank you.’ 

‘If you come save me right now, ill vouch for you.’ 

‘I told you, I can’t.’ 

‘Your choice.’ 

‘No.’ 

Shoko glared at her screen. With all her might, she tried to sit up, but Geto’s arm only felt heavier. After a solid fifteen seconds of flailing legs and violent arm punching, she gave up and collapsed back down in defeat. Geto snored on. 

She sighed but smiled as much as she could at his peaceful face. From the corner of her eye, over the even puffs and pushes of her friends’ chests, she could see the picture frame on the nightstand. Someone had sat it upright - whether it was Gojo or Geto didn’t matter much to her - and the setting sun bathed it in gold and orange. The wood frame protected three smiling faces. She wondered for a split second if those smiles still belonged to the three people splayed over one bed. 

She didn’t really care. 

What was that one new song? 

Two idiots on a wire? 

She hummed whatever broken tunes she could remember until Gojo choked on his own spit and Geto startled awake because of it. 

Idiots… 

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[joeytime]

Superhero au where Lewis can manipulate gravity, making things sink to the ground or float into the atmosphere. His childhood friend, Nico, is a flyer, soaring through the sky like a kite cut loose.

They're everything, friends, teammates, childhood buddies, rivals and perhaps lovers.

They become a hero duo, Lewis disorients enemies by floating them and Nico swoops in like a falcon to fight them high in the air where he is most comfortable. Then, Lewis slams enemies back onto the ground to defend Nico like a lion.

Nico, who loves the feeling of flying, loves the freedom it grants him from everyday life. He jokes that he was born lighter than air.

Lewis, who's only power drawback is that he can't use them on himself, he's permanently grounded on the earth, even Nico can't lift him. Lewis, who's forced to watch Nico soar in the sky but be forever tied to the ground. Lewis, who slowly yearns for freedom as Nico escapes into the sky from paparazzi, managers and enemies, leaving Lewis to handle everything by himself. Lewis, who slowly grows resentful, jealousy coursing through his dense bones.

Lewis who subconsciously uses his powers bit by bit, weighing Nico to the earth, to him. Nico struggling to fly, he thinks it's some mental block, he visits therapists, older heroes, he even goes on a month long vacation with Lewis in case it's the stress.

Until one day, a villain escapes and Nico wants to fly to catch them but he can't lift his feet off the ground, he falls, humiliated. Lewis is right beside him, asking him what's going on while tears stream down Nico's face. Nico thinks, I lost it.

Paparazzi surround and crowd them and Nico looks into Lewis' eyes. And, his eyes are faintly glowing, like he's using his powers.

Nico realises what had been happening, that Lewis has been sabotaging him. He's hit by emotion, he's not angry, he's not sad. Nico has been feeling so trapped recently and to find out that it was Lewis? He is hurt.

In front of all the paparazzi, Nico yells at Lewis, he screams at Lewis and cries and wails at him, he's so betrayed and upset he doesn't notice the tears in Lewis' dull eyes.

Nico, finally out Lewis' grasp, flies. He leaves Lewis surrounded by hungry reporters and paparazzi like he always does.

Lewis watches Nico fly further away from him, watches Nico retire to have a family and leave the superhero world while Lewis dodges phone calls from a desperate Toto Wolff, pleading for him to stay for the safety of the world.

Nico flies as high as he can and Lewis stays right on the earth.

[nsbfenro]

"Two birds on a wire, one tries to fly away, and the other..."

[anemxvisions]

No because if Alatus joined the abyss twin and is trying to convince Xiao to be on his side but ofc Xiao has a huge dilemma in either continuing to honor his contract or be with his twin.

Just imagine Alatus is like 'you really strike me down for Liyue? your own twin brother?' and Xiao doesn't say anything but his action of holding his spear up in an attacking position is answer enough.

[ceilidho]

BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly. 

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates. 

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag. 

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on. 

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year. 

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester. 

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that. 

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up. 

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway. 

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry. 

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat. 

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else. 

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!” 

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place. 

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run. 

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door. 

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom. 

What a bloody headache. 

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite. 

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?” 

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there. 

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again. 

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open. 

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat. 

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be. 

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod. 

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders. 

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable. 

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?” 

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten. 

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism. 

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you. 

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him. 

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner. 

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically. 

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in. 

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time. 

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale. 

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back. 

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for. 

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone. 

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out. 

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.  

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face. 

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling. 

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more. 

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial. 

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says. 

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year. 

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway. 

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.   

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect. 

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy. 

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this. 

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him. 

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room. 

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes. 

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat. 

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch. 

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words. 

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin. 

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for. 

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though. 

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.  

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.  

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you. 

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone. 

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds. 

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what. 

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear. 

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done. 

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter. 

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed. 

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away. 

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot. 

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor. 

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more. 

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket. 

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed. 

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours. 

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent. 

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults. 

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you. 

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find. 

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?” 

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder. 

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing. 

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. 

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it. 

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth. 

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook. 

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business. 

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside. 

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table. 

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open. 

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely. 

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits. 

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset. 

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to. 

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else. 

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA. 

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip. 

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward. 

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?” 

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer. 

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry. 

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat. 

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence. 

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face. 

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face. 

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism? 

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed. 

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches. 

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch. 

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight. 

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap. 

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist. 

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base. 

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.  

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him. 

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness. 

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room. 

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off. 

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put, 

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips. 

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back. 

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest. 

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?” 

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV. 

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says. 

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises? 

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things. 

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—” 

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable. 

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him. 

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue. 

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch. 

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means. 

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap. 

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes. 

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey. 

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him. 

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn. 

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into. 

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either. 

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand. 

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word. 

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss. 

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open. 

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering. 

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks. 

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin. 

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice. 

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way. 

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open. 

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug. 

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full. 

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected. 

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you. 

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.  

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle. 

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten. 

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms. 

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out. 

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face. 

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air. 

“Simon—”  you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place. 

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too. 

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.  

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away. 

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms. 

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds. 

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom. 

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?” 

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?” 

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.  

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice. 

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive. 

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees. 

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck. 

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off. 

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices. 

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again. 

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight. 

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way. 

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always. 

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does. 

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under. 

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air. 

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway. 

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid. 

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him. 

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?” 

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity. 

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open. 

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.” 

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying. 

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

[cherrifire]

Hi :D Logic behind the latest batch of cutie marks? if you feel like sharing :)

Hello everypony ^-^ It is cuie mark info dump again ^-^

Before we start, reminder that Grian + Tango do not have cutie marks because they are a hippogriff and a Kirin respectively. Non-pony creatures do not have cutie marks :)

Now that we've got that out of the way, let's get started!

Mumbo's Cutie Mark

I'm the proudest of this one because it'd simple but affective.

Mumbo's cutie mark is a tangled-up red wire which has been cut at the ends to expose the conductors. The wire is also particularly made to create an 'M' shape.

Similar to Impulse's cutie mark, Mumbo's is related to electricity for his investment in redstone. Electricity being the closest thing to it. That said, I gave Mumbo a wire because it is the baseline of all electricity. It connects everything together. From the power source and into whatever little machine or contraption you've built, wires are needed to keep it all powered! So I thought using it as a cutie mark would work really well for Mumbo. Sometimes he can just bring people together just like a wire does for electricity.

(And the little knot in the wire is just a little something to indicate Mumbo may be a bit of a mess)

Additionally, with the wire being in the shape of an 'M' it could stand for Mumbo while also being in the shape of a mustache too :)

Scar's Cutie Mark

Capitalism baby! Scar's cutie mark is of a red top hat next to a bag of bits (the currency in my little pony is called bits and are essentially gold coins).

At heart, Scar is a swindler. He's full of joy and whimsy sure, but he has a real talent for selling little trinkets to anypony who takes a look at his store front. In my head, Scar is essentially the flim and flam of this AU. He's a wandering salespony who shows up from time to time with things to sell from all across Equestria! That's where the little bag can be interpreted as a bag of coins, or a bag full of mystery items he's collected over the years.

Also, the top hat is there to represent Scar's salespony flair.

Joel's Cutie Mark

Joel's cutie mark is of a greek stone pillar and a chisel.

There are a couple of meanings to this one. The first one is pretty obvious, Joel loves to build! He's a fantastic builder with an eye for design. So I chose a greek pillar to represent one of my favourite builds of his, Stratos! But of course, a simple pillar can be used for lots of things and that's where the second meaning comes in. To hold things up! Joel holds himself up to on pretty high pedestal. He's very full of himself and I honestly can't blame him. Joel is great! So of course I had to represent his ego in his cutie mark somehow.

Jimmy's Cutie Mark

Jimmy's cutie mark is of a little canary bird. Another cutie mark with two meanings behind it!

First, is the obvious one. The canary in the coal mine. Misfortune will fall upon the canary to indicate to others that the journey may be too dangerous to continue. A bad luck charm if you will or a bad omen. And that's the surface meaning of his cutie mark that everypony knows it for. Jimmy is the poor clumsy pony in town who always seems to hurt himself before things go wrong.

However, there is a second meaning. Canary birds are also supposed to happiness and harmony. This is the main core of the cutie mark which gets over looked. Despite the bad implications of his cutie mark, it does not stop Jimmy from spreading joy wherever he goes. He's kind and joyous, keeping a positive attitude no matter what.

(I of course have a Ranchers plot point where Tango says this to Jimmy to cheer him up about his cutie mark one day. Tango, who has never had a cutie mark and does not understand their importance, says he doesn't see Jimmy as bad luck, but instead feels joy when Jimmy smiles no matter the situation. But that's a story for another day 🤭)

[fateswind0wseat]

Two birds on a wire One says, "C'mon," and the other says, "I'm tired," The sky is overcast and I'm sorry One more or one less Nobody's worried

Two Brids

Regina Spektor

Oops I changed my art style again

I think I'm gonna make something like an art series about matching sans aus with songs if you have suggestions for who to draw next with what song comment or ask!!! :D

Dream and Passive Nightmare belong to Jokublog

[realmsalot]

Oh, How Forgetful Of You

"Did you see him," Caryn asks, breaking the heavy silence. "Did you see him before he died?"

"Yes," he answers truthfully. She already knows that it him who asked Stanley to come up here.

"Did ya two talk?" And he knows what she's hoping for. He knows what she's hoping he'll say.

Yes. We worked it out. We talked things through. We apologize to each other. He died knowing his twin loved him.

He doesn't have it in him to lie.

--------

Or my take on a reverse portal au. Enjoy :)

Edit: So this isn't done yet. I was writing this on Tumblr mobile and thought I saving this in my drafts when app decided to post it! So now I guess this is sneak peak for a really long oneshot I'm working on. So enjoy I guess. I will appreciate any feed back on this. Don't write your fics directly on Tumblr.

Edit Edit:

Started posting the actual fic. It's a chapter fic now. Ao3 link

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

It's a cold March day in Gravity Falls. There's a fresh layer of snow on the ground glistening in the cool sun. And yet, the signs of the upcoming spring are as clear as the current sky. The snow is a mere inch on the ground, no where near the hight it was earlier in the year. There are starts of new growth on the deciduous in the area and songs from a few individual birds of migrating species that came back a tad early.

It's a beautiful day.

Even at a funeral, he acknowledges that. He's pretty sure everyone else there does as well.

Stanford Pines stands in front of an empty grave, with a hallow coffin waiting to be put in by its side and staring at the name of his twin brother etch on the headstone.

He knows that the death date on the headstone is wrong. It says that his twin had died last week, when the Stanley Mobile had careened off a cliff and was later found with no body inside. When he sent it off that cliff with a cut of the breaks, a quick hot wiring of the car and the heaviest chunk of firewood he had on the pedal. Stan had loved that car. Ford remembers the face - the smile that Stan had when he first bought it at sixteen. He remembers Stanley shoving him into that car for the first time before they went for drive, where they drove it way too fast with the windows down and shouting kings of New Jersey at the top of their lungs to celebrate. Ford remembers the last time he got in that car, screwdriver in hand, and looking around for just a moment and seeing stolen motel bedding on the back seats and trash on the floor consisting of fast food wrappers, bags convince store snacks, and losing lottery tickets. Stanley had lived in that car.

And now, thanks to Ford, the only things left of that car are a burnt pile of metal in the dump, the license plate sitting on a table in his cabin, and an old photo he stole from the drivers visor.

The death date on the headstone is wrong, but Stanford doesn't know what the real date would be. By the time Stanley had come, Ford was so paranoid and sleep deprived he didn't know what day it was anymore. But he should know. Ford should know the date. Ford should know the date he sent his twin brother to his demise. And he hates that he doesn't.

A hand touches his shoulder, and Ford is startled out of his recently encrypted head. He looks over.

It's Ma. And she's staring at the headstone, too. They stay silent for a while.

When Ford saw her arrive, he was honestly surprised she came alone. He thought for sure that she would somehow drag Filbrick or Shermie along, but no. She came alone.

The only other guest that came, aside from Fiddleford who came here for Ford not Stan, was an IRS agent. (And Ford is pretty sure he heard him whisper to the, "I know you're not dead," while glancing at Ford. )

Did Stan really have no one?

"Did you see him," Caryn asks, breaking the heavy silence. "Did you see him before he died?"

"Yes," he answers truthfully. She already knows that it him who asked Stanley to come up here.

"Did ya two talk?" And he knows what she's hoping for. He knows what she's hoping he'll say.

Yes. We worked it out. We talked things through. We apologize to each other. He died knowing his twin loved him.

He doesn't have it in him to lie.

"We talked," he starts. Scenes of that night flash in his mind.

Stan's face filling with hope as Ford talks about their old childhood dream. The way it fell as Ford tells he to sail away.

"We argued..."

I'm giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won't even listen!

"We fought..."

Stanley’s scream as he kicks him back dowases the anger for a moment, and Fort starts to apologize. And then Stanley punches him in the face, and it all comes back.

"And then he..."

Stanley had pushed over the danger line. Now all Ford can see is the fear taking over his brother’s face as he floats up to the open maw of the portal. And Ford stupidity calls out for him to do something. To not let his creation- his mistake eat him.

And Stanley does.

He doesn't doesn't hesitate to jump and push Stanford away from the portal. Consequently pushing himself in. And all Ford could do is watch as his self made monster ate Stanley.

"...he left."

It's silent again for nothing but a moment before Caryn starts to sob. She pulls Stanford into a hug that he weakly returns and she cries into the hand-me-down suit his father gave him.

Ford's eyes don't leave the headstone again until long after the mostly empty coffin is buried.

He had killed his own brother.

.-- .... .- - / -.- .. -. -.. / --- ..-. / .- / -... .-. --- - .... . .-. / .- .-. . / -.-- --- ..-

Stanford had contacted Fiddleford not long after Stanley went through the portal.

He needed help to finish the mind encrypter because it was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open and he knew that as soon as he closed them, Bill will come out and destroy it. He needed the mind encrypter to be finish and fast. He didn't know how much longer he could wait. So he went back to his ex-assistant, who (unfortunately) knows how to make machines that affect the mind best.

Ford was prepared to beg, having just lost a brother and just reached a breaking point that even his pride couldn't get to. But to his surprise, Fiddleford readily agreed. That was the second time that week someone whom he wouldn't want to see his again helped.

The mind encrypter got done in record time, and Stanford's mind was finally safe.

Then, for some reason, Fiddleford stuck around.

Then, for some reason, Fiddleford started acting like they're friends again.

[mintiicinnamonii]

CHAT HEAR ME OUT

the traveller (ill use lumine as an example) as blitz from helluva boss.

lumine and aether both crash down to teyvat, and are seperated. due to the previous events in the start of the game, or something alternate or before the fight with the unknown god, aether blames lumine for what happened. lumine ends up in fontaine, and tries to create a new life for herself (probably becomes a lawyer, based on the archon quest..) instead of trying to find him, because she either doesnt know aether is alive, or doesnt for another reason. when the two finally meet again, they have a fight, and then aether says he never wants to see her again, and lumine is traumatized.

and then she and lyney dance stolitz style! (bc lyney i hc is much slimmer and shorter than lumine)

planning to make this a fic/au called two birds on a wire, on ao3, bc WE NEED MORE LUMINE ANGST RAHHH

[badassitron]

today's au brought to you by SAD MUSICAL SONGS sent to me by @mnemoiisms /@iaconsavior

two birds on a wire. one tries to fly away and the other-

[m-jelly]

Bedtime stories

Levi x fem!reader

Modern AU, CEO Levi, fluff, romance, married couple, Dad Levi, daughter, telling stories, teary baby.

Your daughter took a long nap today, so she is unable to sleep at night properly. After waking up in the night, Levi tells you to rest for the night. He goes to his daughter and spends a fun night tell her stories and eating biscuits together.

Dedicated to my wonderful friend @ladycheesington <3

@ladycheesington @levisbrat25 @nyxiieluna @li-anne @galactict3a @youre-ackermine @thebobaprincess @2moth-anon2 @cypidity @nbinairyn @bts-spnlvr12 @darkstarlight82 @notgoodforlife @demonic-bird

It was dark in the bedroom, but the warmth of your body against Levi's soothed him. It was hard to fall asleep because he'd had a nap with his daughter that day, so he was rather wired but he always had to go to bed with you. Holding you in his arms was the best thing in the world.

A soft cry of his daughter came through the monitor. Worry filled his heart when you stirred in your sleep ready to go to Lilly, but your husband stopped you. With a delicate touch, Levi moved his body from your grasp and gave you a loving kiss.

Your eyes only opened a little as you inhaled deeply. "I can get her."

The thought of you going to Lilly while you were so exhausted troubled Levi. He wanted you to rest up, you were his Queen. He placed a loving kiss on your lips. "I'll go to our princess. You sleep. Please, sleep."

"Are you sure?"

"Very."

You groped his thigh. "Mm, have fun. Love you."

"Love you always."

You squeaked when he spanked you on the bum before leaving. "Little devil."

The hall to Lilly's room was softly illuminated with a single fake candlelight that was on a timer. It was soothing to Levi, just like you were to his heart. As he got closer to his daughter's room, he felt excited to see his little princess. His heart was filled with so much love for Lilly and you.

Lilly's room was full of cute things, soft colours and lots of cuddly things. The carpet was soft under Levi's feet as he walked over to Lilly's bed. She was sat up in her little onesie covered in bunnies. Only a few tears stained her adorable chubby cheeks.

It was a comforting warmth that came from Lilly when Levi wrapped his hands around her middle. With ease, he lifted her up and out before bringing her close to his chest. Her gentle cries came to a stop when she recognised she was in the arms of her father.

Levi collected her favourite bunny and blanket before making his way to the living room. "All right, my little princess, I think we should hang out for a bit. We both had a very long nap today. Naughty us."

Lilly gazed at Levi as if he were some magical God. "Eh."

"I agree. Biscuits are a great choice and we'll have some milkies too."

With great skill, Levi kept Lilly on his hip as he heated up two cups of milk and placed them on a tray with some biscuits. The tray was balanced on his arm as he made his way to the living room. He only turned on one soft light so it'd help make him and Lilly feel tired.

He gently adjusted Lilly on his lap before handing her the sippy cup she loved. "Here you go, my little princess." He grabbed his cup and started drinking as he carefully watched his daughter. "Mm, we should have some biscuits."

Lilly gazed at Levi with her bright steel blue eyes, she looked so much like him. "Da!"

"I know, I'm looking forward to them too." He picked up one and handed it to his daughter. He felt his heart soften at how small her hands were. "Enjoy."

She took a little bite of the biscuit before offering it to Levi. "Ah!"

"Oh, thank you." He leaned down and took a bite. "Mm, yummy."

She giggled and took another bite. "Mm!"

He chuckled and grabbed his own. "Right, little princess, I think it's story time to help you sleep."

Lilly reached for her cup. "Bah."

Levi handed the cup to her. "Here you go." As soon as she was done he moved the cup to the table and helped her burp. With a slight adjustment, he shifted on the sofa and lay Lilly on his chest with her blanket on her back. "All right. Let's think of a fun story."

She clung to Levi's shirt. "Mm."

"Once there was a beautiful princess who was all alone in a castle. She wanted to meet a kind and sweet man, but all she got were annoying men who wanted her money and title. So, she decided to go on the run!"

Lilly giggled at her father being expressive. "Da."

He played with her soft hair. "She ran to an old castle in the mountains and there was a dragon man. As soon as the dragon man saw the princess, he fell madly in love with her. When the princess asked for help, he agreed to everything."

Lilly started fighting sleep, but Levi's deep rumbling voice against her little body and his heat was making her sleepy.

"She took care of the dragon man as payment for his kindness. She cooked for him and made sure that he cared about himself like he cared for her. As time went on, she forgot all about why she was there and fell in love with the dragon man. She saw beyond the scales and horns. She saw the gentle, emotional, kind and loving man under it all."

Lilly's eyes slowly closed as sleep took over.

"The dragon man slowly became more of a man because her love healed him. The two of them wedded and started a life in his castle. They started a community of people who were their friends. As time went on, they started a family and welcomed a beautiful baby girl. They cherished their daughter and their love for eternity."

The room filled with silence. With just one sweet story about you and Levi falling in love as a princess and dragon man, Lilly was sleeping for the night. As quietly as possible, Levi returned his daughter to her bed and lay her down.

Once everything was cleaned up in the kitchen and living room, Levi hurried over to you in bed. He carefully climbed in as he tried not to disturb you. A long sigh escaped him as his body relaxed. He perked up a bit when you rolled over and partly lay on him.

You hummed a little in your sleep state. "Was she okay?"

"We had milkies and biscuits."

"Sounds delicious."

"I heated the milkies up. I then held her and told her a story."

You raised your head and kissed Levi. "You're such a wonderful father."

A blush graced his cheeks. "You think so?"

"I do."

He wrapped his muscular arms around you and held you close. "Thank you. You're an incredible mother and wife. I'm so lucky."

You showered Levi's face with kisses. "Thank you. You're the best husband ever."

He gaze you a gentle squeeze. "Flirting words."

"You're flirting back."

He rolled over onto you as he growled causing you to giggle. "I wanna eat you."

You squealed when he attacked your neck with nibbles. "I'm all yours, Levi."

[rewrittenwrongs]

Kiind of jumping off this post; the idea of any of the batkids being biologically related is interesting (esp if they don’t know), but I’m specifically thinking about Tim and Dick. About the Drakes having an open marriage and meeting the Flying Graysons on a dig, or an earlier performance in Gotham, and they have some fun together and Janet tests pregnant shortly after. They tell John and Mary abt it, and do a DNA test and turns out Tim is John’s child. They kind of keep in touch with the Graysons through letters, and when it’s announced Haly’s Circus is performing in Gotham they jump at the chance to hang out and introduce their sons. Tim and Dick were aware they had brothers but they didn’t know much about each other but their names, and when they meet for the first time they click instantly. Dick is ecstatic to have a little brother and Tim is literally bouncing from joy, and Dick promises to do a quadruple backflip just for him and someday teach him how to do one, but then everything goes wrong and you can guess how.

From here there’s two ways this can go.

A) Jack and Janet adopt Dick. They foster him as soon as possible—maybe his parents left custody to them in their wills—adopt him only once he’s ready, stay home more to take care of him and Tim while they all grieve, and try to keep the memory of the flying Graysons alive and help Dick (and Tim) stay in touch with his Romani roots. But Dick knows that wire snapping was foul play. He’s determined to go out there and bring his parent’s murderer to justice. He’s already strong and quick from his performing, and the Drakes enrolled him in self defence classes anyway since this is Gotham. He’s got what it takes. But Batman refuses to see that, he just sees a little boy in too-bright colours carrying too much weight on his shoulders, so he does his best to make Dick step back and bring in his parent’s murderer for him. But he never unmasks him or finds out his identity, even if he has suspicions.

Maybe in this AU Dick and Tim are closer in age and roam the streets as a duo of birds. Either Jason is still taken in by Bruce and joins Dick (and Tim(?)) in causing chaos and grey hairs, or Dick is the one to catch him jacking the Batmobile’s tires and gains his trust through months of sharing food and resources like he’s befriending a stray cat, until he agrees to go home to Drake Manor.

B) Bruce is still in the crowd that night, Jack and Janet aren’t legible to be foster guardians for whatever reason, and Dick is still adopted by Bruce and becomes his sidekick as Robin. Dick and Tim only meet a few times in Galas, and while Dick remembers he has a half-brother his brain trying to shield him from the trauma of that day makes his memories very fuzzy. He can’t even remember his brother’s name, just his age and that Dick promised to teach him the quadruple flip someday. Jack and Janet do their fanon usual neglect as a way to grieve and distance themselves from that trauma. Maybe they bring Tim with them for the first year or so. Either way, Tim still has the photo(s) from the day at the circus, so he gives one to Dick (maybe leaves it on his windowsill since they share backyards) in the hopes that he’ll remember Tim and reach out. Dick is eternally grateful for the photo but only because it’s of his parents, he doesn’t recognise Tim (he’s too young to visibly share any features with John except skin tone) and just thinks he’s a kind fan. The Drakes do share unusual fondness for Dick but assume that he remembers them and has chosen not to reach out, and are respecting his boundaries. So Dick grows, becomes Nightwing yada yada Jason becomes Robin (part of Dick hates that the other person to wear that mantle isn’t his real brother), Jason dies, everyone angsts and Tim steps in. Tim becomes Robin, maybe realises Dick doesn’t know they’re related but chooses not to tell him because he doesn’t want them to feel obligated; he wants to earn Robin. So he does. And yeah, a lot of it really sucks, but he doesn’t regret it one bit. A year or two in Dick goes on some mission at Haly’s circus (or searches through the rubble after Blockbuster burns it down), and finds a bunch of old letters and photos belonging to his parents. The letters are from the Drakes. The photos are of them and Tim.

Maybe Blockbuster found the letters too and targets Tim. Maybe Dick finds out they’re related when Tim is in the medbay. Maybe in a mess of being very young + traumatised + no one speaking abt it Tim separates the facts of ‘I have a half-brother’ and ‘I watched the Flying Graysons die’, and only suspects the two are connected. Maybe Bruce always had a suspicion because of their similar features. Maybe he did a DNA test and either chose not to or forgot to tell anyone the results. Maybe Cass thought it was common knowledge because of how Tim acts just a little bit different around Dick, so she makes some comment years down the line when Damian is bragging about being the only blood son, and is more than a little startled when everyone other than Tim including Dick looks at her like she started speaking in tongues.

Either way, Dick eventually makes good on his promise and teaches Tim that flip.

[tgmsunmontue]

SunMonTue's TG and TG:M MASTER LIST

This post is linked from the pinned post of WIPS, and kept up to date. Fic title links to AO3, hashtag links to the first tumblr post/chapter for the fic (which also have the photos etc which I often leave off AO3 unless critical).

If there is no AO3 link, that's because it isn't on AO3 yet. (I usually post fics on AO3 only when they're finished, or within a few chapters of being finished. There are a few exceptions.)

HANGSTER

A picture is worth 1000 words - WIP Hangster

Post-TGM events, Jake and Bradley become friends on Instagram through increasingly competitive thirst traps. #A picture is worth 1000 words

Another Time Mature ~17k Hangster

Jake wakes up in Rooster's body about ~30 or so hours post-Mission and they have to deal with it. They're adults. Apparently. #Another Time

Bird on a Wire  Explicit ~8k Hangster

Hangster AU Meetcute. Jake tries to make a good impression on one of the servers at a restaurant. Except he turns out to be the head chef. Who in turn tries make a good impression. Their families try and help. #Bird on a Wire

Caring, Keeping and Collecting Transformers - A Guide TBC? WIP Hangster

Maverick is unknowingly surrounded by Transformers. He knows something is up though. Just not quite what it is exactly. Bradley and Jake, having never met, are embarking on their own journeys and will have to learn to deal with the fact that they've both been adopted by Transformers. Despite having years more experience, Maverick is no help at all. #Caring Keeping and Collecting Transformers - A Guide

Can't buy me love Explicit ~16k Hangster

Jake doesn't need help around the ranch, but he's not going to turn down cheap able-bodied labor either. He's not stupid. The fact that Bradley knows nothing about ranching doesn't exactly help his case, but he's a fast learner. #can't buy me love

Come on baby light my fire… Explicit ~5k Hangster

An apartment fire alarm at 1am featuring Jake in his underwear and Bradley with kittens. (And a writer that cannot decide on an ending...) #Come on baby light my fire...

Get your motor runnin' Explicit ~8.5k Hangster

Bradshaw is apparently the best mechanic Maverick knows. Which Jake considers high praise from Maverick. If Bradshaw can fix his car then maybe he is. Jake is expecting an old-timer with lots of experience. What he gets, is surprised. And it doesn't stop there. He's a bit of an idiot about it all. #Get your motor runnin'

Guilt doesn't help. Try Remorse. Teen+ <1k Pre-Hangster

Set on the carrier in the evening directly post-mission, Hangman and Rooster have a conversation. Sort of. #Guilt doesn't help. Try Remorse.

I'd know you anywhere Explicit ~9k Hangster

Set when Hangman first meets Rooster. Bradley and Bradford Bradshaw are twins. Most people know this. Some people need to be brought up to speed. Quickly. #I'd know you anywhere

It's all academic darlin' Explicit ~38k Hangster

Bradley is a professor but living his best life with IceMav parents. Jake is a pilot. Maverick sort-of tries (and fails) to play matchmaker, so he tries again. Touch of epistolary and sprinkling of one-sided unknown/mistaken-identity. #It's all academic darlin'

It's not who you know Mature ~13k Hangster

Low-angst Nepo!Baby Bradley and his four years at the USNA and his head-in-the-sand approach to the nepotism and the fact that he ends up being known as the guy with the two hot dads instead... #It's not who you know

Jake's Cakes Teen+ ~2k Hangster

MeetCute. Iceman has tasked Bradley with organising Maverick's 60th birthday cake. This goes as planned until Mav decides to be a gremlin. #Jake's Cakes

Life is too short to waste time matching socks Explicit 5k Hangster (side Bob/Nat/Javy)

Also features Bob/Javy/Nat - set post mission with the Dagger Squad having been made a permanent squad. #Life is too short to waste time matching socks

Lonely Nights Explicit ~11k Hangster

Set in 2009, Bradley is ~27 and Jake is ~23. They're both on leave, out in a gay club and looking to hook up. This is a PWP and sits in the longer Sagas of Solitude Series. (A Nepo!Baby-Bradley AU where Bradley went to the USNA and has a better relationship with Maverick, however DADT has not yet been repealed.) #Lonely Nights

Mercury & Manganese Teen+ ~2k Hangster

An AU MeetUgly (where I failed to meet the assignment as it feels too soft, nice and gentle to really be a MeetUgly? Maybe?). No one is in the Navy. This centres around chefs and restaurants and drinks, but it's all very background. Background established IceMav. #Mercury and Manganese

More than movie magic... Explicit ~25k Hangster

Jake is a Hollywood actor and Bradley is a stunt coordinator. Jake's about to make a few self-discoveries. So is Bradley. #More than movie magic...

Never knew I was missing you Explicit WIP Hangster

Jake is just trying to find a connection. Shame the guy he connects with the most is lying about his identity online; because he sure as hell isn't A-list Hollywood star Bradley Bradshaw. #Never knew I was missing you

Online and Anonymous Explicit ~60k Hangster

Years before they meet in person Bradley and Jake strike up a friends-with-benefits relationship online. And then something more like an actual relationship. Epistolary fic set in a world where papers were pulled and events of TGM will take place and DADT exists until it is repealed at the end of 2011. #Online and Anonymous

Peer Reviewed Mature ~3k Hangster

Secretly married Hangster in an academic environment. Outsider POV then Hangster back and forth with a 5+1 feel (“feel” because it’s a 9+1). #Peer Reviewed

Saga of Solitude Explicit WIP Hangster and IceMav

Nepo!Baby Bradley and his life at USNA. DADT fully in force. Hangster AU. #Saga of Solitude

Season to taste Explicit ~95k Hangster

Through a series of sheer dumb luck and pure stubborn pig-headedness Bradley runs as far away from Maverick as he can. He ends up in Italy, under the tutelage of Leandro Gallo, a retired but very accomplished chef. He takes Bradley under his wing. #Season to taste

Second Time Lucky... Teen ~3K Hangster

College AU featuring Bradshaw!Twins Bradford and Bradley, a Jake Seresin with a crush, and a long-suffering Javy Machado. #SecondTimeLucky...

Take more chances, dance more dances Explicit ~13k Hangster

Meet!Cute with Jake as the best man at Natasha and Javy's wedding and Bradley is the instructor teaching them how to dance... Very slight whiffs of Cyclone/Mav and Javy/Nat/Bob if you're looking. #Take more chances, dance more dances

Team Player Explicit ~7k Hangster

Jake's cousin plays for the Sydney Roosters and gifts him with merchandise. Regularly. Bradley has an unexpected realization. #Team Player

The Roost Teen+ ~2k Hangster

Hangster AU MeetCute. The Dagger Squadron have put Jake in charge of organizing a cake for Mav's 60th birthday and retirement celebration. Little does he know he's about to ask Mav's son to make it. #The Roost

To wake, perchance to dream Explicit ~25k Hangster

Jake wakes up 10+ years in the future and thinks he has amnesia. Instead it's a glimpse of what his life could be. When he wakes up right before being called back to Top Gun for the special detachment he's going to try his damnedest to make that future come true... #To wake perchance to dream

Upon which our Souls touch Teen+ WIP Hangster

Tradition and the stories have been the same for thousands of years. Until Bradley and Jake came along and broke all the rules without ever speaking a word to one another... #Upon which our souls touch

We walk our path together now... Mature 2k Hangster

Years after Javy and Natasha get together they think their best friends could maybe try dating each other. It'll either end in disaster. Or not. #together or not at all

Where do I know you from? Mature ~11k Hangster

Hangster crackfic-adjacent. There are too many Jakes and Bradleys for Jake and Bradley to be dealing with. Or the Universe is just as fed up with them being blind. #where do I know you from?

With our pets, a house becomes our home Explicit ~5k Hangster

Jake adopts a puppy and then proceeds to fly across the country to take up a flight instructor position at Corpus Christi where Bradley is the vet (DVM) that Jake takes Brisket to once he arrives. Bradley asks him out. MeetCute. #With our pets, a house becomes our home

You are all five senses to me and always will be Teen+ ~500 words Hangster

Jake is sent a tumblr post and his default object is apparently Rooster. He's okay with that. #You are all five senses to me and always will be

You found me Explicit ~13k Hangster

AU - Soulmates first words are on your skin. Started for the Bingo. Jake is a singer and Bradley is the newly arrived member of his security detail. Tooth-rotting FLUFF and SMUT. #You found me

You need to learn how to fall Explicit ~17k Hangster

Bradley keeps growing past the 6'5" limit of being a naval aviator, Maverick lets out an internal sigh of relief. He's not going to be the one responsible for stopping Bradley from becoming a pilot. However, because karma is a cruel mistress, Bradley becomes a sky diver, specialising in spin recovery. Mav will never understand why his godson continually jumps out of perfectly good planes. Later Bradley's level of skill is such that he becomes a civilian contractor to the Airforce and Navy to teach pilots how to survive parachute spins from ejections. The Airforce contact Bradley first, it annoys Ice to no end. #You need to learn how to fall

OTHER

From the Top - Explicit ~12k - IceMav (background Hangster)

Featuring not-mistaken identities (where they (Ice and Mav) pretend to be in the dark for REASONS), Ice is Jake's Uncle Tom, Mav is Bradley's Dad, everyone knows everyone, (un)requited love, coming out as an older person, and a little bit of a circus-vibe where Ice has a horrible realization that this is indeed his circus and these are also his monkeys. #From the Top

He remembers... Teen+ ~1k IceMav + Bradley slice-of-life

An AU set just before Bradley enters the USNA (so ~2001?). 18 year-old Bradley remembers key points and people in his life. Prologue of Saga of Solitude. #He Remembers

I want you so bad it hurts. But you heal me. Explicit 8k Macheresin (JavyxJake)

Jake wakes up to sixteen missed calls, three voice messages and over five-hundred and fifty messages via three different messaging apps. Javy is in Vegas for his brother's bachelor party and a hospital is trying to get a hold of Jake because he's listed as Javy's partner. When the hell did that happen? GIFT FIC for @cottagecori - this fic is not on Tumblr.

Life is too short to waste time matching socks Mature 5k Hangster + Bob/Javy/Nat

Also features Hangster - set post mission with the Dagger Squad having been made a permanent squad. #Life is too short to waste time matching socks

Once Upon a Time in 1996... Explicit ~25k IceMav

Maverick wakes up to a great day. Then it all turns to shit. Timeloop fic. #Once Upon a Time in 1996...

Saga of Solitude Explicit WIP IceMav and Hangster

Nepo!Baby Bradley and his life at USNA. DADT fully in force. IceMav established AU with them both married but widowed/divorced (just read the prologue). #Saga of Solitude

Together or not at all... General ~2k Javy/Nat

The evolution of Javy and Natasha's relationship as viewed from the outside. Mostly. #Together or not at all...

2024 December ficlet list needs to be added.

[itspikamefan]

Another something different

(Aight so I was gonna wait until I had Chapter 2 fully written out but with Chapter 3 now fully completed and Chapter 4 almost halfway done I decided to give a brief showing on what happens in Chapter 3 of Save the Tiger AU (Can't believe that's the official title now). With all that in mind, let's turn to Yonekura to see the incident that unfolds in Chapter 3's murder case and the subsequent execution that followed :3)

...

*bzzt*

...I swear to god... Yume... I am going to...

MMMMMMMHMMHMM!!!

*Inhales*

Dr.Haruka Yonekura... Session 1... Log 69...

To briefly explain my earlier frustration... It appears that Student 9 has been ill content with simply being an annoyance to the other students, but has also caused repeated problems with the staff, including creating yet ANOTHER Misleading Murder Case, AND Interrupting the execution this time around in order to save the executee, only to get herself injured in the process!

Jesus christ... I knew she wasn't the brightest bulb but she is making my job the LITERAL WORST right now.

...But anyways... That is not the purpose of this report...

The days before the actual murder took place, Student 9 had been repeatedly harassing and targetting Student 6 in a bullying campaign, severely injuring him and further worsening Injuries made to Student 3. This was all purposeful to trigger the anger of Student 11, who Student 9 considered her "Nemesis"

Then, the night before the actual murder, Student 9 carried out a sort of... swap. Kidnapping Student 12, Student 9 swapped their outfits with the unconcious Student 12, and tied him to her bedpost while walking around the school as him. The next night, after Student 9 pulled a particularly nasty stunt, Student 11 entered the room of Student 9 and strangled the bed's occupant to death. It was only after Student 9 had killed her victim, that she had realized her victim was Student 12...

Regardless, on the morning of the Investigation, Student 6 and 11 were led purposefully to the Workshop by Student 9 placing a wooden cross that could have only been made there underneath the now deceased Student 12. This was, in intention, to murder Student 11, thus connecting her murder to Student 9, and leading to both students dying as killers...

However, due to circumstances that I am still completely unable to comprehend... Instead of Student 11... Student 6 was the one to open the door to the Woodshop. Thus triggering the trap... And Ending his life...

And that leads us to the situation we have today, where there are two seperate murderer for two seperate victims. One has been executed as normal, and the other will be able to continue on like nothing happened at all. And of course... It had to be Student 9 who lived... Fucking hell...

...Surprisingly enough, Dr.Kan seemed very eager for this particular execution. He obviously has always been obsessed with his little "Creative" puppet shows that he makes the Students put on, but for the execution of Student 11, he seemed particularly giddy for this performance...

Let's see what he had in mind...

*Ahem*

"It's a Bird, It's a Plane."

"Student 11's execution began with stringing her up to a ceiling wire on the roof of her execution chamber, her limbs stretched out in resemblance of a Superhero Flight pose, as with her Ultimate Title. Surrounding Student 11's path were various boxes or wooden figures in different groups, all with Villanous Signs painted on them.

On the Intercom, Student 11 was instructed to destroy all of the "Villains" in the arena, with the promise of freedom if she managed to destroy them all. Student 11 was not given a set timer, for reasons that would become apparent later.

As the Course Started, Student 9's restraints began to move them along a treaded course rather quickly, understanding the assignment, Student 9 attempted to punch several Wodden Objects, knocking some of them off, destroying others, and barely grazing the last few. Out of the 70 objects, only 47 were destroyed on the first path.

On Student 11's Second cycle, the course sped up, leaving Student 9 less time to destroy the wooden targets. She managed to hit approximately 12 by the end of her Second go around.

This repeated, with Student 11 hitting less and less, till eventually 1 every 5 rounds as Student 11 "Flew" across the course at high speeds, causing Student 11 to vomit. Eventually, after a time, Student 11 managed to hit all but one of the boxes, though her speed was so great, she could only barely see the last box at the very end of the course, with a big target painted behind it, though just barely out of Student 11's reach.

Finally, afyter several cycles Student 11 was launched at the final target, as one research assistant in disguise, cut the wires on Student 11's restraints, causing Student 11 to continue her propelled momentum towards the target...."

Normally, the execution described would end with Student 11's crashing through the box and smashing against the wall, cracking her skull and other bones against the solid surface. However... At this point... Student 9 SOMEHOW managed to escape from the Trial Room to the Execution Chamber!

From there, Student 9 taunted Student 11 from behind the very last box, giggling like a maniac... Before Student 11's Body was catapulted into her, sending her flying against the wall as well...

While the Initial Purpose of the Execution still succeeded due to the High Speeds, causing Student 11's spine to snap and her skull to shatter, killing her instantly... This execution also ended up nearly, but unfortunately unsuccessfully, killing Student 9. She, in all of her stupid luck, managed to escape with only some Neck, back, and head injuries, while simultaneously being knocked unconcious...

I... have so many questions with this execution... Why did we divert so many resources into this execution design? How did Student 9 even manage to find out WHERE the execution was happening?! Why wasn't Monomoko watching her?! Why didn't she stop her?! WHY DIDN'T KAN STOP HER?!

*Inhales*

I'm going to be having yet another meeting with Dr.Kan about his misuse of expirement resources for his exorborent "Executions"... In the meantime, Monomoko has requested additional resources for Student 9's recovery... Which I unfortunately will have to provide... Fuck... My... Life...

Dr.Haruka Yonekura. Session 1, Log 69... Signing Off

*Click*