#the cannibalism still makes sense this doesn’t

[princeapollyon]

YEYSESYESYES MY TIME TO SHINE!!

TRIGGER WARNINGS:‼️

mentions of heavy fictional drug use, cannibalism, and general moral depravity.

alrighty so. one of, if not THE most integral part of my courier six’s story stems from the consequences of his head wound.

first off, i took what was implied by doc mitchell’s remark if you pick low charisma, “Huh. Must be some frontal lobe damage,” and just ran with it.

it makes sense that, when Benny shot you in the FRONT of the head where you could still see him, that some permanent damage could have occurred. for Dagger, (my oc!) this means frontal lobe damage, which affects his decision-making skills, primarily between determining right from wrong and other morality-based decisions, causes complete impulsivity in most cases, and has caused his empathy gene to logg-off, permanently.

frontal lobe damage can also affect specifically autobiographical memory, which makes sense for the game, since the courier’s action can post-accident be completely different in character than from before the injury. for my courier, this manifests in some pretty serious permanent amnesia, where he’s not able to remember anything from before the accident except the accident itself, and vague feelings of familiarity when he travels to places he likely had traveled to before all of this (implied by being able to speak the Dead Horse’s language in Honest Hearts),

also, Dagger can vaguely understand that he’s changed completely since getting shot in the head, at least emotionally. he senses some type of loss, recognizing that he’s physically limited now from his brain injury, although he doesn’t feel much other than slight annoyance over this fact.

effectively, this wound has given him “aquired sociopathy,” so while he knows that he’s changed, he doesn’t have the emotional depth to mourn it, especially since he’s now fully convinced of his superiority to other people and things only really go up for him after the initial run-in with Benny.

BUT ALSO!! THERE’S MORE! :D

not only did the gunshot wounds cause a complete lack of empathy/moral understanding and emotional regression to that of an impulsive 13-year-old, but they are also the source of frequent, excruciatingly painful migraines, which explains his affinity for/addiction to drugs.

in-game, i would deliberately leave my head untreated if it became crippled from combat, because the boughts of swimming vision and high pitched ringing seemed realistic to my courier’s injury. my thinking is, if getting popped on the head in-combat could cause it, why wouldn’t lasting effects of TWO LITERAL GUNSHOT WOUNDS cause permanently the same effects?? mostly, i just thought it added more flavor, and when i make characters, i like what they do to make sense. i knew that i wanted my courier to be a drug fiend and a cannibal, and the cause if the first made most sense to me if he was to experience chronic pain and have a heightened thrill-seeking temperment, and the latter if he had a completely distorted sense of morality. all of this criteria is fulfilled and explained by severe frontal lobe damage; he uses drugs to cope with extreme chronic migraines, and justifies eating corpses with the thought process of “this is survival and they’re already dead” mixed with seeing it as triumphant superiority, where if someone were to die at his hands, then they’re basically no better than livestock, thus he can and should eat them. what a weirdo lol

anyway, that about sums up and accounts for pretty much all the decisions Dagger has made in-game, and which ending i plan to get with him. he sees others merely as tools for his self-betterment, using then how he sees fit and saying whatever he needs to to manipulate them to get the job done. he respects marginally those who have displayed exceptional martial prowess, but still is always looking at people through the lens of “what can this guy do for me” rather than “i want to ally myself with these people and their cause.”

i also think that if you play through the Old World Blues DLC, that the doctors there (if you get the goid ending) can repair your brain better than doc mitchell, so some of these negative effects may be somewhat alleviated. in particular, since your head no longer gets crippled, i’ve interpreted this as the migraines no longer being a thing (but it doesn’t matter since at that point Dagger’s already an addict, so his drug problem still stands lol). perhaps he’s a little more nuanced in the decision-making department too, but i doubt that even the best doctor can repair literal holes in your brain completely lol

YAY OKAY THAT’S ALL!! sorry for the rant i just love my courier so much and have thought n researched SO MUCH about this, so i had to say my piece >:3

Currently very interested in Courier OCs who have actual in-story consequences from the brain injury. I wish everyone a very please tell me about your Couriers.

[dunmeshi-would-you-eat]

Senshi and Namari's "Hot Undine Water"

[hana-bobo-finch]

TOO MUCH TO CATCH UP ON RIPPING MY HAIR OUT!!!! I’ll get to most of the posts in the morning wauughhh. anyway hi guys, ive been working a lot on my neocities PDBC site these past few days and I have a question: when it comes to the site, it’ll mostly be lore-dumps and character bios like I’ve been posting here (along w my minicomics obvs), and I’ve been fooling around with a bunch of different ideas for the writing style of the lore dumps and I want to know which seems best to you:

1. Objective, such as I normally do with my lore dumps (e.g. no personal biases, all info laid out rather plainly)

2. Written in the style of an “official” fincg island website (e.g. written in the pov of finch describing his Amazing Super Cool island and stuff)

3. Written by Domitone post-main story (e.g. something akin to a historical document explaining The Horrors of fincg island after the fact)

[geminiwritten]

punishment ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

notes: there are no words in any language (real or fictional) for how much i love this man, it's genuinely consuming... but anyway! have some fighter pilot fun! when i reread this, i felt like it didn't hit the way i hoped, but i can't keep rewriting bradley stuff just because i want everything about him to be perfect... so please be kind! and please, please let me know what you think! i actually worked super hard on this (lots of research) and i absolutely love hearing from y'all!

warnings: swearing, italics, hangman is a proper dick, the word 'cannibalism' is used (as a joke), kind of super cheesy, and it gets a bit horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: there is a lot more navy / pilot wording in this than i usually write. i do not claim that any of it is accurate or correct. i google things and i watch youtube videos, tv shows, and movies. as long as it sounds like it could make sense, i don't care. but please do not assume any of it is absolute fact, and please don't come for me if it's laughably incorrect or unfeasible.

word count: 13863

The bar smells like leather polish and beer. It sounds like a rowdy dive, full of off-duty naval officers and a few old veterans, but it doesn’t look like a dive. It’s clean and full of light, the sun pouring in through the beachside windows and bouncing off every shiny surface it can find. 

You tuck yourself onto the furthest stool at the bar, hiding behind a well-placed pillar to quietly sulk and sip your beer. You’re not interested in conversation today. Not after the ass-whooping you took last week, which landed you on this stupid island in the first place. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check the text. It’s from Maverick: “0700 sharp. Don’t be late. Khakis.” 

You scoff and stuff it back into the pocket of your leather jacket. Does he really think you’re that dumb? That you’re not going to wear your service khakis on your first day? You’ve got a full day tomorrow of getting chewed out by a whole new slew of admirals. Why would you possibly want to piss them off? 

A smirk tugs at your lips, but you quickly hide it behind a sip of beer. Not that it really matters if anyone notices—they’d probably just think you’re a little crazy, smirking to yourself. No one here knows who you are—at least not by looking at you. Except Maverick, of course. Your new babysitter. 

Just because you pulled off a high-speed, low-level flyby mere feet from the deck of an aircraft carrier while some snooty admiral and a group of very important people were onboard for a very serious demonstration, you get booted from your squad and strapped with a babysitter. 

You didn’t even hit anyone. It was just a very close call. A few people toppled over. But it’s not your fault they didn’t see you coming and brace for jet wash. 

It was actually quite an impressive stunt. 

But the admiral didn’t see it that way. He sent you to learn from one of the Navy’s most notorious rebels about what happens when you break the rules. You’re still not sure why they stuck you with Maverick. Maybe they’re using the logic of ‘two wrongs make a right.’ Either way, that’s one part of this whole shitshow you’re actually relieved about. Maverick’s not a total stick-up-the-ass. 

A voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts and back to the bar. “You here alone?”

Your head snaps toward your personal space intruder, bringing you face-to-face with a rather handsome man who is almost definitely too cocky for his own good. 

“That your big opener?” you ask, twisting on the stool to face him. “Because it’s giving more serial killer vibes than fuck-me vibes.” 

He smirks, unbothered by your prickliness. “Enlighten me, then. What would make you wanna fuck me?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you take a deep swig of beer, then glance back at him. “About fifteen more years of age and a nice, salt-and-pepper beard.” You slide off the stool and smack your empty pint glass down on the bar. “Sorry, pal. I’m only into DILFs.” 

He rears back, finally unsettled. You flash your prettiest grin and a wink before heading for the doors. 

You almost make it out without looking back—almost. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man rejoining his table of friends, all of them giggling like idiots. 

All but one. 

He’s got honey-brown hair that curls in the most mesmerising way, catching the sunlight like spun gold. His lips are tipped up at the corner beneath a moustache that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And when you meet his big brown eyes, you can’t help but bite your lip like a shy little schoolgirl. 

Now, if that man had approached you, you’d probably be halfway to his bed by now. 

- 

You had your khakis dry-cleaned at the seedy little place next to the equally seedy fish and chip shop you found after sulking at the beach for most of Saturday. 

The studio apartment you’re leasing for your three months of punishment is in a block right by the sand—another small win in the grand scheme of things. At least you’re not stuck on base. 

You thought it was a small fuck you to the system to skip the official base dry cleaners and take your uniform somewhere else. 

But it wasn’t worth it. 

Now your khakis are super fucking itchy. They look fine, but every inch of fabric touching you—which is a lot—makes you want to peel your skin off. 

“What’s wrong?” Maverick asks, frowning as he watches you twist and turn in your front-row seat in the training room. 

You sigh, rubbing your back against the chair. “I took my uniform to a dry cleaner near my apartment. Now it’s fucking itchy.” 

Any other CO would rip into you for swearing, but Maverick just chuckles. “Serves you right.” 

Smug prick. 

You take a deep breath and try to settle, ignoring the prickling fabric scraping against your skin. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, shuffling through papers at the desk, “you’ll be in a flight suit soon enough.” 

Your eyes widen. You jump to your feet and step closer to where he’s hunched over the desk at the front of the room. 

“You’re going to let me fly?” 

He chuckles. “Of course.” 

“But-” 

“I cleared it with Admiral Simpson,” he says, flipping a page. “As long as the squad doesn’t know who you really are, and you don’t pull anything totally reckless, you’re cleared to fly.” 

For the first time in two weeks, it feels like you’re finally breaking the surface of the water. “Oh my God. Thank you, Mav.” 

He straightens up, finally giving you his full attention. “You don’t have to thank me. I trust you. Just don’t prove me wrong. And for the record—” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye, “—I know you’re a damn good pilot. In fact, you remind me of someone.” 

The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable. 

You quirk a brow. “You?” 

He laughs—low, light, and smug. “How’d you guess?” 

You shrug one shoulder, slipping back into your seat. “Because I know Admiral Cain has it out for you. Why else would he saddle you with me if not to punish both of us?” 

Maverick sighs, but the grin stays on his face. “You’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. But you’re dangerous. And honestly, I’m not sure Admiral Cain really thought through what happens when you throw two dangerous people together.” 

You drop your voice low, just in case anyone else is listening. “Maybe Admiral Cain is the stupid one. Underestimating both of us.” 

Maverick tries—and fails—to hide his laughter behind the stack of papers, and you realize that maybe this punishment won’t be quite as punishing as you first thought. 

A few minutes later—and after completely shattering all professional boundaries by getting Maverick to scratch a spot on your back you couldn’t reach—the aviators who make up his special detachment start to arrive. 

You stay low and still in your seat as they file in, one by one, filling up the rows while Maverick stands grinning at the front of the room. Two aviators across the aisle glance at you curiously, like they almost recognize you. God, you hope not. 

“Good morning,” Maverick says, grinning at the room. “Apologies for the late start. I had a meeting with Admiral Simpson this morning because today..." He glances at you and nods for you to stand. “We have someone new joining us.” 

You plaster on a polite smile and scan the room—only to freeze when your eyes land on a familiar face. The guy who approached you at the bar last night. The one you all but told to fuck off. 

A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it. 

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face turning redder by the second. You almost feel bad. Almost. 

“This is our new tactical training specialist,” Maverick continues, oblivious. But then he hesitates, glancing down at his paperwork before looking back up and saying your name—your first name, not your last, and definitely not your callsign. 

Just like Admiral Simpson ordered. No one can know who you really are. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck when your gaze drifts a few seats over... and lands on the moustached sex god you locked eyes with across the bar before you left. The one you shamelessly eye-fucked before blushing like a fool, ducking out the door, and mentally writing a very detailed fantasy about that moustache between your legs. 

He’s even hotter in a flight suit. Shit. 

“Uh, anyway,” Maverick says, clearing his throat, “let’s get on with the briefing so we can fly.” 

You sink back into your chair, cheeks burning and heart thudding way too fast against your ribs. 

Maverick drawls on about a few mission updates, occasionally throwing in extra context just for you—over-explaining like you hadn’t already gotten the full briefing before being flown in. You’re still too stunned to speak—or correct him—so you just press your lips together and nod along. 

An hour later, when you’ve almost completely forgotten about your itchy khakis, Maverick dismisses the group and tells them to meet Hondo in the hangar. He calls on the woman seated across the aisle from you—Phoenix—before she can leave with the others, and asks her to show you to the women’s locker room. 

She nods, then turns to you with a small smirk. “It's Natasha, by the way. Feels a little weird calling you by your real name if you don’t know mine.” 

You return the smile—genuine this time—and keep your eyes on her instead of following the sex god in a flight suit walking out the door. “Nice to meet you.” 

She leads the way out, and you follow, assuming she's heading toward the locker rooms. 

“So, you fly?” she asks, nodding at the shiny wings pinned to your chest. 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“Where were you before this?” 

You hesitate, wishing you’d hashed out a backstory with Mav. “Uh… around. It’s… mostly classified.” 

She raises an eyebrow, sharp curiosity gleaming in her big brown eyes. “Or you've been ordered not to tell us.” 

You snort softly. “Yeah, something like that.” 

She guides you down a set of stairs and a short hallway before gesturing toward the women’s locker room. “Just in there. If they’ve assigned you a locker, your flight suit should already be inside.” 

“Thanks, Phoenix.” 

“Anytime.” She turns to go, but pauses, casting one last curious glance your way before smiling, nodding, and walking off. 

You like her. No bullshit. 

With a deep breath, you push the door open and step into the locker room. Sure enough, your flight suit is hanging beside a locker with your first name written in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape slapped across the front. It’s strange, seeing that instead of your callsign—but it confirms that Admiral Simpson is serious about keeping your identity buried. 

You’d heard your little stunt had made waves, but halfway across the country? If they’re hiding your name out here, then yeah—no wonder you’re in trouble. 

Your flight suit doesn’t have your name on it, either. Just a worn Velcro patch that reads ‘INSTRUCTOR’—the kind that looks like it’s been passed around longer than you’ve been in the Navy. Lovely. 

You peel off your khakis, relieved to shove the itchy green material into your locker, and slip your legs into your flight suit. You leave the top half hanging loose as you re-lace your boots and check your reflection in the mirror before heading out of the locker room. 

You turn down the hall without a second glance, awkwardly trying to shove your arms into your suit—only to carelessly bump into someone coming from the opposite direction. 

“Shit, sorry, I-” You choke on your words when you look up at the prettiest damn smirk you’ve ever seen. 

“You’re good,” he says—the moustached sex god. “Need a hand?” 

Normally, no. But right now, your traitorous body is practically catatonic, pretending it’s forgotten how to function just so the sexy man will help you into your flight suit. You’re supposed to be a tactical training specialist, not an inept fool who can’t dress herself. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you say, ignoring the screaming voice of feminism in your head. “I don’t know how I got so twisted up.” 

He chuckles—deep and warm, like smoke curling around you, pulling you closer. 

“I’m Bradley, by the way,” he says as he steps behind you. “Or Rooster.” 

Your brain completely short-circuits. You don't even think to respond as his fingertips brush your bare arms, sliding the suit up over your shoulders. Even through your thin t-shirt, the heat of his touch sends a riot of butterflies through your stomach. 

“Thanks.” You turn to face him, digging deep for the confidence that usually fools people into thinking you’re calm and collected. “I might need your number… in case I need a little help undressing later.” 

His face breaks into the most breathtaking grin you’ve ever seen. His cheeks flush pink, his Adam’s apple bobs with a soft chuckle, and when his brown eyes meet yours again, they sparkle so brightly you forget how to breathe. 

“Before I say yes, I need to know… do you usually ask your trainees to help you undress, or am I just special?” 

You laugh softly, your confidence flickering, and start down the hall—walking backward so you can still face him. “Right, because I’m technically an instructor.” You tap the Velcro patch on your chest. “And that would be highly inappropriate.” 

Bradley stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Highly.” 

“Good thing I’m not exactly known for my propriety.” You flash him your cheekiest smile, then spin around and quicken your pace down the hall. 

You make your way to the hangar—a little breathless from your run-in with the hottest man you’ve ever met—only to be intercepted by Maverick before you can reach the rest of the team. 

“Nothing fancy today, alright?” 

He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet. 

You frown at it. “But my helmet-” 

“Has your callsign on it.” 

He gives you a pointed look—a silent warning wrapped in patience—before shifting his attention to the squad. 

You roll your eyes as he walks off, then inspect the helmet in your hands, cringing at the cracked lining inside. At least it smells clean. 

After he picks the pilots flying the first drill, everyone heads to their jets. Your fingers twitch with anticipation as you climb into the cockpit, stomach flipping with that familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lifetime. 

Once you're in the air, you follow Maverick’s orders to hang back, constantly reminding yourself that one more slip-up could ground you for good. 

First up: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. They’re good, but Hangman is cocky—and there’s a difference between cocky and confident. You’re confident. You know you’re good. And it’s borderline painful to fly like a rookie while he runs his mouth over the comms. 

“Hey Mav,” Hangman says, his voice crackling in your ear. “I’m curious—why do we need a tactical training specialist?” 

“Because you’re not good enough, Hangman. You need to be better,” Maverick replies coolly. 

“With all due respect, sir”—you can practically hear his smirk—“what are we supposed to learn from someone who flies like my grandma drives her Honda Civic?” 

There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy. 

“Maybe that’s her callsign,” Payback says. “Honda Civic.” 

“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds. 

More laughter—like they’re the funniest assholes in the sky. 

For a fleeting moment, you consider soaring up in front of them in an admittedly reckless inverted climb just to scare the smug off their faces. But you grit your teeth and bank slowly through a patch of low, cottony clouds instead. 

“Cut the chatter,” Maverick says, voice sharper now. “Or I won’t go easy on you.” 

You almost wish he’d let you off the leash. Let you show them exactly why you’re here. But he’s right. As excruciating as it is to fly like a grandma driving a Honda Civic... this is what you have to do right now. 

By the end of the day, you're bored out of your brain. You've heard so much trash talk from the pilots that you're not only feeling more defeated than after your reaming from Admiral Cain, but you're seriously considering punching one of them square in the face. 

You know it's just banter. They're not really trying to upset you—test you, maybe. Haze you. But it still grates, especially when they keep jabbing at your flying—the one thing you’re damn proud of. 

It sucks hiding your superpower. Is this how Clark Kent feels at the Daily Planet? 

When it’s finally time to hit the showers before Maverick’s afternoon briefing, you’re relieved. You drag your feet down the hall ahead of the others, not in the mood for post-flight chatter. You slip into the locker room, peel off your flight suit and underlayers, and step into the nearest stall. 

The water warms almost instantly, and you sigh in quiet appreciation. You’re just starting to relax when— 

“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.” 

You flinch at the voice—Hangman’s—closer than it should be while you're stark naked and dripping wet. Then you glance up and spot a vent high on the wall. It must connect to the men’s locker room. 

“You have a locker. Use it,” Hangman snaps again. 

You roll your eyes and duck back under the stream, letting the hot water drown him out. Or trying to. 

“So, what do we think the deal is with our new tactical training specialist?” one of them—Coyote, you think—asks. 

Hangman scoffs. “She’s no specialist. I’d be surprised if she’s even a fully trained aviator.” 

“She didn’t seem like she had any trouble flying,” Bob says, voice soft but clear. “She just seemed like she was hanging back. Laying low.” 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds—and your stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe she’s a total gun and just waiting to embarrass us all.” 

You smirk. He’s not wrong. If they ever take the leash off, you definitely plan to humiliate them. 

“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts. 

“She’s probably just here to babysit Maverick,” Fanboy says. “We all know Cyclone doesn’t trust him.” 

You snort quietly. 

“You’re not wrong,” Payback chimes in. 

“Probably some admiral’s daughter, too,” Coyote jokes. 

Hangman laughs—smug and overconfident. “I don’t care who she is. One way or another, I’m gonna find out why she’s really here.” 

- 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. You fly like a rookie, listen to Jake—yes, you’ve learned all their real names now—run his mouth like the class clown he insists on being, and endure Maverick assigning you to lead post-flight reviews breaking down the squad’s tactical performance. 

Your nights are spent reading, studying, absorbing everything you can about the thing you’re supposedly a specialist in. You already know your stuff—you like to think you’re pretty sharp tactically—but now that Jake is gunning for you, your cover needs to be airtight. 

The rest of the squad has been decent, if a little wary—not that you blame them. And then there’s Bradley. 

Bradley is nice to you. Like, really nice. Almost suspiciously nice, despite Jake’s constant digs. You catch him looking your way more often than not—though, to be fair, you’re not exactly subtle about your own ogling. He backs you up when Jake crosses the line, and so does Natasha—which only confirms why you liked her from the start. 

But Bradley? Bradley is a problem. The man is a walking, talking hazard to your mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Just hearing his voice over the comms is enough to make your heart skip. 

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea how to act around him. Cool confidence is second nature when you don’t care what anyone thinks—but with him, you’re suddenly a fumbling schoolgirl with a colossal, deeply inconvenient crush. He’s kind. He’s hot. He’s got that easy swagger of a guy who knows he’s good—and he’s right. It’s not too much; it’s the perfect, dangerously attractive amount of confidence. 

Honestly? He might be the most punishing part of your punishment. 

You spend most of the weekend trying—and failing—not to think about what it would feel like to have that stupid moustache between your legs. Or worse: on the pillow beside yours, with his arms wrapped around you while you sleep. Just sleep. 

Dating seriously in the Navy—or any branch of the military, really—is notoriously difficult. You’ve made peace with casual, mediocre—often infrequent—sex. You’ve learned to ignore the craving for real connection, to smother it under adrenaline and the thrill of flying. But when you look at Bradley—stupid, hot, kind Bradley—you wonder what it would feel like to love him. And to be loved by him. 

Ugh. Gross. 

“You alright?” Maverick asks, brows pinched as he holds out a stack of paperwork. 

You blink, realizing you’ve been zoned out. You’re not sure how long he’s been standing there. 

“Yeah, sorry. Mondayitis,” you mumble, shaking your head and reaching for the stack. 

He rolls his eyes and glances toward the spot you’d just been staring at—where Bradley is talking to a maintenance tech beside his jet. 

“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.” 

You snatch the paperwork with a little more attitude than necessary, but at this point, you’re comfortable enough with Maverick to get away with it. He knows the difference between you being genuinely annoyed—usually whenever Jake is within twenty feet—and just being a smartass. 

“You sure you’re good to stay back tonight?” he asks after a beat. “It’s just a routine FOD sweep, but the techs like having someone around who understands the tactical systems, just in case.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, hugging the paperwork to your chest. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Honestly, I’ll take any excuse to speak to humans outside the hours of nine to five.” 

Maverick chuckles, but then tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really not doing anything else? You don’t even go out? Or, I don’t know… do Tinder?” 

You raise a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “No, Mav. I don’t do Tinder.” 

“Oh.” He nods like that’s good news, but then frowns. “Still, you should go out sometime. Grab a drink, meet someone. This is a Navy town—there’s plenty of-” 

“Are you seriously giving me advice on getting laid?” you interrupt, eyes wide with disbelief. 

A faint pink tints his cheeks, but he doesn’t backpedal. “Not explicitly. But I just don’t see the point in making this punishment even more miserable by ignoring the outside world.” 

“Punishment?” 

You both freeze. Bob is suddenly beside you, looking wide-eyed and flushed—like he knows he shouldn’t have overheard but absolutely couldn’t help himself. 

You turn to him, panicked. “He—uh, what Mav means is-” 

“Bob!” Natasha’s voice cuts across the hangar. “Move it or you’re walking to The Hard Deck!” 

He gives a polite nod and bolts before either of you can say more. 

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. 

Maverick waves it off. “It’s fine. Bob’s a vault. Even if he does say something, we’ll spin it.” 

You narrow your eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re the one trying to blow my cover, not Hangman.” 

He laughs, unbothered. “You need to relax. Seriously—go out with the others tonight. Let off some steam. Maybe meet someone.” 

You groan, stepping back. “Are we back to this already? I can’t go out tonight—I’m stuck here babysitting the FOD inspections so you can go on a date and get laid.” 

That earns you a devilish grin. “You could still go out after.” 

“It’ll be too late.” 

“Alright then.” He flashes that troublemaking smile, then strolls off toward Bradley. 

You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you see it. The mischief in Maverick’s eyes, the subtle glance Bradley throws your way, the small nod. 

“Rooster’s staying back with you,” Mav says when he returns. “He’s going to help start inventorying the night gear before next week’s night ops. Keep you company.” Then he winks. “You’re welcome.” 

Your cheeks flame instantly. You can feel the blush rising from your chest to the tips of your ears, especially as Bradley sends you one of those slow, devastating smirks from across the hangar. 

You never imagined this would be your biggest problem, but here you are—drowning in paperwork and feelings, stuck with one ridiculously hot pilot… all because your CO thinks he’s Cupid. 

You do your best to avoid Bradley at first—and it mostly works. He waves off his friends, all of whom are more than a little annoyed he’s skipping the bar, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind. You find a relatively clear table toward the back of the hangar to spread out your paperwork and start sorting through what needs signing for tonight’s special inspections. 

One of the technicians wanders over and spends twenty straight minutes mansplaining the FOD sweep and borescope process. Normally, you'd bite a guy’s head off for talking to you like you're five, but this time, you let him ramble. Anything to keep a buffer between you and Bradley. 

The night wears on, and the techs move through their routines with smooth, practiced efficiency. You answer questions when needed, sign off on paperwork, and try not to keep checking to see where he is. After a couple of hours, you find yourself staring blankly at your neatly reorganized stack of documents—for the fourth time. 

“You alright?” Bradley’s voice cuts in, low and warm. He stops a few feet away, arms full of night vision goggles. 

You snap upright and nod. “Yep. Just a little bored. Need help?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your stomach does a full aerial twist when he smiles. 

“Yeah, actually. There’s more NVGs to go through, and I need to check we’ve got enough night-adapted flight helmets.” 

You nod again and follow him to the gear closet. It isn’t small, but it’s tightly packed with equipment that smells like age and dust. The doorknob is mottled with rust, and the door itself is being propped open by a bent prybar wedged underneath. 

“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.” 

Bradley chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, not exactly state of the art. But Mav avoids complaining—less time in the admiral’s office.” 

You laugh softly, running a finger along a dusty shelf. “Can’t argue with that.” 

He casts a glance your way, curious but unreadable, as he stacks the goggles beside you. Then he points to the shelf of helmets and tells you to grab what you can and bring them over to where he’s been cleaning and inspecting gear. 

It takes a few trips, but eventually you’ve got all the helmets laid out across the hangar floor while Bradley goes down the checklist on his clipboard. You drop into a cross-legged seat beside the gear, inspecting each helmet one by one—checking the straps, the fixings, the visor, making sure there are no cracks or faults. 

Bradley settles across from you, reaching for a helmet of his own. “So,” he says, casual and curious, “do you already have a callsign, or are we still workshopping?” 

You glance up through your lashes, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Classified.” 

He arches a brow. “That’s not a no. Should I be worried it’s something like Deathwish? Or Heartbreaker?” 

A quiet laugh escapes you as you trade one helmet for the next. “What if it’s closer to the second one?” 

He nods slowly, a smirk tugging beneath that damn moustache. “Then I’ll adjust my expectations.”  

“That’s your first mistake,” you say lightly. “Having expectations.” 

His gaze lingers a little longer this time, thoughtful. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You’re not trying to be cryptic—it’s just that words get sticky around him. Being guarded feels easier than being obvious. You’re not that complicated, really… but for some reason, with Bradley, keeping your walls up feels safer. 

And maybe, if he’s curious enough, he’ll keep pushing. You kind of hope he does. 

More hours pass, and you fall into a comfortable rhythm. When needed, the techs call you over to check something or sign something off, then you return to Bradley with a sarcastic remark or a curious question. He doesn’t pry too much about why you’re here, but he asks simple things—where you grew up, what your favourite colour is, if you have any pets. The conversation stays light and easy, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing his voice again after every question you answer. 

“Alright, we’re just about finished up,” one of the technicians—Randall— says as he ambles over. 

You’re crouched on the floor with a few open night ops survival kits in front of you, checking for chem lights, strobes, and IR beacons.  

“Oh, that’s great,” you say, brushing your hands off on your pants as you stand. “Thanks.” 

He nods. “Security did a walk-through ten minutes back. I told ’em you two were in here, and they said they’d circle back unless you’re planning to leave with the rest of us.” 

You glance at Bradley, silently letting him decide—though you’re secretly hoping he chooses to stay. 

“We’ll be here a little longer,” he says, his eyes flicking to you. “I think.” 

You nod, and his cheekbones flush pink as a small smile tugs at his lips. 

Randall glances up, motioning vaguely at the walls. “Cameras there,” he says, pointing, “there, and there. Dead spots are that corner… or the gear closet. Y’know—if you don’t want to get caught.” 

Your eyes widen and heat floods your face. 

Bradley lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Thanks, Randall. I don’t even want to ask how you know that, but… good to know.” 

The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling. 

The second he’s out of earshot, you groan into your hands. “What is with old men today?” 

Bradley raises a brow. “Don’t tell me one of the other techs gave you a hookup tutorial.” 

“Nope,” you sigh, dropping your hands. “Mav. I think he was trying to give me dating advice. Told me I should ‘get out there’ more.” 

Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?” 

“Well,” you say, “he’s glad I’m not on Tinder—wants me to meet someone the authentically. But then he was annoyed I’m not going to the bar tonight. Never mind the fact he’s the reason I’m stuck with overtime.” 

Bradley opens his mouth, pauses, then squints at you. “Wait… was this right before he came and told me to start inventorying night gear?”  

“Yup,” you reply, popping the p and being careful not to look at him. 

“Right,” Bradley chuckles. “Maybe we should change Mav’s callsign to Cupid.” 

You roll your eyes, ignoring the blush blooming in your cheeks. “Or Stupid.” 

You quietly keep packing up the survival kits and carrying them back to the gear closet. A few of the techs call out their goodbyes as they leave, but most don’t. And then—it’s quiet. Too quiet. 

You’re not sure if the tension comes from being suddenly alone—or from the fact that Bradley now knows why Maverick asked him to stay. Would he have bailed if he’d known sooner? 

He didn’t look horrified. Didn’t flinch or recoil. Just made a joke. 

But what the hell is that supposed to mean? 

“We can finish up soon, if you want,” you offer, even though you don’t want to. 

But now you’re overthinking everything. What if he doesn’t want to be here? What if he thinks you expect something to happen—like you’re in on whatever matchmaking crap Mav is trying to pull? 

“Oh,” he says, following you into the gear closet. “I mean, it’s up to you.” 

There’s a beat of silence while you both stack kits onto the shelf. 

“I mean, if you’re trying to make it to the bar,” he adds, his laugh a little forced. 

You shoot him a flat look. “Yeah, right. With all my friends.” 

He shrugs, but it looks stiff. “Maybe you’ve decided to take Mav’s advice. Meet a guy or whatever.” 

You lead the way out of the closet, your brows furrowed as you try to decode his words. 

Is he encouraging you to go? Telling you not to? 

Why is this suddenly complicated? Why are you even thinking about any of this when you’re only here as punishment? You shouldn’t be worrying about boys and feelings. 

You shake your head and decide to ignore it, scooping up more survival kits to return to the gear closet. Bradley is right behind you, carrying the last of them. 

You’ve just reached the shelf and freed your arms when there’s a bang and a sharp screech. 

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward. 

He catches himself before dropping anything—but then a loud slam echoes through the space, and both of your heads snap toward the door. 

“No,” you mutter, rushing from the shelf to the door. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

The rusted doorknob starts to crack in your grip. It doesn’t twist or even budge—just crumbles like sugar in hot water. 

“Wait,” Bradley says, dumping the kits on the shelf. “Are we actually trapped?” 

“No,” you bite out, twisting the handle again. It snaps, and a piece of rusted metal—fantastic—sticks into your palm. “Fuck. Shit.” You whirl around, clutching your hand. “Okay, maybe.” 

Bradley doesn’t panic. He chuckles. It’s light, casual—and laced with something else. Satisfaction, maybe? 

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer. 

You instinctively offer your hand. The cut isn’t deep, but there’s a decent smear of red pooling in your palm. 

“Lucky we just restocked the survival kits,” he says with a wink. 

You want to roll your eyes—but instead, you smile like an idiot. He’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin like a slow burn—and then his hand wraps gently around yours, sending a surge of electricity crackling up your arm and straight to your chest. 

“This is just my luck,” you mutter. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m the one who tripped on the prybar, so I think it’s my luck.” 

“Yeah, but I’m known to be a bit of a…” You trail off, clearing your throat, scrambling to find a word other than the one on the tip of your tongue. 

His head tips, eyes narrowing. “A what?” 

“Walking disaster,” you say quickly. 

That earns another chuckle as he turns to the shelf of survival kits. “I wouldn’t call this a disaster.” 

You scoff. “Really? We’re stuck in a dusty gear closet at ten o’clock at night, the techs just bailed, our phones are in our lockers, and security probably won’t even realise we’re in here.” 

Still facing away, he rummages through one of the kits. “I’m trapped in a closet with a pretty girl,” he says. “Not exactly a disaster in my books.” 

You press your lips together, trying to smother the grin threatening to break loose—but then he turns around, wearing the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label. It’s cocky and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on you—and worse, he’s enjoying it. Heat flares beneath your skin, and suddenly the gear closet feels about ten degrees hotter. 

“See?” he says, offering his hand for yours again. “Can’t argue with logic.” 

You let him clean and bandage the cut on your hand, silence stretching thick between you. The warmth radiating off his body fogs your brain, making it nearly impossible to focus on escape routes from this stupid closet. His hands are slightly calloused—evidence of years gripping the F/A-18’s control stick the way you’re now imagining gripping something else entirely. 

Fuck. This man might actually be the death of you. 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek as he stands so damn close. “You’re not claustrophobic or anything, right?” 

You shake your head, subtle and slow, your gaze locked on his lips, your voice nowhere to be found. 

“Good,” he says. “Because we’re probably stuck in here all night. No windows, no vents, and there’s no way we’re getting any of these radios on the same frequency as the tower. That door’s older and more stubborn than Mav—it was built to keep people out, which means it’ll do just fine keeping us in.” 

You sigh, eyes drifting down to your bandaged hand. “Great.” 

He quietly packs the kit away, head bowed over the shelf as he works, giving you a moment to just look. His long legs are braced slightly wider than his shoulders, making him seem even more solid, more commanding. He all but consumes the small closet space, his honey-brown hair dangerously close to grazing the low ceiling. His fingers move deftly, expertly, and you can’t help but wonder what else they’d be good at. 

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly. 

Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.” 

He gives you a sideways glance and that crooked smile—the one that makes your heart miss a beat. “Calculating what?” 

“What chance I have of overpowering you if the situation becomes dire.” 

He chuckles, but it’s lower this time. Rougher. A little dangerous. “Define ‘dire’.” 

You shrug and turn your back to the shelves, sliding down to the floor. “You know. Cannibalism.” 

You lean against the bottom shelf, packed tight with gear boxes—solid enough to act as a makeshift backrest while you stretch your legs out in front of you. 

“Cannibalism,” Bradley echoes, settling beside you. “Right. So, is it straight to eating each other, or are there warning signs I should look out for?” 

His arm brushes yours as he shifts, the heat of his body seeping through your flight suit. And the way he said eating each other? Yeah—that’s not helping. 

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat to redirect your filthy thoughts. “First comes shock and denial.” You lift your bandaged hand. “But I think I’m past that.” 

He nods, eyes on you, like he’s genuinely interested—or just waiting for your next move. 

“Then anxiety and panic,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips. “You might start crying, beating your fists on the door…” 

He snorts, and you catch him glancing at your mouth. 

“Then comes anger and frustration,” you say, letting your voice drop just a little. “We’ll start blaming each other. Arguing. And then…” You trail off, licking your lips, gaze moving slowly down his body with exaggerated interest. “Desperation.” 

“What happens then?” he asks, his voice soft, deep—almost reverent. Like you’re telling him a secret he already knows. 

You glance at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. His long fingers tangled with tension, as if he’s holding himself still. 

“We’ll probably give in to all the tension,” you murmur. 

There’s a pause—so brief it’s barely a breath—before he asks, “What does that mean?” 

You finally meet his gaze, smirking like you already have him cornered. “You know exactly what I mean, Bradshaw.” 

The tension snaps when he laughs softly, his cheekbones tinged pink as he looks away. 

“Well then,” he says, “if we’re going to be stuck in here until we both go mad, don’t you think I deserve to know who you really are?” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not a bad try. Still classified.” 

He tips his head back against the shelf, and your eyes catch on the long column of his throat as he speaks. “Oh, come on. You think I’m going to tell anyone?” 

“No, not really,” you murmur, gaze still fixed on the warm tan skin of his neck. 

You feel like a starved vampire, fixated on his jugular with something close to bloodlust. But really, you just want to sink your teeth in—hard enough to leave a mark. Claim him. 

God. Since when has a man made you feel this feral? 

Then he tips his head down again and pins you with those big brown eyes. “So why won’t you tell me?” 

You meet his gaze. “I think you already know more about me than most people do. Is it really that bad not knowing my last name or callsign? Ask me anything else.” 

His smile turns boyish, softening him, making him look younger than he is. “So you admit you have a callsign?” 

You nod. “Yep.” 

“When’d you get it?” 

“Flight school.” 

“Is there a cool story behind it?” 

You wobble your head as if weighing the answer. “Sort of. It’s not really a story—it’s more of a personality trait.” 

He nods slowly. “So I might be able to figure it out?” 

You shake your head. “Probably not. Not with the way Mav has me flying.” You don’t entirely mean to throw him a bone—some sliver of the truth behind why you’re really here—but it slips out anyway. 

His eyes narrow. “So you are holding back,” he says. It’s not a question. 

You don’t answer. Instead, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down—hard. His gaze flicks to your mouth, and lingers there, watching you. Something in his eyes darkens, and you can see the flush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. 

“Okay, my turn,” you say, angling your body toward him. “This whole ‘prince charming’ thing. The cheeky smiles, the perfectly tousled hair—does it always work for you?” 

He frowns, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the amusement threatening to break across his face. “What do you mean, ‘does it work’?” 

You shrug, trying—and failing—to seem nonchalant. The green-eyed monster in your chest rearing its ugly head. “I’ve seen you walking around like you own the place. Don’t tell me you haven’t left a trail of broken hearts across the country. I mean, I see the way you are with Phoenix, all the-” 

“Phoenix?” he interrupts, his eyes growing wide. “Phoenix and I are friends. Period. I’m actually pretty sure she’s hooking up with Bob, but she’s too scared to tell the rest of us because we’ll ruin it. Which, fair enough. Hangman can be a bit of a bitch.” 

“Oh, I know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “But don’t change the subject. You seriously don’t expect me to believe there aren’t a hundred women trying to beat down your door every Friday and Saturday night?” 

He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There might be one or two broken hearts in my past, but I can promise you, no one is beating down my door. And the ‘prince charming’ act...” He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “That’s just for you.” 

This man is actually trying to kill you. 

You roll your eyes and feign indifference. “Smooth.” 

He raises his brows, that smirk still firmly in place. “You think?” 

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Bradshaw.” 

He chuckles, leaning back and resting his head against the shelf again. “Well, yeah. I know what I’m doing. But I can’t tell if it’s working or not.” 

You fight a smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah,” you mutter, “it’s working.” 

The next hour passes with random questions exchanged, both of you settling into an easy rhythm. He’s careful not to pry too much, slipping in the occasional question about your past or why you're really here. You answer with playful eye rolls and a quick “that’s classified,” but despite the walls you try to keep up, you find yourself telling him more than you expected. His presence is warm and easy, and there’s something about the way his eyes study you—genuine curiosity mixed with a hint of hunger—that makes you open up in ways you didn’t expect. 

Then, after a beat of silence, he asks, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” 

It’s a stark contrast to the casual questions you’ve been tossing back and forth. Your brows pinch, and you tip your head, a wave of exhaustion making your posture sag. You open your mouth to reply, but he jumps in again, voice laced with sudden panic. “Wait, you don’t have some secret boyfriend... right?” 

A soft laugh escapes your lips. “No, I don’t.” 

His shoulders visibly relax, his eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. “Why not? Aside from the stock standard military excuse.” 

You rest your head against the shelf, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. “I like to blame the navy, but I think it’s mostly my fault. I can be... picky. I guess my standards are higher than they have a right to be. The last actual boyfriend I had... sucked. Monumentally.” You pause, biting your lip. “He scarred me. Haven’t really wanted to date seriously since.” 

There’s a flash of something unfamiliar across Bradley’s face—an emotion that’s gone before you can catch it, replaced quickly by curiosity. “Why did he suck?” 

You snort softly, remembering your last relationship with a sick feeling in your stomach. “Do you want the PG version or the real one?” 

His gaze hardens, anger flashing behind his eyes, though he masks it quickly. “The real one.” 

“Okay,” you say, steeling yourself for the uncomfortable memories. “Well, aside from just being a piece of shit...” You pause, taking a deep breath. “After almost two years together, he—uh, he had a hard time finishing... with me. Told me it was because he was bored, too used to me. Said I wasn’t good enough to, you know... get him there.” 

The silence that follows is suffocating, thick enough to make you choke. Your chest aches, but you can’t find the strength to breathe. Bradley’s expression has turned murderous. His eyes darken, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His cheeks are flushed, redder than before, and the colour crawls down his neck and disappears beneath his flight suit collar. 

“He told you that?” he asks, his voice rough, low, cutting through the silence like a blade. 

You nod, a bitter laugh escaping as you remember the moment. “Yep. Right in the middle of it.” 

His eyes narrow, and the anger in his gaze intensifies. “He said that to you while you were having sex?” 

You nod again, your lips pressed tight, bracing for whatever might come next. Bradley looks like he’s ready to explode, like a bull in a chute, and though it’s scary, it’s also... unsettlingly hot. 

“I broke up with him the next day,” you say softly. 

“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight. 

Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s softer—less charged, more intimate. You can breathe. And now that the adrenaline has faded, so has your energy. Your eyelids are heavy, your shoulders ache, but the hard clips of the gear boxes digging into your back are making it impossible to get comfortable. 

You shift upright with a quiet sigh, glancing around the cramped space for anything soft to lie on. But the only thing that looks remotely inviting is Bradley’s lap. 

He has his head tipped back, lids half-lowered, but there’s no missing the way he catches your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips—lazy and warm. 

“You can lie down,” he murmurs, voice husky and low, dragging heat across your skin. 

“You sure?” you ask, even though you’re already moving. 

He adjusts his posture, leaning back against the shelves to make room. The slight shift in his stance feels oddly like an invitation, like he’s preparing for you. Your heart pounds as you reposition yourself, curling toward him and easing your head gently into his lap. 

It feels too intimate for what it is—but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, his body goes still, and then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself. 

The heat of him is immediate, seeping into your skin. Without thinking, you press your freezing hands to his thighs with a groan of relief. 

Bradley stiffens. “Shit. Uh... careful where you put those.” 

You glance up. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming and going faster now. That faint pink flush has darkened, stretching across the bridge of his nose. His eyes—wide, dark, hungry—meet yours. 

“Oops,” you murmur, lips twitching. “Sorry.” Though you’re absolutely not. 

You try to focus on relaxing, but the feel of him beneath you is intoxicating. Your exhaustion is at war with the slow burn licking through your blood. You close your eyes anyway, willing your body to settle. 

Eventually, his breathing evens out again—and so does yours. You curl in tighter, tucking your knees up, and nestle into him a little more. His breath catches, barely audible, but telling. Then, after a beat, his hand rests lightly on your hip. Just that. But it sends a rush of heat spiralling through you. 

His other hand shifts near your face, and, emboldened, you ease one of your own free and find his. Your fingers slide into place between his, lacing together like it’s instinct. 

The spark that jolts up your arm is instant—sharp, electric, undeniable. 

Yeah. This man is a hazard. To your health, to your career… And definitely to your cover. 

- 

You’re not woken by your alarm or the sound of your neighbour—who also happens to be navy—slamming his door on his way out. You’re woken by something solid pressing into the back of your head. Something warm. Something insistent. Almost like… 

Holy shit. 

You sit up like a shot, as if a gun’s gone off, your body protesting the movement after a night on the floor. But the aches barely register. Not when you’re suddenly very aware of the very impressive bulge currently tenting Bradley’s flight suit. 

You press your lips together, partly to hold back your laugh—and partly to keep yourself from doing something absolutely unholy. Like burying your face in his lap. Mouthing him through the thick material. Slowly unzipping that khaki jumpsuit and devouring him until he forgets how to breathe. 

God. You’ve never woken up so horny in your life. 

You briefly consider nuzzling back into him, soaking up every drop of that delicious warmth—until you hear voices outside. And then you see it: a sliver of daylight spilling beneath the door. 

You scramble to your feet and tiptoe to the door, pressing your ear against it. You should be thrilled you’re getting out of this dusty closet, but disappointment prickles under your skin. You’re not going to sleep with Bradley tonight—not in any sense of the word. Which is stupid. Completely insane. You’d rather spend another night on a hard floor with him than go home to your own bed. 

You shake your head and focus on the voices. You don’t recognize any of them. Tech crew, most likely—starting early. 

You lean over Bradley, gently scratching the crown of his head. “Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low just in case. 

His eyes flutter, then snap open—briefly panicked before he remembers where he is. He looks up at you with a sleepy smile, soft and hazy. “Hey. How’d you sleep?” 

You laugh quietly. “Surprisingly well. Until I was woken up by your little lieutenant—well, actually, not-so-little, but anyway…” You trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m going to shut up now.” 

His brows knit in sleepy confusion… until understanding hits. He glances down—and immediately covers his lap with both hands. “Shit. Sorry.” 

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’d offer to help you out, but I think we should probably get out of here before the others show up.” 

His mouth opens, his gaze snapping to yours—hopeful and tortured all at once. Clearly debating whether it would be worth the risk. 

He sighs, defeated, and pushes to his feet. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” 

You both move to the door, listening for familiar voices. 

After a moment, Bradley murmurs, “I think we’re in the clear. Sounds like it’s just techies.” 

You nod. “Alright, do we start yelling for help now?” 

He glances down at himself and makes a face. “Can I get a minute first?” 

You snort softly, biting your bottom lip to contain your grin. But you can’t stop the way your eyes drift down, or the warmth that floods your chest. Whether it’s the lap-nap or the fact you’ve gone completely stupid for this man, you’ve never wanted to drop to your knees more in your life. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, brows drawn as he focuses on anything that isn’t you. “You’re not helping.” 

“Sorry,” you giggle, turning fully toward the door. “I’ll just wait here.” 

He chuckles, low and rough, his voice coated in sleep and something far thicker—undeniable desire. He paces the tiny length of the closet like a caged tiger, careful not to look at you. 

A few minutes later, he returns to your side and nods. “Okay. Ready now.” 

You smirk and nod, resisting the very strong urge to glance down. Then you both turn toward the door and start knocking. 

“Hello!” you shout, mouth close to the seam. “Help! Please!” 

There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. Then a rough voice answers, “Hello? Someone in there?” 

“Yes!” you call back. “The doorknob’s broken—we can’t get out.” 

There’s a jiggle of what’s left of the knob on your side, but it doesn’t move. 

“S’not budgin’,” the man says. “Stand back, alrigh’?” 

“Okay,” you say just as Bradley grabs your arm and pulls you to the back corner of the closet. 

He cages you with his body, chest pressed to yours, shielding you like a human wall. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath ghosting over your cheek, his thigh brushing yours, your mouth so close to his. One glance up and you know you’d be kissing. You want to. God, do you want to. But now isn’t the time. 

A bang. Then another. The door rattles, the hinges groaning. One final crash sends the door flying inward, half-torn from its frame. 

Bradley doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales and shifts away slightly—just enough to look—but his hand remains on your wrist, protective. 

“You alrigh’?” the voice asks, silhouetted in the sudden glare of morning light. 

You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.” 

You both blink as your vision adjusts and step toward the opening. 

“Exactly how long have you two been in there?” comes a second voice. One you know far too well. 

Maverick. 

Your stomach drops. 

As your vision clears, the scene before you sharpens into a full-blown nightmare. Maverick, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, slap-worthy smirk imaginable. Behind him: Natasha, wide-eyed, biting her lip to keep from laughing; Bob, cheeks glowing red; Reuben and Mickey, snickering like they’re in middle school; and—of course—Jake, grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery. 

You're never living this down. 

Before you can even begin to defend yourself, Jake lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rooster. Didn’t know we were doing supply closet survival drills.” 

Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.” 

“Oh, I believe you,” Jake says, his grin wide. “But the rest of the hangar? Not so much.” 

Maverick raises a brow, smirk firmly in place. “Glad to see you both survived the night. Though next time, maybe just request a room.” 

You shoot him your sharpest glare—just shy of throwing a knife right at your CO. “That door needs to be fixed. You’re lucky I was stuck in there with Bradshaw and not one of these other idiots, or you’d have a dead body to deal with.” 

Your glare swings to Jake, cutting him off before he can open his mouth again. 

Maverick starts to reply but pauses, eyes flicking down to your bandaged hand. “Do you need to go to medical?” 

You shake your head. “No. But I could really use a shower.” 

He nods, then turns his attention to Bradley. “You need the day off?” 

“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.” 

Jake chuckles, wicked and bright. “That’s not what the security tapes say.” 

Your heart stutters. “Th-There’s no camera in there. Randall said-” 

“Randall told you about the camera blind spots?” Maverick cuts in, clearly amused. 

The group bursts into laughter, and even Bradley’s mouth twitches into a smirk. 

Jake winks. “Relax, I was kidding, sweetheart. But hey, good to know Rooster kept you safe. Always knew he was the gentleman type.” 

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, a physical barrier against the swarm of smug faces. “Unlike you, Hangman, Rooster is a gentleman.” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick says, waving a hand to dismiss the squad. “You lot suit up. And you two—hit the showers.” He starts to walk off, then glances over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Separately.” 

Your cheeks go up in flames, but there’s no clever comeback waiting on your tongue. You just take a breath and storm toward the locker rooms, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back at Bradley… and ask if maybe he would want to shower together. 

After a longer-than-necessary shower, you change into spare underclothes and slip your flight suit on over the top. It takes a little extra confidence to step back out of the locker room, but eventually, you do. You settle in the waiting room and do your best to pretend to work—analysing flight data and scribbling notes on tactical performance from Maverick’s current sky drills. 

No one speaks to you, but you don’t miss the way Jake smirks as he strolls into the room after his run. Or the way he leans toward Javy, whispering something just out of earshot. You ignore it. You’re too tightly wound to entertain his usual bullshit. 

When the day finally ends, you drag yourself home and go through the usual motions. But you can’t stop checking your phone. 

You know last night was a fluke—an accident that landed you in a supply closet with the man your heart has apparently chosen to obsess over. You know better than to expect a message or a call. To think he might actually take you up on that teasing offer from this morning. 

He’d been perfect last night. Soft, warm, protective—furious at your ex and almost wrecked with want when you’d touched him. 

But today? He didn’t speak to you once. Not in an obvious, pointed way. Just… didn’t. He didn’t sit next to you in the afternoon briefing. He didn’t chase you down before you left. 

Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought. 

Despite how much your body aches and how tired you are, sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mattress is too soft. Your pillows are too cold. There’s no steady heartbeat to lull you into slumber. No warm hand to tangle your fingers with. The silence feels sharp in your ears, and your room feels colder than it did the night before last. 

- 

You’re awake well before your alarm, so you take your time getting ready. You shower even though you don’t need to, apply a little makeup even though you usually don’t, and secure your hair with more precision than normal. Breakfast is slow and deliberate, eaten in front of the TV as if you have all the time in the world. 

You’re still out the door early—even before your inconsiderate neighbour, Slammy Steve. You finally gave him a name for when you curse him every morning as his door slams shut. 

At base, you head toward the usual hangar, steeling yourself to face the squad again—to face Bradley. Your stomach twists at the thought. You’re far too hung up on a man who probably sees you as nothing more than a bit of fun to flirt with. 

You’re the first in the briefing room by a good half hour, but the time passes quickly as your thoughts spiral. Bob’s the next to arrive, and he gives you a polite smile before settling in with his travel mug and quietly watching videos on his phone. 

One by one, the rest of the squad filters in. 

“You know me, Coyote,” Jake’s voice rings out, smug and too loud as he strolls in with his wingman. “I’m a generous man. I can’t help myself.” 

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you know it’s bullshit. 

You sink lower in your chair and roll your eyes, hoping he won’t see you. 

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake calls as he drops into his usual seat just behind you. Then he leans in, his voice close to your ear. “What do we have here?” 

You don’t react. 

“Hangman,” Natasha warns flatly, “for once in your life, don’t be a dick.” 

“What?” he says, mock innocence dripping from every syllable. “Just trying to say good morning to our lovely tactical training specialist.” 

You glance at Natasha. She meets your eyes and offers a soft, apologetic smile—not that this idiot is any of her fault. 

“Good morning, aviators,” Maverick’s voice fills the room, and some of the nausea in your stomach eases. “How are we today?” 

There are a few mumbled responses—none from you—as he sets a stack of papers on the desk and powers up his laptop for the interactive display. He casts you a brief look and a small smile before returning to the task of setting up. 

Then another set of footsteps enters at the back of the room, and you can’t help but turn. 

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.” 

Maverick nods as Bradley takes his seat. No one says anything—until Jake does. 

A low, sharp whistle. Then, into your ear again, “Guess getting locked in a closet’s the only way you’ll ever get Rooster to spend the night, huh?” 

That’s all it takes to make the rubber band snap. 

You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath your skin like wildfire. You’re nauseous again—burning from the inside out. 

“What the fuck is your problem?!” you snap, louder than intended—but you don’t care. 

You’re angry. You’re humiliated. A week of jabs and insults from a man who doesn’t even know you, and now this, after falling for another man who apparently wants nothing to do with you. 

Jake chuckles, condescending as hell. “Woah, settle down. It was just a joke.” 

“You’re a fucking joke,” you bite back, voice low and steady—deadly. “You talk a big game, but the only thing you’ve mastered is flying straight and fast. You burn fuel and pull Gs like it’s a dick-measuring contest, but the second a manoeuvre requires restraint, finesse, or actual tactical thinking? You fall apart.” 

You lean in, eyes locked on his like a missile. “You’re sloppy in a merge, predictable in a climb, and your cross-checks are lazy as hell. You fly like you’re invincible—which might be fine in a video game, but up there? That gets people killed.” 

You pause, just long enough to see if Maverick will step in. He doesn’t. 

“You’re not untouchable, Seresin. You’re just loud.” 

Then you turn back to the front and drop into your seat, arms crossed, chest heaving as you take a few deep, centring breaths. 

A low snicker breaks the silence, followed by a quiet, impressed whisper: ‘Damn… take that, Bagman.’ You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to—Jake’s probably still blinking. Pride simmers in your chest, and despite your best efforts, a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. 

“Well then,” Maverick says, rubbing his palms together with a smirk. “Let’s get started.” 

The morning briefing goes better than usual, mainly because Jake is too embarrassed to pipe up with his usual bullshit. Maverick talks through today’s drills, outlining what he’s looking for in their flying. He also mentions that you'll be up in the air today, analysing their tactical skills and reviewing their performance once they’re back on the ground. He gives Jake a pointed look as he says this, and you can’t help but bite back a giggle. 

About an hour later, Maverick announces that it’s time to fly, and the team starts filing out of the room. Jake casts you a quick glance—not lethal, just a small warning. Somehow, his stupidly cocky grin is already back in place. 

When you reach the door, you realise that Bradley has lingered behind, falling into step beside you just as you exit the room. 

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says, glancing at you with that small smirk beneath that damn moustache, the sight of which sends a warm ache straight to your lower belly. 

You offer him a clipped smile, a brief glance before looking back down, focusing on the movement of your boots. 

“Unless... I already am,” he adds, his voice a mixture of question and statement. 

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of Bradley’s eyes on you—watching, soft and thoughtful. 

“I mean,” he continues, hesitating for a moment with a soft chuckle. “I know I should have called or something, especially after waking you up with my dick, but... I was honestly spent last night. Barely made it home before crashing out. But, if you’ll let me, I’d like to... you know... wake you up with my dick in a way that’s more enjoyable for the both of us?” 

You can’t help the grin that breaks across your face, a soft laugh slipping out before you can catch it. When you turn to look at him, his smile is sheepish and flushed, impossibly endearing, with a laugh hovering just behind it. His brown eyes are shining, warm and full of something that makes your chest ache—something you know is written all over your own face too. 

And damn. If this isn’t the man you’re supposed to spend your life with, you know you’ll be spending it alone. 

“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, feigning indifference. “I’ll allow it.” 

“Allow it?” he echoes, his voice rich with laughter. “Wow. I’m a lucky guy.” 

Warmth spreads through your whole body as the two of you continue into the hangar. You feel like you’re standing next to the sun—but it’s not burning you. It’s keeping you warm, keeping you alive. 

You can’t help glancing at him every few seconds, even while Maverick shouts instructions and assigns the first flyers. You find it hard to tear yourself away from Bradley when you’re called to your jet, waiting for ground crew instructions. Your mind is foggy with thoughts of him: his eyes, his smile, the little laugh he lets out, and that adorable crease between his brows when he’s confused or offended. 

Fuck. You’re so gone. You haven’t even kissed him yet, and it might kill you when you do. 

At least you’ll die happy. 

When the jet starts to rumble and your hands move over the controls, you pull your thoughts in. You focus on the here and now—the cockpit, the sky, the mission. Even the idea of flying like a grandma all day doesn’t kill your mood. Because you’ll see Bradley when you're back on the ground, and that’s enough to keep you grinning like an idiot behind your oxygen mask. 

The sky is clear—perfect flying weather—and the wind is barely a whisper. You feel like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for the gate to open. But that’s not what you’re here for. So you settle, banking slow beneath where you know Maverick is flying, waiting for instruction. 

“All right,” Maverick says, his voice crackling over comms. “Hangman, you’re mission lead. Payback, Fanboy, don’t let your wingman down. Fly the profile in your system. Deviate, and you’d better have a damn good reason. Watch for enemy aircraft.” 

“Sorry, Mav, my comms are a little fuzzy,” Jake replies. “Did you say enemy or grandma? ’Cause from where I’m flying, I can only see a Honda Civic.” 

Maverick’s irritation bleeds into his voice. “I’m the enemy aircraft, Hangman. Watch out for me. Our tactical specialist will be monitoring, and you can explain your mistakes to her when you’re back on the ground.” 

“I don’t make mistakes,” Jake says, that smirk practically audible. 

“We’ll see about that,” Maverick shoots back. 

You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath and tamping down the irritation rising in your chest. 

The others take off, and you track them—eyes sharp on the HUD and the sky. Maverick is flawless. And unfortunately, so is Jake. He’s a damn good pilot. Cocky, but predictable. You already know what he’s going to try next. 

The drill plays out. You listen to the comm chatter as you stay low and out of the way, observing. The team gives Maverick a decent run for his money, nearly finishing the nav route before he takes out Reuben and Mickey. Jake claims victory anyway—but Maverick shuts him down fast. 

“Fail,” he says. “Your wingman’s dead. Put the cocky bravado away, I’m done with it.” 

You’ve never heard Maverick so sharp. He actually sounds like a CO—calm, stern, commanding—as he orders everyone back to base. 

You keep low, banking through a few fluffy clouds, weaving like you’re bored. But your eyes stay trained, watching Jake flying just above, at your six. 

“Hey, tactical specialist,” Jake’s voice cuts in. “Just watching your cross-checks from up here. I can practically see the superiority from miles away.” 

You bite your tongue, suppressing the sarcastic retort clawing at your throat. 

He adds, “Oh wait. Nope. That’s just your nose in the air.” 

You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight. 

“That’s it,” Maverick says, voice stern. “Back to the nav route. Now. You’re flying it again. And I’m not the enemy this time.” 

Jake snorts. “Mav, come on. You’re really gonna embarrass her like this?” 

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Maverick snaps. “Follow your orders. Stick to your waypoints. And good luck.” 

The way he says those last two words makes your pulse spike. Adrenaline kicks in, fast and sharp. 

Your limbs feel light. Your chest is buzzing. Your breath hitches, and a wicked smile spreads beneath your mask. 

“Alright,” Jake drawls, still clueless. “Come on, boys. Let’s show this Honda Civic how real men fly.” 

You’re practically vibrating now. Locked in. Focused. You follow the others back to the route—Maverick hangs back. You’re a bull in the chute, about to blow the gate. You’re going to kick this cowboy into the dust. 

All you need is the green light. The words. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Grandma,” Jake says, smug as ever. 

You take a breath. Narrow your gaze. 

You’re not just going to shoot them down. That’s too easy. You’re going to humiliate them. Drag it out. Make them suffer before they burn. 

Then Maverick speaks—low and clear, straight in your ear. A spark struck to gasoline. 

“Flip the switch, Jinx.” 

You’re gone before they can take their next breath. 

They can’t see you. You know it. You’re good at disappearing. Now you wait—watching from the shadows, letting them scramble. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben mutters, disbelief thick in his voice. 

“Who the hell is Jinx?” Jake asks, a beat behind. 

Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.” 

“Wait—where have I heard that before?” Mickey pipes up. 

“Jinx is the pilot Admiral Cain just grounded,” Reuben replies, his tone shifting fast toward panic. “Fastest low-level flyby of an aircraft carrier—barely two feet from the deck. And she’s the highest-scoring TOPGUN grad in twenty years. She’s fucking legendary.” 

“No,” Jake breathes, full of denial. “No, she’s not Jinx. She can’t be.” 

“You just had to run your fucking mouth, didn’t you?” Reuben says, voice deadpan with defeat. 

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares. 

You slip beneath them like a shadow—silent, smooth—so close you could kiss their undercarriage with your canopy. But you don’t rush. You wait. Calculating. Cold. Planning the most humiliating move you can pull. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to dominate. 

“Payback,” Jake says, still cocky, still smug. “You’ve got a shadow on your six.” 

“What?” Reuben���s voice spikes. “Where the hell is she? Fanboy, talk to me.” 

“Negative radar contact,” Mickey answers. “I don’t see anything.” 

You throttle back just enough to hover beneath them, then slide up—then down again—dancing through their blind spots like smoke in a breeze. 

“Hangman,” Reuben snaps, panic rising, “get her off us.” 

“Relax, Payback,” Jake drawls. “I’ve got eyes on her. She’s not as good as she thinks.” 

You breathe deep—steady, focused. The smile on your face is razor sharp. 

“Alright, Hangman,” you murmur, voice low and lethal. “Want to see how a real man flies?” 

You yank the stick back and rocket toward the sun—fast, blinding, gone. They lose you instantly. 

“Where’d she go?” Jake barks. “Fanboy, where the hell did she go?” 

“She’s too fast,” Mickey replies, frantic. “She’s over—wait—no, she’s—shit. I can’t get a lock!” 

Leveling out, you catch a glint of sunlight off a wing at two o’clock—Jake, hanging wide. Sloppy. 

You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly. 

Back behind Payback and Fanboy, you slip into their six like a phantom. One breath. Then you float up, nose aligned perfectly. 

“Boo,” you whisper. 

“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!” 

“Break, break, break!” Reuben shouts, yanking the stick. But you’re tighter than their turns, reading every move. Mickey’s calling positions, but it’s useless—you’re already there. 

Tone lock. Missile fired. 

“Damn it!” Reuben groans. 

You peel away quickly, climbing high and vanishing back into the sun. 

Then you wait. 

Jake’s climbing now, banking, twisting. Scanning. You can feel it—his nerves crackling across the sky. You disappeared, struck, and disappeared again. And now it’s just him. No backup. No noise. Just the slow, sinking realisation. 

“Where the hell is she now?” he snaps. 

“She’s hunting you,” Mickey says, voice laced with amusement. 

Jake loops, banks, scans his six. He’s getting desperate. But it’s too late—you’re already behind him, tracking every flick of his wings like you're inside the cockpit. 

Then you dive. 

Fast. Precise. Dead-on. 

He doesn’t even hear the tone until it screams. 

“Splash two, Hangman,” you say, smooth as silk, smug as sin. 

“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard. 

You stick with him and surge upward, wings slicing through a cloudbank. Then you roll cleanly inverted—and drop. 

You hover over his jet, canopy to canopy, just feet apart. Perfect. Effortless. Deadly. 

Jake looks up. 

And you salute him—with one elegant, deliberate middle finger. 

“No fucking way,” he mutters, eyes wide. 

“Mission failed,” Maverick says, the smile audible in his voice. “Nice work, Jinx.” 

You right your jet, throttle back with surgical control, and leave Jake spinning in your jet wash—stunned, smoked, and thoroughly outflown. 

The comms are silent on the way back to base, and you can’t stop grinning behind your mask. Your cheeks are starting to ache. You feel like a caged bird finally stretching its wings. Like yourself again—confident, alive—and almost as smug as Jake probably feels every morning when he looks in the mirror at his stupid, pretty-boy face. 

Then Reuben’s voice crackles through your headset. “Is it true you once locked three bogeys in a single sweep during a TOPGUN exercise?” 

You laugh, quiet enough that your mic doesn’t catch it. “Yeah. Second fly drill. Some guy was running his mouth, so I unleashed hell. Got an earful for it, though—reckless flying and all.” 

Feeling a little cocky, you bank up beside their jet, then roll cleanly over—canopy to canopy. You give them a polite little wave before settling beneath them, then punch the throttle and streak ahead toward base. 

“Dude,” Mickey says, awestruck, “I think I’m in love.” 

You grin and surge forward, barrelling up beside Maverick. You sweep past him—closer than regulation, jostling his jet just enough to rattle him. His laughter fills your headset as you rocket ahead, heart pounding as he closes in behind you. 

You chase each other through the sky in a tame game of cat and mouse until it's time to land. Following instructions from the ground crew, you ease into a holding pattern, waiting your turn to descend. 

It’s not long before you’re popping the canopy and tearing off your helmet, still grinning as you climb out of the jet and drop to the tarmac—light on your feet and high on adrenaline. 

“Holy shit!” Natasha storms toward you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You—you’re Jinx! I can’t believe—oh my God.” 

Bob is right behind her. “You pulled a Cobra manoeuvre during a mock dogfight at a showcase event to evade missile lock. I was there.” 

Laughter bubbles from your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as the squad quickly surrounds you. 

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. “The navy hasn’t seen a pilot like you since-” 

“Me,” Maverick cuts in, stepping up beside you with his helmet tucked under his arm. 

You glance at him, noting the proud grin on his face, before turning back to the others. Natasha and Bob are front and centre, Javy just behind them, with Reuben and Mickey lingering in the back, still wearing their helmets. But you don’t see Bradley. 

“Listen up,” Maverick says, his tone turning serious. “As most of you know, Jinx was grounded for a particularly dangerous stunt—well, she should be grounded. Admiral Simpson agreed to let her fly on the condition that only need-to-know personnel are made aware of her identity. I’ve just made you all need-to-know. Now you have to prove you can be trusted with that.” 

Jake steps forward, falling in beside Natasha, his expression unreadable. You and Maverick both turn toward him, and your stomach twists. If he wanted to, he could unravel everything. 

Jake meets your eyes, and for the first time, there’s nothing but sincerity behind his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re... you’re fucking amazing.” 

A grin breaks across his face—and yours follows. The squad erupts in cheers as Maverick claps a hand on your shoulder. You offer Jake a fist bump, and he accepts it with a laugh. 

“You know,” he says, that cocky smirk firmly back in place, “if it doesn’t work out with Rooster, I’m always-” 

“That’s enough, Hangman,” Bradley cuts in, dropping a hand on Jake’s shoulder and nudging him aside. 

You giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush. Your cheeks are on fire, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. 

Bradley turns to you. “Hey.” 

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking on his stupidly handsome face. “Hi.” 

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own cheeks tinged red. “That was—uh, you’re even cooler than I thought.” 

You snort, unladylike and unbothered. “That so?” 

He nods and steps closer, just a few inches between your boots. 

“Does that intimidate you?” you tease. 

He laughs again and glances up, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath that sun-kissed skin. The world falls away—it’s just the two of you now, the rest of the squad, watching and waiting, have all but disappeared. 

“No,” he says, eyes back on you. “It kinda turns me on.” 

You don’t think. You just move. 

Your hand slides up the front of his flight suit, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him down before he can say another word. 

And then you kiss him. 

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all the tension, the smart-ass remarks, the stolen glances and breathless moments that led to this. 

You rise onto your toes and his hands catch your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth claims yours like a promise, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. And when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips, you don’t hesitate—you part for him, and it’s like striking a match. 

There’s laughter in the background, noise and movement, but it all fades beneath the roar of your pulse and the heat of his mouth. All you can feel is him—his body, his breath, his hands. You want the flight suits gone, burned, anything that dares keep him from you reduced to ash. 

It takes everything you have not to absolutely devour him right there on the tarmac. But you’re still at work. And people are watching. 

So you part—eventually—grinning like idiots and panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile in full gear. 

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters from somewhere behind Bradley. “Even I’m hot and bothered after that.” 

“All right, you two,” Maverick chuckles. “Save it for the supply closet.” 

You roll your eyes and drop back onto your heels, shooting him your best unimpressed glare—which, admittedly, isn’t very convincing when you’re high on adrenaline and kissing Bradley Bradshaw. 

“We’re never living that down, are we?” 

“No,” Maverick replies with a grin. “Never.” 

You groan and turn back toward Bradley, letting your forehead fall against his chest. 

“I’m still not convinced you two didn’t fuck in there,” Jake says, striding past toward the briefing room. 

A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him. 

Bradley’s chest shakes with laughter beneath your cheek, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. 

“If they’re going to assume we did it in there,” he murmurs, just for you, “maybe we should just go do it in there.” 

You glance up at him, eyes flicking to his mouth, already picturing that stupidly hot moustache between your thighs. 

“Don’t fucking tempt me.” 

He laughs again and drops his hand to yours, fingers tangling as he tugs you toward the briefing room. Your eyes fall to his ass—shameless, hungry—watching the way it moves with each step just ahead of you. Teasing. Taunting. 

Being assigned to Maverick’s special detachment isn’t your punishment. Flying like Jake’s grandma in her Honda Civic isn’t your punishment either. No—the real punishment is spending ten hours a day, five days a week with Bradley fucking Bradshaw, pretending to be professional. Just waiting for the evenings when you can drag him to bed and completely, unapologetically devour him. 

END.

[jyoongim]

ANON ASKED: realder is a shy doe that’s like 5ft. She pretty much avoids Alastor like her life depends on it, because he makes her uncomfortable, and of course he knows he does. She goes into heat, but doesn’t find a partner. She just gets very tired and just goes into hibernation. Alastor find that very interesting to say the least. After staying at the hotel for so long, their heats sync and its a mess for him and she isn’t aware of it.

Degrading, voice kink, size kink, and breeding kink. Ear and tail pulling??? Fem! Reader receiving

So i think i missed a few marks and then it spiraled but i did my best to fulfill your request as best my ability!!!!

@animeloveruwu1234

As the weather got colder, you started to rarely be seen around the hotel. Your heat was rolling around and the urge to nest was nagging you.

You sighed, rolling out of bed and heading down for breakfast.

You were greeted with the scent of warm deliciousness. You pile your plate full of food, opting for more sweets and meats to the surprise of the other residents.

“ Christ.  Slow down Toots, you’re gonna choke.” Angel laughed as you munched happily on a avocado toast sausage bacon mix.

You giggled “Its winter Angel, i have to pack on some weight. I tell you every year” Your ears perked in alert when static ran up your body. Your ears drooped when Alastor entered the kitchen. “Why what a fine hellish day it is!”

He hummed as he waltzed past you, you nearly choked on your food when he leaned over your shoulder, looking at your plate “Didn’t take you for the cannibalism type doe” grinning as you looked away, huffing ”its cooked” as he stole a piece of ham.

“Does typically pick up weight in the winter. They have to fill out in order to provide for fawns. They make for excellent pickings during hunting season” Alastor said as he buttered his toast, eyes on you as you squirmed slightly.

Angel and Charlie gawked “You’re gonna have a baby?!”

Your eyes widened “What!? No! Its just a deer thing. No fawns anytime soon” you blushed. Shaking your head you stood from the table, excusing yourself.

You weren’t necessarily afraid of Alastor, you had been around him long enough to get use to tolerate him, but the stag still made you uncomfortable, even after all this time around him. He reeked of dominance and power and your much softer nature did not mesh well with his intimidating one.You usually only spoke a few words to him, always excusing yourself to get away from him. 

Like now, the comment about deer season had your skittish nature taking over, not liking the idea of potentially being a target.

Alastor chuckled as you walked by him. Your cute fluffy tail twitching, begging to be tugged on Alastor blinked at the intrusive thought.

That was new. He shook it off as just a sadistic moment. 

————————————————————————————-

You curled in your pile of blankets as your heat raked through you.

Over the last few days, Charlie was so kind to leave you food and water so you didn’t have to go to the kitchen.

But you were itching for fresh air. Stretching your legs would do you some good.

Maybe you would find a partner to mate with on your outing.

You took a deep breath of fresh air as you exited the hotel, sighing happily. You bobbed around the city, nose sniffing out any potential males.

After a while your body started to heat up and you were going tired. You weren’t successful as most demon you met were either too eager to keep you tied up or not interested.

oh well.

As you approached the hotel a faint musky scent had your senses in a frenzy. You subconsciously followed the faint scent and ended up in the kitchen. No one was in there, but a tray of food was perched on the table, probably for you.

The last few weeks you were eating way more to keep up the energy that was burning through you.

You stuffed your mouth as you sniffed again, sighing deeply as the scent seemed to fog your head.

You had your fill and went to retreat to your bedroom, when you bumped into a solid chest.

Your ears perked at the sound of a faint growl and static.

”Careful doe” a deep voice purred.

Alastor.

You took a step back, ears furrowing back “Oh! I’m sorry Al”you looked up at him.

The tall red demon smiled down at you, but something seemed off.

His smile looked strained, and his ears were flickering about, eyes narrowed. He looked slightly flustered.

Your instincts had you look over him, to see if you could find the sense of his discomfort.

You hand reached out to press against his forehead, his skin was clammy.

Alastor didn’t flinch from your touch or slap your hand away, instead his head leaned into your hand, making your head tilt in question.

”Al? Do you feel alright?” Your eyes filled with worry. Alastor hummed, a sharp claw clasping your chin as he chuckled “Oh its nothing I cant handle dear.” You nodded, taking his word and made your way back to your room.

You curled in your nest as you thought about how strangely the demon was acting. But maybe it really was nothing.

————————————————————————————-

Alastor had smelled the most delicious scent waft across his nose. It smelled familiar but it was just too sweet to pinpoint who it belonged to. So he followed it.

The scent led him to the kitchen where he found you. 

The little doe was having her filling, consuming some food, stuffing her soft cheeks with whatever was on the tray.

You looked plumper. Softer. For as long as he had known you, your heats were interesting to witness.

You tended to eat more, your usual slim figure filling out to accommodate the energy you burned. You often hid away when you were in heat. Something that Alastor found interesting.

Most does sought out partners to satisfy them, but not you.

He had overheard you how most of the times you did go seeking partners but no one tickled your fancy enough.

Something about that made his chest tingle.

No one would be able to satisfy you like he could his instincts screamed.

With another deer around, your heats triggered his ruts.

He had never interacted with you while in a rut, so when you bumped into him, he wasn’t ready for the consequences.

You let out a cute little squeak when you collided with his chest, ears perked as you registered the static he let off.

He felt his cock stir in his pants as he breathed in your scent.

Your heat must have been flaring as he could taste how your cunt smelled.

His ears furrowed against his head, the only indicator that something was wrong. He kept up his composure as you nervously apologized. But as he too was in rut, he was sure he was showing some signs, as you asked if he was ok.

He tensed up as he felt your hand on his cheek, but leaned into your touch.

Your soft voice laced in concern as you looked over him, checking to make sure he wasn’t ill.

Oh what a naive doe.

It was taking every bit of control he had to not take you against the kitchen table.

how would you look as he took you? 

Would you beg him to make a mess of you?

Would you let him breed you to the point your cunt dripped with his cum?

He let out a low growl once you left the kitchen, turning his head to watch your full ass sway as your tail twitched about.

———————————————————————————

A knock at your door had you stirring awake from the comfort of your makeshift nest.

You were much too tired and had no desire to answer whoever was on the other side of the door. Your heat was at a all time high and the stickiness between your thighs, a result of your abusing your poor clit for relief.  If it was Charlie, then she would just leave food at your door. Your eyes started to drift close, the sweet call of sleep sounding so appealing. 

Your ears twitched at the knock again, a soft growl escaping your throat.

Your tired brain did not catch up with your nose as you swung open the door, tired eyes widening as you are face to chest? With Alastor.

You keened your neck to look up at him; head tilting as the red demon peered down at you with black blown out eyes.

”Al?”you asked confused, rubbing at your eyes sleepily.

”Apologies my dear, did I wake you?”  He asked, head tilted, voice feign concern, his red ears erect and honed in on your soft panting, eyes narrowing at he took in the slight coat of sweat on your skin and how disoriented you seemed.

You nodded wordlessly, now highly aware that you, a doe were in full heat, evidence of that clinging to your thighs, and a stag was at your door.

Your heart sounded in your ears as your eyes raked over Alastor, accessing him.

Taking mental notes of mating potential instinctively.

“I thought you were Charlie…she usually leaves me food”

He hummed, a clawed hand coming up to your face to grip your chin. You blinked. Body buzzing.

Alastor’s instinct were screaming to push you back into your room and claim you in your nest, and satisfy the burn in his body.

Your scent had basically coated the hotel in its sweet smell. The scent making his cock twitch and antlers itch.

And the scent of your cunt had his mouth watering.

And he will have his fill.

”Your heat must  take a lot out of you dear” his hands reached to soothe your tense shoulders, fingertips massaging the flesh. You stayed still as his hands roamed your body, softly pawing at the curves you gained from your heat. 

His lips nipped at your soft ear, purring into it “I could provide assistance if you like?”

 Your tail wagged as you gulped “A-Assistance?” You asked. 

From your time around the red demon, you have never known him to willingly help people. Alastor maintained a sense of control in every situation, twisting and bending the rules to be in his favor.

A doe in heat should be easy to manipulate.

”Yeeeessss anything you want my dear! Think of it as ‘I scratch your back so you can scratch mine’ type of deal hmmm?” He chuckled darkly, slowly backing you into your room.

————————————————————————————-

Soft moans filled the room, accompanied by the hum of static as Alastor sucked at your clit.

You were sprawled out on your back in your nest, knees on either side of Alastor’s head as he lavished your clit with his tongue.

You panted as his tongue dipped into heat, thighs shuddering as it curled and lapped at your juices.

”H-Hah!! Ah! Ah! A-Al!” You whined, toes curling when he sucked the sore bud into his mouth. You tugged at the big antlers that separated your legs.

He had already made you cum on his fingers twice; cooing into your neck as you cried, cunt clenching around the digits like a vice.

Alastor grunted lowly, nipping at your clit with sharp teeth before sucking it back into his mouth. A finger dipped to fill you as he flicked your clit. Your gummy walls squeezing him, contracting at the intrusion but welcoming him into its depths.

He cooed around into your cunt, eyes looking up at you.

Your face was flushed and slick with sweat. Hands at your breasts, pulling and massaging your perky nipples.

Pouty lips parted as your moans tore from your throat.

”oooh c’mon doll, one more. You’ve been doing so good.”

Your body felt like it was burning. Each orgasm fogging your head with pure desire to be sated properly.

Your hips followed the rhythm of his tongue, using the hold on his antlers to ride his face.

 Alastor let you be. Happily curling his finger inside you as he lapped up your essence.

Your back arched as a third orgasm ripped through you, teeth clenching as your hips twitched in overstimulation, but riding it out to make the sensation last.

You sighed as you went limp, eyes hazily looking up at the ceiling, waiting to fall back to earth.

But you didn’t have the time to tuck your legs back in and roll over to sleep, when Alastor adjusted himself onto his knees and pulled you flush to his hips. 

A surprised “Ah!” Escaped your lips as your cunt was filled to the brim. 

With cock.

Alastor growled, hissing as finally your cunt so asked around him, unsure whether to welcome him. A harsh thrust broke what little resistance your walls gave and had you mewling.

“Oh fuck!”

Large claws kneaded at your fleshy thighs, holding them to your chest as his hips crashed down into yours, cock hitting that sweet nerve over and over, making you coat his cock in creamy slick.

”Al-Alastor! Ha! Nggh ooh fuuuck me!” You cried, tears forming in your eyes as he pounded your count.

”You would think after all this time, I wouldn’t blink when you’re in heat. But oh darlin’ you always know how to catch my interest.” He goated lightly, a claw coming up to your parted lips, his thumb pressing inside as you sucked subconsciously on the digit.

His eyes narrowed at you, pulling his hips back to snap them forward as a response.

”Do you know how divine you smell? Just walking around with a dripping cunt without a care. Many demons would kill to fuck a cunt this appealing”  a dark smirk curled on his lips when your cunt made a wet sound. “And Ill kill many demons to keep it to myself” he purred setting out a rough pace, claws on your round hips to pull you into his thrusts, keeping his cock nestled within your warm cavern.

Alastor was fucking you in your nest

A place sacred for only a doe’s mate

did that mean…was he?

Your brain was reeling. It couldn’t keep up with the sensations that were raking through your body. Your hands found purchase in the surrounding blankets as you let out moans that if you were in your right mind, would have left you embarrassed.

”mmhmm hmmm nngh Ah! Hhhaaa!” Your body jolted with his thrusts, the squish squelch noise of your cunt, echoing in your ears.

”Oh what a sweet doe you are my dear. I’ve always wonder what lied under that shy demeanor. And my my I wasn’t disappointed. A whore willing to spread her legs and be mounted.” You whimpered as he manhandled you onto your belly, knees barely supporting you as he slotted himself back inside you. You felt a heavy weight on your head, tugging to force your body to bounce on his cock.

when did your horns come in? 

You hadn’t realized it, but you had transformed into your demon form. 

and fucking hell were you gorgeous Alastor thought, hands wrapped around your slender horns and using them to control your movements.

Your tongue hanged out your mouth as your ass took the brute force of his thrusts. Alastor’s cock felt amazing.

Better than you could have imagined and so much better to scratch that lusty itch.

There was a puddle forming underneath you, soaking the bed, making the skin of Alastor’s thighs stick to yours.

Finally getting a look at your backside, Alastor felt his cock twitch as his eyes roamed down to where his cock was disappearing into you. His eyes zeroed in on your tail.

His hand dragged down your back, sharp claws cutting slightly to make blood ripple done your back. He wrapped his hand around your tail, softly twindling the tuft of fur before pulling.

A high-pitch moan left your throat. Your cunt clenched around him in response.

interesting he thought smiling as he used his grip on your tail to really make you take his cock deeper.

Your cunt was a soppy mess.

”Oh you like your tail pulled on dear? What a nautghty girl” Alastor chortled as he rocked his hips into you.

You were completely dazed with lust, that tingling knot forming in your stomach.

”please” you begged, pushing your hips against him, mewling as his hit the sponge that had you feeling sparks.

Alastor leaned over to your ear, never breaking his pace.

”hmmm? What was that dear?” He taunted cruelly.

”are you begging? What do you want doll? Cause I’m not going to stop til you’re filled with my cum. Is that what you want?”

You nodded “yes! Please please please let me cum! Cum in me- i w-want your cum please! Ha! Fuuuucckk” you whined, hand reaching underneath you to play with your clit.

”A-Al…please…breed me please i want it! I want it so bad!”

That had his cock twitch and hammer into you at record speed.

”oooh don’t worry your pretty head. You’ll get your fill”

Angled thrusts had your body jolting against the bed as you cried out, moaning so loud you were sure everyone in the hotel could hear you.

Alastor thought you were beautiful. How lovely you were covered in blood and sweat as he pounded you out. Your body went rigid before he felt your cunt flutter around him, milking him dry.

Your body slumped forward as he continue to ride out your orgasm.

”what a pretty doe, that’s a good girl. Milking my cock like a wanton slut. That’s it. I’m going to fill you up so good, I’m going to carve your cunt to only take my cock. You’ll like that wont you sweetheart? F-Fuck take it baby take it!” He grunted, snapping his hips into yours before he let out a loud growl, cock twitching before spilling his cum into you, painting your gooey walls white.

You let out a low whine feeling his warm goo fill you, before he pulled out, finally letting your body go.

You convulsed on the bed, panting as you felt his sticky spunk start to leak out of you.

Alastor sighed, rubbing your thighs as you came down from your high.

He chuckled “yes I think you’ll do just fine darlin”

Maybe heat cycles weren’t so bad after all…especially when there was a Doe ready to be filled with cum.

”Lovely”

[melercies]

One Bed Trope [Sentinels]

Pairing(s): Two Time, Shedletsky, Chance & Guest 1337

Author's Note: This was particularly inspired by the Tumblr user: cannibal-alien. Please let me know if I mischaracterize anyone. All likes, reposts, and comments are appreciated. :]

For some unknown reason, after a brutal round, you find yourself standing in front of your cabin. Gone and demolished for what reason? You don’t know, and frankly, I don’t either, but here we are! Thanks a lot, Spectre. All that was left was the pathetic remains of the foundation, some twisted wood still crackling with dying embers. Just great. You’re utterly exhausted, drained physically and mentally, as you wonder where you’re going to sleep. Out in the cold? Absolutely not, especially not with the repetitive cycle of hell that you have to go through daily. At least at the end of the day, you need to find yourself in comfort. So, with really no other option, you turn and walk yourself over to a fellow neighbor’s cabin. Sure, it was embarrassing, but it’s better than sleeping outside in the cold. 

You couldn’t care less as to who you were knocking, feeling too tired to even think properly. You just needed a place that isn’t destroyed to get some sleep, especially for tomorrow. It takes a moment or two until the door opens, revealing the individual.

Two Time:

The door creaks open slowly, revealing Two Time standing in half-shadow. A dim lantern flickers behind them, casting warped silhouettes across the cabin walls. Their eyes—unreadable, distant—rest on you for a long, heavy pause.

“...You,” they say, voice low and void of emotion. Their gaze flicks toward the smoldering ruin behind you. “I saw smoke. The Spawn warned of fire. It seems they were right again.”

You don’t have the energy to respond. You just blink slowly, face covered in fatigue. For a moment, Two Time doesn’t move—then they step aside wordlessly, allowing you in with a flick of their wrist.

Inside, the room is surprisingly clean, sparse, and symmetrical. Ritualistic symbols etched faintly into the walls and floorboards, most of them likely carved by hand. There’s one bed pushed to the corner, draped in worn blankets that look hand-woven. Nothing else in the room even resembles comfort.

You stare at the bed.

Two Time does too.

They speak softly, almost like prayer: “Two souls. One chamber. May neither wake alone.”

You raise an eyebrow. “There’s only one bed.”

“I know,” they say plainly, as if the arrangement was divine fate.

You expect them to sleep on the floor or make some kind of cultist arrangement on the rug, but instead…”You will take the left side. That is the passive quadrant. I will not cross it. The Spawn does not permit desecration of the boundary.”

Silence.

Until you climb into the bed, not caring anymore, and just wanting to sleep. They follow along and slip under the covers without hesitation and face away from you, posture rigid.

It’s been silent for a long time. Well, this is awkward.

And still, despite everything—the rigid body beside you, the cursed symbols, the heaviness of something long dead—you sleep easier than you expected. Almost protected.

Almost.

Shedletsky:

You knock with the last of your strength.

The door doesn’t so much open as it flies ajar with a creak and a gust of stale air. Shedletsky stands in the doorway, shirt wrinkled, hair unkempt as always. His eyes narrowed immediately.

“You smell like charcoal.”

You’re too tired to care at this point, blinking through the smoke and exhaustion. Shedletsky leans in the doorway, you’re unable to tell if he’s annoyed or impressed.

“Spectre torched your place, huh?”

You nod slowly. That’s all you’ve got in you.

He sighs like a man who’s seen too many disasters and steps aside. “Come on in. Just don’t ruin the rug— it's older than Builderman’s sense of optimism.” 

You step in and the heat hits you like a wall— the cabin’s warm, cluttered in the organized chaos kind of way. Tools. Paper stacks. Some swords. Weird half-assembled contraptions. Bloxy colas. Oh, and of course, a bucket of fried chicken. Classic Shedletsky.

And one bed.

A very small, and you guessed it, a very obvious one-person bed.

You glance at it. So does he.

There’s a pause.

“…Alright, I’ll bite — rock-paper-scissors for who gets it?” he asks with a grin.

You raise a brow. “Dead serious?”

“No, I’m never serious,” he says. “But you look like you’ll collapse over mid-round tomorrow if you sleep outside, so let’s figure something out.”

You groan inwardly, but follow anyway. At this point, dignity means less than not freezing to death. 

He shrugs. “Not my fault that the Spectre decided to cosplay as an arsonist. Spectre’s got beef.” Before he adds in reassurance, “Don’t worry. I won’t make it weird.”

You raise a brow. “You’re literally the reason weird exists.”

He laughs at that—genuine, warm. “Flattering. But seriously. You’re half-dead on your feet. You take the bed. I’ll crash in the corner or something. I’ve slept in worse places. Like under the old spawn tower. During a sword tournament. While it was raining.” 

But you stop him. “Just share. I’m not going to play hero over sleeping arrangements.”

Shedletsky pauses, blinks once, and then smirks. “Alright. But I’m warning you—if I roll over and accidentally kick you in my sleep, that’s on you.”

You climb in first. The bed is warm, the blankets are… surprisingly soft.. You feel the mattress dip as he joins, staying well on his side.

Silence settles. And then, as if he just can’t help himself:

“…You know, you’re lucky it was me. If you’d knocked on Dusekkar’s door, he’d have made you answer a riddle before even letting you breathe.”

You almost laugh.

Almost.

He doesn’t say anything else that night. Just hums something softly—some half-remembered melody from a forgotten Roblox game—as he falls asleep beside you.

For once, the cabin feels safe. No snark, no fire, no killers. Just two survivors resting before another round of hell.

And somehow, with him nearby, it doesn’t feel so bad.

“Sleep tight.”

Despite yourself, you do. Though you’re awoken at 3 a.m. by the sound of Shedletsky mumbling about “sword hitboxes” and his snores.

Chance: 

The knock you give this time is softer. You’re too tired to knock hard, and honestly? You’re half-hoping no one answers.

But the door swings open anyways, almost like it was waiting for you.

Chance stands in the doorway, framed dramatically by the flickering firelight inside. His light grey skin contrasts sharply against the dark of the night, and his back fedora casts a shadow over his headphones and tinted shades. Despite the chaos you’ve all endured, he’s still in his full suit and tie with a couple of wrinkles here and there. There’s curiosity in his eyes as he stares at your form.

“Well, well, well. What brings you here?”

You stare blankly, barely holding yourself upright. “Spectre burned my cabin.”

Chance squints before stepping aside dramatically, gesturing like a showman. “Come in, weary traveler. Lady Luck owes you that much.” 

You’re too tired to comment on how theatrical he is being. The inside of his cabin is…not that surprising. There’s dice, playing chips and cards scattered across a desk nearby while a small collection of fedora hats are sitting neatly nearby. There’s even a dartboard on the wall.

But you’re too tired to care.

Then your gaze lands on the bed.

One. Singular. Bed.

Of course.

Chance stares at the bed as well. “Oh noooo, one bed? What a gamble. Hope I don’t roll snake eyes in my sleep.”

“Chance.” You speak, “Don’t make this weird.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “No weirdness here. I’ll flip a coin to see who gets what side or maybe who sleeps on the floo—”

“Not in the mood for jokes, Chance.”

“Okay, okay. No jokes. We’re just playing the hand we’re dealt.”

He pulls out a golden coin, and flicks it into the air with a flair. It spins slowly before he catches it and slaps it to his wrist.

“Heads: you get the left side. Tails: I do.” He peeks. “Heads. Your lucky night.”

You’re about to protest when he kicks off his boots, loosens his tie, and flops dramatically to the right side of the bed, already muttering about the odds of this happening.

You collapse onto the other side, face-first, barely resisting the urge to scream into the pillow.

After a few minutes of silence, Chance pipes up from beside you, “Wouldn’t it be wild if we woke up and the bed wasn’t real?”

You groan. “Chance, please shut up.”

He chuckles and rolls onto his side. “Fair enough.”

You found yourself falling asleep, listening to the rhythmic flick of his coin flipping through his fingers. Somehow, that helps.

It feels like perhaps, luck is on your side tonight.

Guest 1337:

You barely register your footsteps as you stagger toward the cabin. The smoldering debris of your former shelter still lingers in the air behind you, thick with smoke and the sharp sting of ash. The Spectre had done it—again. No real motive. Just destruction. Typical.

Your fist, heavy with exhaustion, knocks once against the door of the nearest survivor’s cabin. You’re half-aware of who it might be. Too tired to care.

The door opens swiftly.

Guest 1337 stands there, blue hair tousled slightly by the wind, his camouflage uniform creased from activity, not rest. His tan army vest bears scrapes from past rounds, a few dried streaks of grime across the fabric. His eyes—normally sharp with determination—narrow slightly in concern.

He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t need to.

He looks over your shoulder at the orange glow on the horizon—your ruined cabin still crackling—and then back to you.

“Inside. Now.”

His tone is firm, military, but not cold.

You enter, the cabin interior dim and sharply organized. A folded blanket on a wooden trunk. His gloves were taken off and placed onto a nearby table. The atmosphere of his cabin doesn’t feel like a home, yet somehow, in this moment, it feels safer than anything else.

You glance at the bed near the wall. Neat, but one bed.

Guest 1337 notices your hesitation immediately.

“I’ll take the floor.”

You frown. “Not a chance. You’ve had my back in every round since week three. I’m not making you sleep on solid ground.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze fixed and unyielding. “I’ve slept worse.”

Of course he has.

You pause. So does he.

Then, with the exhausted sigh of two people too stubborn to argue further, you nod once.

“…Fine. We share. I don’t snore. Much.”

Guest 1337 doesn’t smile—he rarely does—but the corners of his tired eyes crease ever so slightly as he steps back and motions you toward the bed.

You lie down on the narrow bed, scooting over to give him space. He sits first, removing his army vest and setting it silently beside the bed. You notice the way he moves—efficient, practiced, no wasted motion.

When he finally settles beside you, back half-raised against the wall, legs stretched out beside yours, there’s a stillness to him. He’s listening. Always.

After a while, your voice cuts through the quiet, barely a whisper.

“You ever get used to it?”

“The chaos?” he asks. “No. You just get better at standing in front of it.”

You let your head fall back into the makeshift pillow. The warmth of the bed—though thin—counters the cold outside. The war still rages out there, rounds still await tomorrow, but tonight?

Tonight, you’ll sleep beside the one person who’s never let a survivor fall behind.

And in this hellscape of broken cabins and endless threats, that’s enough.

[meowgumi10]

Husband!Sukuna NSFW alphabet (request!)

Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

-he’s kind, cleans you up and maybe asks Uraume to run you both a nice bath

-he likes to keep a hand on your lower stomach, he loves the idea of getting you pregnant

-he just admires you if you sleep straight after, the woman he loves and adores

Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

-on you it would be your eyes, he can see every emotion and most importantly they’re beautiful

-he loves eye contact durning sex, or even when you two are just talking

-on himself it’s probably his arms, he’s able to cuddle you perfectly (especially if this is true form sukuna)

-his hands are large and his biceps even bigger so he can carry you around, hold you, protect you

Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

-he cums way to much, like it gets to a point

-it’s thick and creamy, like double cream (the closet thing i could think of )

-he LOVES filling you up, and will every single time

-with you he loves the taste of you, will slurp it all up after devouring you

Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

-he’s into bondage but is always afraid of scaring you, the last thing he wants is to scare the love of his life

-he loves shibari, definitely has some books on it

-would love to see the bright red rope wrapping around you in intimate ways, allowing him to open you up in anyway he likes

-he has the red rope but is always reluctant to bring it up

Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

-knows what’s he doing honestly

-he’s very familiar with the human body, especially a woman’s and not just in a sexual sense (bros a cannibal)

-he’s not all that experienced in ‘making love’ but he definitely figures it out for you

Favorite position (this goes without saying)

-missionary, mating press, spoon fucking (cuddling and fucking at the same time)

-anything that keeps you two close and makes it intimate

-he likes cowgirl but only if your really pressed up against him, his arms around you as he kisses you softly

-he doesn’t mind letting you set your own pace

Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

-I think he’s more serious, for him sex with you is him showing his love and his love is definitely serious for you

- he does like teasing, he might occasionally make fun of you if you whine too much

-though if you weren’t as serious he’d definitely play along

Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

-he doesn’t give a single fuck

-he never touches it, lets it grow and do whatever it likes

-but if you do get annoyed he’d trim it

-of course his pubes are pink like his head hair

Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

-so romantic you might actually cry sometimes

-on a regular basis he’s sweet and intimate, but if it’s your birthday or an anniversary he goes all out

-candles, roses, new sheets, he might even take you to a big fancy hotel so he doesn’t have to worry about cleaning up after

-he loves you and communicates that’s clearly

Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

-before you he had at least 5 girls that were always on stand by and of course after you two got together there was only you

-he probably hasn’t jacked off since he started getting girls, he doesn’t like how his own hand feels anyway

Kink (one or more of their kinks)

-breeding kink 10000%

-he doesn’t care about gender actually he’ll still try and get you pregnant (or at least fuck you like he is)

-hot take but I think he’d like to be dominated sometimes, not as in get peggged (well maybe) but he’d let you take charge and do whatever you like with him

-maybe even dacraphilia, if he saw you crying from pure pleasure he might cum in the spot.

-the fact that he’s making you feel so good you just start to cry would definitely be a thing he loves

Location (favorite places to do the do)

-anywhere in the house honestly, he prefers the bed but you two have definitely fucked in every room

-I’m not sure about public places, I think he’s too possessive over that,plus he wants you to always be comfortable

-if you’re into it he might do it but typically he wouldn’t

-he might love a jacuzzi or the ocean/sea (imaging the twilight scene rn), it just feels very romantic

-but no matter what he’d never let anyone see your body

Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

-seeing you be confident would definitely get to him

-if you do something for him, like bake him a cake or pack him a nice lunch, then you’ll definitely be getting it

-of course seeing you in something sexy gets him, but if you two have kids and he sees you just in a t shirt and some shorts as you cook breakfast for him and the kids he’d go crazy

-he loves that domestic image of you

No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

-like I said before he won’t let anyone see you let alone touch you so threesomes are a big no

-he wouldn’t like hurting you, like really hurting you, he wouldn’t mind some spanking and light choking but anything past that wouldn’t be appealing to him

Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

-he of course loves to receive, if you decide to go down on him with your perfect mouth then he’s over the moon

-but he gives head like a dog, he loves eating you out and would make you cum at least 3 times before letting you go

-he loves your pussy and it’s heavenly taste

Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

-he’s a slow and sensual type, he’d do fast and rough on rare occasions where he needs to really let some stress out

-he’s a romantic when it comes to you so he’d be slow with his thrusts and talk you through it nicely

Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

-they’re not his favourite, he’d do it if you want one but it wouldn’t be his suggestion

-he likes to take his time with you

Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

-he’d try most kinks, but he of course has limits

-if your super kinky he’s into it, he’d love a nympho wife, but if you’re more vanilla he also likes that.

-No matter what he always makes sure you’re into it

Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

-this guy doesn’t stop, he could honestly go all night

-he has a high stamina, like really high (all that gym paying off)

-there’s been times where you’ve almost passed out but he was still going like it was only the second round

Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

-like I mentioned before he has rope, he might use a remote control vibrator on you sometimes for fun but only around the house

-he’d have sexy outfits for both you and him, stuff for role play and such

-I don’t think he’s big on toys but he doesn’t mind them

Unfair (how much they like to tease)

-he’s playful and likes to tease, especially durning foreplay or just when flirting with you

-he might like to hear you tell him you belong to him so he makes you say it so you can cum

-he can be teasing but he’s not horrible about it

Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

-he’s a big talker of course, sometimes he just won’t stop talking

-now he’s not ashamed to moan but he’s more of a growler/groaner

-his voice is so sexy so any noise he makes is perfect

Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

-he has a thing for chubby girls so if your plus sized hes the man for you

-it’s honestly my favourite trope, massive gym guy with a chubby girl (we need more representation fr)

-and durning sex he likes to watch things…bounce

X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

-he’s big, like a person of course he’s massive but damn

-as a human let’s say he’s about 6’4, he’s very buff I mean he attends the gym religiously, so his cock… it’s a monster

-you were kinda very scared your first time together but he was patient with you

-of course deep in your relationship you can take it like a boss

Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

-he needs you 24/7, he is able to control himself but most of the time he doesn’t want you

-he’s down bad, I mean he married you and sukuna isn’t an easy guy to tie down like that

[tryingtofindava]

some of the creeps with a cannibalistic reader? :> if thats okayy

── 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫*ೃ༄

(Includes: Jeff the Killer, Eyeless Jack, Ticci Toby, Masky, Hoodie, Nina the Killer.)

: ̗̀➛Back to source

>>Part 2

╰┈➤ 𝐉𝐞𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

He doesn’t hide the fact AT ALL that he thinks it’s absolutely disgusting

And he’ll always make that clear to you.

Onetime you were in the woods after killing some poor camper, eating away at their flesh while cooking it with their fire.

And Jeff came by because he was on his way back to his hiding spot from the world.

He watches and mocks you the whole time, because he’s an asshole.

“Y/n, that’s so fucking fucking gross. You’re nasty.” (he scoffs while being covered in like 7 different peoples blood…)

Anyways lolz he doesn’t support you :3

But, that doesn’t stop him from having a morbid interest in you tendency to eat people.

And will ask about what parts of the body you prefer, and also if you’ve ever ate someone’s testicles. Sorry not sorry.

╰┈➤ 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤

Unfazed. The man eats kidneys. You’re in good company.

Whether you’re a cannibal by choice or forced to be like him, he feels a weird connection to you in that way.

I’d be a liar if I said you two didn’t bond over the fact that you both have the taste for human flesh. (Which is like, a BIG deal for Jack since he isn’t the most social Creep out there.)

He may even share his little human organs with you, and it may as well become your guys usual hang out plan.

After being alone for so many years after the events of the sacrifice, having something in common with another being is very important to him.

Being around you makes him feel a little better about what he has become since you choose do live this way, and he’s forced to eat people.

It makes him feel less disgusted with himself, because compared to you, he’s better since he doesn’t want to do this to other people.

He has to if he wants to survive.

╰┈➤ 𝐓𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐢 𝐓𝐨𝐛𝐲

I’m actually sure he was supposed to be cannibal but was changed later on by Kastoway since it was too similar to EJ’s story and stuff. So it was set that he only ate some parts of his victims on rare occasions.

I’m also pretty sure it’s canon that the way he got the gash on his cheek is because he literally gnawed it off because his gloves prevented him from eating away at the skin on his fingers.

So yeah… he’s probably unphased by your desire to eat people.

Not that he’d give a shit in the first place, he’d probably just tease you sometimes about it.

Maybe even on his missions he’d take some human parts from his victims for you to scran on.

Like Jeff, he also has a morbid interest in your hobby. Just doesn’t ask questions in a mocking tone like Jeffery would.

He’d share what he likes about eating people, you share what you like about eating people. Like a really fucked up version of 20 questions.

╰┈➤ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞

Again, another two who find it repulsing-ish.

BUT!!

They don’t make it as obvious as Jeffrey does about finding it disgusting.

Though you can still sense their vibe being off when they are around you. The two have been working for the operator for many years now and they have seen some pretty fucked up shit. But you and your cannibalistic ways? You take the cake…

Sometimes when you eat in the woods they may come across you and watch, though you can’t see their faces from their masks you know that they are silently judging you.

It repulses them. And you’ll always feel their judgemental stares when you’re eating around them.

╰┈➤ 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

This girl is already unhinged, and depending on how you play it, she might find that trait either terrifyingly hot or deeply concerning but oddly thrilling.

“WAIT! WAIT!! WAIT!!! Like… people? Actual people??? Like, the kinky way or the literal way??”

She’s stunned, mouth half open, eyes wide like you just told her you like pineapple on pizza but in a super cursed way.

A whole internal debate plays out in real time. Do I freak out? Do I kiss her? Do I ask if she’s wanting me to slash someone up for a midnight snack rn???

Another one with morbid curiosity and it kicks in FAST. She’s weirded out, but also really wants to know what made you like this.

Her love language is gift giving, and acts of service, so like Toby she definitely brings you humans to munch on.

You want them raw? Okay!! You want ‘em fried? She’s getting the pan out now!

Lowkey turns it into a power couple thing once she wraps her mind around it.

“I kill, you snack. We’ve got a system.”

Will 100% make cannibal jokes if anyone flirts with you in the mansion. “Careful. She bites. And swallows.”

She loves getting her hands dirty for you, and feels no regret what so ever when she ends an innocent person to bring you your dinner!! :)

She sees it as part of your twisted charm, and honestly, she’s more into you than she is worried about your ‘diet.’

Half of this was me babbling lolz

[inamagicalhallucination]

headcanon atsushi’s ability the tiger does not know what to do when it likes someone

like in general atsushi is bad with knowing what to do with the ppl he likes and showing affection -- like he tries to mimic others but he himself is still working on something that feels natural if that makes sense

but the tiger

the tiger is far worse becuz the only positive thing it can associate with positive emotions is food so every time it gets closer to the full moon the tiger starts whispering in the back of his mind that he should eat dazai and kunikida

then kyouka and junichiro

and ranpo and yosano and fukuzawa and kenji and naomi and haruno

at first atsushi panics (naturally) worries he’s a cannibal, thinks the tiger hates the agency, panics more, especially after dead apple when he and the tiger gained an understanding of each other and he realized that the tiger was protecting him so he’s like why r u trying to kill the agency members

but gradually he realizes that actually the tiger just doesn’t know how to deal with positive emotions and yeah

anyway:

atsushi: dazai-san is so nice to me :)

the tiger: yeah :)

the tiger: we should eat him

atsushi: NO????

//

kunikida, patting atsushi’s head: good job on ur report atsushi

the tiger: use his arm against him and eat him

kunikida: atsushi u look weird are u feeling unwell

atsushi: hahaha dont worry about no weird thoughts here hahahaha

//

atsushi, literally just working:

the tiger: the small candy one eats a lot of sugar. he would taste sweet. Eat him.

atsushi: NO??????????????

ranpo, looking up: i’ve actually always wondered what i would taste like-

//

and so on

is this incredibly dumb? yes but is it also funny, yes

atsushi realizes he likes akutagawa because at some point when he spots him the tiger immediately starts wondering what he’d taste like

atsushi, sees akutagawa: oh there’s that basta-

the tiger: i bet he’d taste really nice

atsushi:

atsushi: oh 

atsushi: oh no

//

akutagawa: how did you figure out you liked me?

atsushi: i couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d taste like

akutagawa, blushing: oh-

atsushi: yeah it was insane how much the tiger wanted to kill and eat u

akutagawa, slightly confused and horrified: oh-

//

eventually as atsushi learns to deal with his feelings so does the tiger but unfortunately it’s still an animal so its more like

atsushi: dazai’s so nice :)

the tiger: yeah :)

the tiger: lets hunt a deer for him 

atsushi: no??????????????

//

kunikida, petting atsushi’s hair: good job on the job atsushi

atsushi, not thinking about what he’s saying: kunikida i like u so much should i kill a bear for u?

kunikida, slightly confused, slightly flattered: uhh no???????

//

atsushi, at the store: lemme just get something for kyouka-

the tiger: we shall hunt until we find something suitabl-

atsushi: no.

//

atsushi: im sorry i transformed last night, snuck out of ur place, hunted down a goose, broke back in, left it in the living room table, and then climbed on top of u, still a tiger, and then fell asleep and only transformed back now, after u had to use rashomon to get tiger me off u 

akutagawa, dead tired: yeah i don’t know what the appropriate response is but ur cleaning the bloo-

akutagawa: wait wtf do u mean theres a dead goose in the living room

atsushi: do u not like goose :(

akutagawa: that is NOT the issue here

//

yeah

[wimpywompythethird]

I really hate the idea of Valentino or the other V’s being redeemed. It makes far more sense for them to remain irredeemable because it would teach Charlie an essential lesson: not everyone can be saved and more importantly, not everyone wants to be. Some people genuinely enjoy being bad—Valentino, Velvette, and Vox are perfect examples. They thrive in their wickedness because it’s fun and empowering for them. For Charlie, whose entire philosophy revolves around the belief that “everyone can be redeemed,” facing people like them would force her to confront the harsh reality that her ideals have limits.

These characters are in Hell for a reason and even if their damnation was unfair, they’re still objectively awful beings in Hell. Valentino is a rapist, an abuser and a terrible boss. Vox is another manipulative, power-hungry boss who uses mind control to manipulate people and likely turns a blind eye to Valentino’s abuse of Angel Dust. Meanwhile, Velvette manufactures the date-rape drugs that Valentino uses on Angel and most likely manipulates the media to twist narratives, according to the leaks. They don’t need tragic backstories or trauma to justify their evil—they’re simply bad people by choice. And honestly, the “But they’re villains!” argument doesn’t really hold water here. Even Cannibal Town didn’t care about Charlie’s redemption plan until Alastor mentioned they could eat the angels. Sometimes, evil people just stay evil and that’s a reality that Charlie needs to face.

[widdowxd]

EJ for another base collab with @sinner-arts 😝 We’ll post the full thing on IG

Some head canon facts for my AU Eyeless Jack:

• Everyone mainly calls his “Eyeless”, or of course “EJ” .

• Like almost every other demonic entity in my AU, he doesn’t want to kill (or be a cannibal). Every now and then, he’ll go into these psychotic/feral episodes in which he needs to feed off of kidneys and human blood to stay alive, or else his black blood will begin to drain (out of his eyes); so he’ll go out hunting for humans before its too late and he lashes out on the other Slender-mansion residents.

• The others will help him find criminal humans to kill, they don’t intentionally wish to harm good people. It’s fucked up either way, though.

• EJ is pretty much a normal guy, other than his episodes and the fact that he needs to feed off of pure human blood and kidneys to stay… Somewhat human. (alright there Timmy tough knuckles)

• EJ can still actually “see”, but his vision is like an illusion inside his head if that makes sense. He can only see in black and white, though. Kinda sad. At least he sees LJ normally!

• His closest friends are Toby, Tim (Masky), the Puppeteer and Nina. He’s also cool with LJ but they aren’t super close.

• His hair rings are made from carved human bones!🦴

• When EJ needs to dispose of the human bodies, he feeds the remains to Seed Eater. “Seed” is like his pet. He thinks seed is fucking adorable.

• Eyeless likes alternative styles and body mods, he always has since high school.

• He’s 26 in 2004 (which is the year my AU is based in) and joined Slenderman and his proxies when he was 20.

• Since he was in medical school, he knows the most about medical topics and he usually takes care of the others wounds. He also provides medicine n stuff.

• EJ is really funny and humorous and likes to pick on Jeff, which pisses Jeff off so badly. But he can be serious when he needs to be, of course. He’s generally very mature.

• He’s definitely the most muscular and naturally strong out of everyone else. Mmmm..

• Ability wise, he has a slightly faster healing factor, improved strength, hearing, smell, more adrenaline, his teeth can become even longer and sharper, and he has three tongues that are impossibly long, which help him consume blood faster. He can control whether he wants those extra two tongues out though, otherwise they can’t all fit in his mouth!

Thats all I’ll share for now teehee, I have much more, I love EJ 😍💙🩸💉

[theorphicangel]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭 | 𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

wc: 1.8k

tags: heian era!sukuna, true form! sukuna, reader is a villager and wears a kimono, gn!reader, mentions of cannibalism (brief), eventual fluff, strangers to lovers??, threat of death, reader has a sense of humor, reader risks life for a peach (real),

synopsis: stumbling in a random field, the gods have granted you the luxury of discovering a rare peach tree and it's all yours for the takings. at least that's what you're mistaken to think before you're confronted by the king of curses himself. coming close to death, you're forbidden to ever return.

it's just a shame you're incapable of listening to rules.

part 2 | part 3 | bonus scene coming soon!

Part one: A commandment.

The sweltering heat was getting to you.

Your kimono sticks to your skin causing nothing but discomfort as you continue to aimlessly wander in the field. At your ankles, tall blades of grass tickle at your skin with every step. You were wasting time as per usual; slacking off from your work with the excuse that you needed some fresh air. 

Originally, you planned to disappear for five minutes. But five minutes soon turned into ten and then twenty and before you knew it two hours had passed when you found yourself standing in a random field on the outer edge of your village. 

What you wanted to derive from your walk was discovering a new species of flowers. Specifically for Miko, a little girl in your village. She wasn’t much older than five years but you’ve recently been taking her under your wing whilst her parents carry out work within the village. 

Taking a wrong turn on your path you ended up wandering onto an open field where an array of flowers greeted you. Unfortunately, the sea of dandelions, daisies and bluebells were not new to your eyes. Letting out a sigh of disappointment you made to turn back, returning empty handed before your eyes landed on something in the distance.

A peach tree.

Small and lone, it was almost easy to miss to the naked eye – merely mistaking it to be a regular tree as  the shades of  greenery seamlessly blend in together. But shades of scarlet orange seemed to catch your attention and with curiosity filling you up by the second, an impulse drew you closer towards your target. 

The rays of the sun beamed happily at you as you make your way, the material of your attire once again proving unfit for the current summer weather. Fortunately, by the time you reached the tree the heavy leaves and cool grass provided respite from the severe wave of heat.

Observing the tree, it leans over you with a slight slant where a plethora of ripe peaches hang from the branches. They vary in sizes and colors: some a little more scarlet than others, some greater in size and some naturally misshapen but nonetheless it has your mouth watering at the mere sight.

Peaches were considered to be a luxury within your village where only those who were wealthy could afford them through trading from other nearby villages and towns. No one in your hometown had the time nor the money to consider growing peaches naturally, the seeds often hard to obtain.

But now this luxury was a mere arm stretch away. They hang loosely above your head, cruelly taunting you. 

It wouldn’t hurt to take one, would it? Looking around, you see no one around for miles. Just a vast space of greenery and mother nature as your witness. Based on your observation you conclude that the tree doesn’t necessarily belong to anyone, it stands alone and unattended. The peaches seemed to be more than ready for harvest. If someone did own the tree then surely the peaches would have been picked by now. 

A plump peach sits perfectly in your eyesight – ripe and juicy and scarlet orange. It practically tempts you to reach out and take it. After walking for over an hour, it’s no surprise that your hunger has taken the best of you and a mere rumble from your stomach confirms it all. 

Still hesitant, your fingertips reach out. Your movements are slow and cautious in fear that someone would catch you in the act. In a blink, the peach is plucked from the branch with a small green leaf attached to the stem. 

With the ripe fruit finally in your palm, all fear and hesitation leaves your body as swift as a breeze. As soon as your lips wrap around the succulent a sweet yet tangy flavor hits your tongue, addictive from the very first bite.

 It’s rare to find peaches within the village. A true luxury for those who can afford it when it’s in season. The last time you recall indulging in this treat was during your childhood yet it was harvested too early, made clear by the  bitter sour taste which  eventually threw you off the summer fruit ever since.

But this was pure nectar. Sweet and tender, you can’t help but let the juices run down the sides of your mouth. With sudden hunger,  you devour the fruit in mere minutes leaving nothing but the stone behind. You wipe your mouth diligently, getting rid of all traces of evidence. 

But you weren’t satisfied.

A few branches upwards, you spot a peach of a similar size. The perfect shade of orange and red combined. Just a mere glance was enough to get your mouth watering again, your thirst unquenched. 

Reaching, you resort to standing on your tippy toes to pull the peach away from its native home. With confidence, you bite down as soon as you obtain your treasure where the identical taste of pure nectar makes its home on your tastebuds once again.

Almost half finished, you make a mental note to return to this very tree and bring a basket, perhaps you could take some for the whole—

“Are you aware that you are currently trespassing on my grounds?”

A voice came out of nowhere. Rough and low and obtaining a certain sharpness in tone that  your entire body freezes. Like a crashing wave, your blood turns cold. The grip on your peach now loosened causing the summer fruit to fall to the grass with a light thud.

Following, you drop to your knees and bow your head.

You don’t have to see the figure to know who exactly the voice belongs to. His aura is enough.

Menacing and murderous it makes your heart stop momentarily, your lungs stop providing you oxygen and all heat leaves your body, leaving your blood to run cold. Your heartbeat thumps so loudly in your ear that you don’t even hear the words which leave your lips.

“My Lord.”

You had never personally come across the king of curses in your lifetime but the rumors and stories spread within the village were enough to keep you away from the estate. Stories of murder, violence and even cannibalism had reached your ears. No one in the village dared to step foot near the estate unless absolutely necessary. For example, trade or to make an offering.

“I asked you a question. I advise you to not make me repeat myself.”

“Y-yes my Lord.” You cringed heavily at your stutter, unable to get your throat to clear up from the sudden fright of his presence. “I made a mistake, my Lord, I was not aware I was trespassing.”

“Well, you are aware now.”

“Yes.” your voice shook. “And you have my deepest and most sincere apologies. It won’t happen again.” You swallow thickly, letting a pause carry through the sweltering summer heat. “Please spare me my life, your Lord.”

“What was that?”

“Spare me my life, your Lord, I beg of you.”

He was exactly what the rumors described. A tall, massive figure towering over you. Tinted pink hair sticks to his forehead, a cause of the summer heat. There’s nothing but pure muscle gazing at you through the black drape loosely thrown over his shoulders. Black tattoos decorate his body, designed to perfect symmetry. It would be impossible to ignore the four arms which crossed over his broad chest or the four eyes which peer down at you in pure disgust.  He was on a different level to you, completely different. 

He was a monster.

“I didn’t give you permission to look at me.”

You duck your head with inexplicable speed.

Sweat drips down your nose, trailing to the top of your lips. Your hands are glued to the soil and blades of grass tickle at your nostrils. Your fingertips dig into the soil searching for some sort of security. Traces of brown mud enter your fingernails as you tense, waiting for the first moment of pain. 

He was going to kill you. 

He was going to kill you all because you took the wrong path. 

You were going to die because of your mindless wandering and lack of awareness that you were heading in the direction of Lord Sukuna’s estate. You were going to die because you decided to slack off from your work and not return when needed.  You were going to die all because you were curious about a peach tree and grew greedy. You should’ve been satisfied after eating your first yet instead you stayed long enough to be sentenced to death.

You were going to die and it was all your fault. Bile rises up your throat at the thought, goosebumps running across your arms. You squeeze your eyes shut as silence passes often interrupted by the rustle of greenery surrounding you.

A minute soon passes and then another before you gulp heavily. 

Was he going to kill you or not?  

You beg for him to get it over and done with, hoping for your death to be quick and painless. You offer up a silent prayer for your family. Thankfully he didn’t ask you to state your family meaning that they would be safe. 

As long as the king of curses  didn’t hurt them or anyone in the village, you’d be glad to die.

Still crouched over, you await the moment. 

But it never comes. 

Instead, what happens yet seems completely out of the ordinary.

“You may rise.”

What?

Did you hear correctly? No, no, no– you must have misheard. You must have.

“I won’t repeat myself.” Sukuna announces gruffly. 

Holy shit.

Shaking, you manage to make it to your feet maintaining your balance. The front of your kimono is stained with brown dirt but that worry is barely at the forefront of your mind. Instead, you wonder why on earth you weren’t killed.

 No words are able to leave your lips, your throat clogged up. Sukuna merely glances at you with disinterest, his stance unchanged. 

Finally, after a minute, your lips seem able to work and you get your words out.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?”

He glances at you as if he had forgotten you were standing right there in front of him. That’s how insignificant you were.

“I don’t waste my energy on pathetic little nuisances like you.” His voice is loud and thick with dislike for you. His voice drops a few octaves before announcing a threat. 

“If I find you on my estate once again without my permission I won’t hesitate to take the life you so rightfully begged to keep, understood?”

A breath hitches in your throat. 

“I understand, my Lord, thank you.” You bow your head once more to show the utmost respect.

A silence creeps in and suddenly all of nature disappears. A witness to your trial with near death, the leaves on the peach tree fail to rustle and the once chirping birds submit to an eerie silence. Goosebumps rise over your skin once more, your body still cold from Sukuna’s deadly aura. The heat you were once complaining of is now a distant memory.

“I’ll give you ten seconds to disperse off my property. Ten–”

You’ve never taken off faster in your entire life.

reblogs and comments are much appreciated. thank you for reading!!

part 2 here!

[forsaken-headcanons]

I had a simple idea: what if the survivors and killers swapped roles? And that idea proceeded to snowball into a full-blown yap sesh. I’m so silly when it comes to Forsaken, y’all 😋

(This is a VERY long post, so it’s been split up into two sections. Hope you don’t mind, mod!)

“KILLERS”

Noob - Picture a lone noob, lost in the spectre’s domain. No food. No shelter. Nothing. They finally come across another survivor…or should I say sustenance. That’s right. I took Noob’s whole ‘eating snacks’ thing and turned them into a cannibal. How fun! ☺️ Kind-of takes the role of Jason with a hint of Guest 666? That comment will probably change when 666 comes out, but for now, their kit revolves around tracking down survivors one by one. They can turn mostly invisible for a short period, too.

Chance - Two Face with a touch of Jigsaw. Gambling has completely overtaken his life, with his favourite being betting on lives. Never his, of course. And gods forbid he loses… Doesn’t really take the role of anyone. They specialize in ranged attacks, but he has a melee attack, too. He still has the coin flip, but it’s used to give him a random effect (can be anything from speed I to blindness III) and the only way to get rid of said-abilities is Hat Fix. But use it wisely, as that gets rid of the good abilities, too. The only way to earn bullets is by hitting survivors. He can store a max of 3, just like before. No misfiring (🎉), but the gun attack is probably hella telegraphed.

Guest 1337 - Gotta love a corrupt police officer! Well, soldier. But still- I regretfully can’t say who this guy’s main inspiration was, but I can imagine him working closely with Builderman to enact their shared (and crooked) sense of justice. His gameplay loop revolves around running down + stunning survivors. He doesn’t need to block to do a punch anymore. Instead, his block will actually give brief slowness + a highlighted aura to anyone foolish enough to hit him while it’s active. His punch (still) has a delay, but considering how it stuns survivors, I’d say it’s worth it.

Two Time - So obsessed with death/rebirth, they drove themselves mad and proceeded to go on a killing spree to ‘share this truth amongst the nonbelievers’. Mildly inspired by the Cult of the Lamb bishops, and takes the role of Jason (aka the free killer). Bro just runs around with a dagger lol. Though they have a considerably low health pool for a killer, TT makes up for it by gaining access to their second life form upon dying. They move much faster while in this state, so it’s actually advised to NOT stun them all willy-nilly, lest you unintentionally buff the killer.

Elliot - Hell hath no fury like an overworked minimum wage employee. Elliot had enough, and now EVERYONE’S gonna pay for it. Especially vengeful towards c00lkidd, and would play a special theme upon him being the last survivor. Sort of takes the role of John Doe? I mean- he revolves around dropping poisoned pizzas/other pizza-themed traps to slow down and weaken survivors.

Builderman - Oh, shoot! He has his banhammer! Oh no! He’s using it on everyone! Builderman believes that his ticket out of here involves purging the spectre’s domain of evil…but has since developed the morality of a corrupt judge. How lovely! As previously mentioned, he works closely with Guest 1337 to achieve his goals. A mix between John Doe and c00lkidd. He still builds machines, but they act like motion sensors for the most part.

Shedletsky - A self-proclaimed master swordsman, with an ego to match. Shed let the power of being an admin get to his head. He’s the most important person in the room, and will strike down anyone who says otherwise. Takes the role of 1x1x1x1. He’d use different SFOTH swords to do different attacks (Venomshank for basic swinging, Icedagger for Entanglement, Darkheart for Mass Infection,  Illumina for Unstable Eye, and Ghostwalker for Rejuvenate the Rotten). Oh, and someone snatched his chicken. I wonder who? 🤔 

007n7 - Slightly inspired by Bacon General from The Last Guest, this version of 07 wasn’t quite ready to retire, even when a baby was left on his doorstep. If anything, a child meant that he could pass down his skills to someone else. And thus he continued to reign chaos all around him, all the while pressuring his son to do the same. As a killer, he still uses scripts and exploits to give him an unfair advantage. Takes the role of c00lkidd, and uses the same moves as OG kidd for the most part. Instead of summoning clones, he instead teleports to the closest survivor (which briefly stuns him upon arriving, just to nerf it a little).

— Respawn Anon

I think you absolutely cooked on all of these. Specifically Guest 1337, Shedletsky and Builderman. These are so creative.

[diejager]

Ok but like what about Wendigo reader? Maybe the team knows she's not exactly human but maybe in her file it just marked n/a and leaves it at that so they just assume that their sweet little medic is just a helpful spirit of some kind. Humans tend to give her a very wide birth since they seem to notice her as something they should leave the fuck alone, the boys just assume it's because of them always being near her and leave it at that. Till they're all on a mission and it all goes to shit, they're pinned down and then one of them ends up taking a bullet and reader just straight up fuckin losses it and next thing they know their is a 10 ft tall fuckin deer monster shredding bitches like their made of PAPER MACHE and EATING THEM, once the dust settles it moves towards them and slowly it shifts into their sweet medic but she is covered in blood and she just casually starts treating their wounds and the team is just like "Well mark me down as scared and horny" (if this makes no sense feel free to ignore)

Stag

Pairing: Monster 141 + Horangi & König x Wendigo!reader

Cw: cannibalism, human eating, greed, blood, canon-typical violence, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 2k (A/N): I felt a bit burnt out so I’m sorry if it’s bad, I reread it just in case, but it still feels bad.

They say that human greed is the source of evil, the all-consuming hunger for more —more than they need. Hunger drives humans to do the unspeakable, to break the line humanity had drawn and commit the taboo. Despite it being carved so deeply into the human psyche, passed down from generation to generation and the propaganda of humanism and equality, it doesn’t take much to make someone tip over, cross the edge nobody dared to and perform the unspeakable. Possession causes needs and needs cause greed.

That’s why people called to him for help, to carry out a clandestine mission to do their dirty work, his duty was to stop whatever men in power started, whatever men in power lost control —he was the one sent when they were scared. Fear was as coercive as power was. That was the reason Task Force 141 was first founded, to stop dangerous men like Hassan (Gaz remembered hearing from Soap that Ghost shot Hassan through the head, straight through him before he slumped down.) and Makarov, a man they were still searching for while signing a liaison contract with KorTac. Price, with Laswell’s help, managed to put the best of the best together: a wraith, a werewolf, a dragon, a harpy, a nagual and a cadejos vessel, all decorated with various medals for their work, and then there was you.

You were a mystery, even to Price who usually had clearance for anyone who joined them. Gaz knew, from a single glance, that you were far from human, you were a monster like Ghost was, turned after an occasion, or a hybrid like him. Surprisingly, Ghost seemed to welcome you warmly, albeit standoffish, having worked with you in the past, seeing that you both preferred working alone. Gaz wanted to show you the same heartwarming welcome as Ghost had, but there was something about you, an uneasiness he felt when he was around you. The others felt it as well, the innate need to keep their distance from you and the instinctual fear that had the hairs on their arms raised. Gaz could feel your eyes whenever you stared at him, like the eyes of a predator stalking its prey —it made him feel perturbed.   

You seemed so human, yet so inhuman-like, your dull, thousand-yard stare, your inability to feel temperature (either cold or warm, you always wore the same clothes), your odd habits and your unusual calmness in every situation. Gaz had caught you staring at a private for much longer than what people considered normal, eyes glazed over and dilated as if you were seeing something else, daydreaming while being aware of your surroundings. Those were your moments, you were usually bubbly, always smiling at him whenever his eyes met yours or treating him with gentleness and always eager to help him. You had a softness to your being despite the eerie feel to you and your unique tendencies, you didn’t discriminate, nor did you show an ounce of hate towards hybrids and humans, treating everyone fairly. 

Although you tried to fit in as best as you could, there were things that Gaz and the others just couldn’t shake off without questioning things. There was the lingering scent of blood on you, a metallic tang that stuck on his tongue after you walked by. König and Soap had confessed that they had a feeling that blood was a part of your scent, unwashable and impossible to hide, it clung to you like a second skin. They chalked it up to you being the Task Force’s medic, having brought people back from the brink of death and stitching men back together, you were practically bathed in the smell of blood and death every day. 

Another thought was that they never saw you in the Mess hall for food, perhaps a cup of tea or a hot mug of coffee to boost you through a long shift in the infirmary as the base’s main medic if you weren’t deployed with them. Gaz never saw you eat, not once had he seen you hold a plate or bowl with substance for yourself. You would bring either of them a plate, caring for them whenever they were under your watch, giving them soup or anything that they could easily digest. 

Gaz, Soap, Rudy and Horangi would chatter about you, throwing speculations on your breed, to see what hybrid or monster fit all your characteristics. You couldn’t be a wraith, your hands weren’t painted with death, a dark miasma that clung to you. You weren’t a werewolf, Soap would know, wolves were able to smell and recognize each other, it was an instinctual aspect of him. You weren’t any shifting hybrid either, there would be signs, little cues if you were one, and your classification wouldn’t be classified, painted over with a red line. 

All they could was wonder and amble around with curiosity dripping from their tongues. Gaz was sure that he’d find out soon enough, whether it was an accident or your choice.

This wasn’t what Gaz meant by eventually, he didn’t mean being set up by Konni, a trap planted for them in the small Belgium town. It was the best set to box them in, a broken and ransacked ghost town that people fled from, walls greyed and cracked, the paint peeling off street lights and rusted metal poles, lost, forgotten and open. There didn’t have any cover, even if they ran and hid behind the crumbling walls, Konni had them surrounded on every end, concealed behind concrete walls and using the shadows to hide from sight. 

It was chaotic, Konni had pushed them into an open area of the town, the centrepiece of it with a dilapidated, Greek fountain, chipped on the sides and green with mould, Gaz would’ve admired the architecture and the beauty it must’ve been in the past when it was still being cared for. They were backed up in a corner, Gaz couldn’t even stretch his wings out with how tightly they were packed together, the uncomfortable pull of his trapezius and the strain in his limbs kept him grounded. The tension was thick, palpable, Gaz could taste it in the air as much as anyone could, their shoulders tense, fingers tapping the trigger of their rifles. All they could do was wait for Konni to act first, to see where they would appear from and work their way out of this open area from there. 

He had his back towards you, he couldn’t see you but he could feel you shake. It might’ve been from the adrenaline pumping through your veins or the nerve of being lied to, of falling into a trap when Ghost had voiced his suspicions about the lack of clearer intel. They were paying for their amateurism. He felt you shudder, breath stuttering, near panting with exhaustion. Gaz wanted to turn to you, words soothing your nerves and twitchy appearance, he acted letting drown in your mind, whatever it was, he hated it. His finger twitched on the trigger, jolting at the sudden crack of bones, an ugly and painful sound that made him wince. It shocked everyone, even the ever so silent and stoic Ghost who had a hard time hearing these cracks coming from you.

Damn this mission; damn the trap; damn this situation, Gaz needed to look at you, to see why your bones were breaking and limbs rattling. Instinctively, his wings shifted to cover you, the ends widening to cover your sides to protect you from whatever pained you, yet you didn’t let out a single squeak, no moan of pain or the grunt of suffering, you were silent. A part of his mind nagged at him to move, he could fly and try to outrun Konni mercenaries to find a way out, but then he’d leave your back open. He cursed lowly, teeth sinking into his lower lip in frustration, he was-

A loud screech thundered through the air, and screams and squelches followed it. You were missing. 

You were shaking just a second ago, body wracked with some unknown ailment and the next, you were missing, your sack, attire, rifle and helmet were scattered on the ground, with a bony creature tearing through Konni ranks. The hair on his neck rose, an uneasy feeling overtaking him as he watched the creature rip men in half, tines stabbing through their torso like a buck fighting another, head lowered and antlers pointed forward. He watched the tall and thin monster move around, its face was one of a deer’s skull, eaten clean of skin and flesh, any muscle or fibre gone with whatever transformation it took. A crown of antler adorned its head, tall and imposing, as pale as its skull, a coat of black fur was wrapped around the neck, draping down the back like a ridge of fur. 

“Fuck,” Gaz hissed, his body moving along the chaos the being created and your disappearance, he aimed his rifle and shot at the Russians who ran out of their hiding, fearful of the monster’s sudden arrival behind their ranks. “Captain! Is that-?”

“Don’t know anymore!” Price seemed to be as lost as Gaz was, reining in his confusion to focus on taking Konni out. “Keep your head in the game, Gaz; ask questions later.”

Gaz knew Price was right, the town was brimming with Russian ultranationalists, hiding and waiting for their time to jump at them. The situation was still chaotic, but it was better than being without cover. Gaz followed Horangi behind a wall, watching his back while they worked through the humans.

Somehow, Konni either retreated or were all dead, swallowed down by the beast that stood before them. Now that Gaz was standing so close to it - to you, after a few minutes of talking back and forth, they concluded that this was you from the pants that hung from your slim hips - he could see that the deer skull was just a mask covering your face, black and unidentifiable with those bright, gleaming eyes that stared down at him. Despite your curved back, bent to look at them, you towered over everyone, even König seemed small beside you, limbs almost as long as you, fingers tipped with blood that you were still licking off, a long tongue wrapped around your digit to clean yourself from blood, muscle and guts. 

You were casually cleaning yourself up like a cat washing, even in the aircraft, you were gorging on the body of a man you picked up, jaw opening to show them the dozen of teeth before you clamped down on the forearm, tearing into the muscle with famished intent. None of them could take their eyes off you, their sweet, smiley medic who sometimes had their moments, devouring a man without batting an eye, obliviously uncaring of their staring. Gaz wasn’t sure if he knew how he felt, a warmth building up in his chest, a heat that seared into the fibres of his beings like an infectious thing. All they did was watch you eat, no one speaking until you finished your meal.

“Mind tell us what happened, Hunter?” 

You perked up, blinking at Price owlishly, tongue lolling out to lick up the stray drop of blood that stuck on your skull’s teeth. Your chest rumbled, a soft growl rolling off your body while you tilted your head, you acted so much like a feline, grooming, reacting and moving like a curious cat, dangerous, yet so appealing. 

“Wendigo,” you rasped, voice breathy and weak, you spoke in broken English, unable to speak fluently after turning, “Curse, eat human.”

Your little mannerism, the small tilt of your head and your fumbling hands, seemingly embarrassed or ashamed after your show of ruthless hunger and savagery was… eye-opening. Something stewed inside him, your being creating a ripple in his heart, pulling at the hunger in the depth of his gut. He was torn by the fear of having you as the potential enemy and the arousal of seeing you break men in half, painting the ground in crimson and guts, and satiating your hunger - craving - with human and monster flesh. 

Gaz was fucked, both in the head and the situation. 

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @mul-pi @danielle143 @virginalsacrifice

[priyajoyy]

Home

Just straight up bunny physiological torture and angst icl 😭

Also havnt even watched the episode yet lmao so soz if some of this doesn’t make sense contextually

Bunny 🤝 collecting parental figures that are gonna inevitably die

Warnings:

Normal Yellowjackets stuff, murder, blood, gore, cannibalism, trauma, abuse, abusive relationships, dark characters, trauma responses, Stockholm syndrome tbh…

“Hi”

It was a small squeak that caught Hannah off guard, if she hadn’t have been paying attention she wouldn’t have even heard it.

Bunny had practically snuck up on the older woman, her footsteps light and silent as her bare feet tiptoed towards her.

Two eyes started at the young girl, who stood infront of her fidgeting and restless, the anxiety radiating off of her.

Bunny avoids eye contact with the brunette, one of akilahs bunnies clutched tightly in her arms like she’s afraid to let go of it.

“I brought you some water” she mutters, almost a whisper, using her spare hand to pass some sort of wooden cup full of water to her.

Hannah takes it, but only eyes it uncertainly, making bunny squirm in her place even more, her legs moving every few seconds like she couldn’t stay still.

“It’s clean…we boil it to get rid of the germs” bunny tries to reassure her, not getting much of a response.

Elizabeth sniffles, pulling the bunny that she had named Maggie after her mother, closer to her, letting her get more comfortable against her chest.

“Um…I’m bunny” the blonde tries to tell the other woman, her voice soft and uncertain as they hold eye contact once again.

Hannah watches the teen, taking her in from her place sat on the floor.

The blonde girl looked terrified, wearing the closest to normal clothes she’d seen compared the to some of the strange outfits the others were wearing.

She had on a ratty looking hoodie that swallowed the girl, the sleeves covering her arm that clutched the bunny, and long floral pyjama bottoms, all hannah could see was a scared little kid.

They all looked so young really, but this girl more so than some of the others.

She can’t help but eye the girls face, taking note of the mark on her cheek that looked like some sort of healing bruise, the cuts and rips that lie on her lips, and as she looked down, the cuts lining her neck and parts of her arms she could see, resembling bite marks.

Hannah gives her the closest she could to a small reassuring smile, softly asking, “bunny?”

“U-um Elizabeth really…” the girl says, her lips catching between her teeth, “but everyone calls be bunny”

Hannah only smiles, deciding that this girl wasn’t so much a risk as some of the others, patting the ground by her as an invitation to sit, “I’m Hannah”

She took her invitation hesitantly, sitting slowly with her bunny still in her lap, stroking it to ease her own anxieties.

“And you have your own bunny” the woman tries to joke, a slight laugh as she notices the blondes anxieties easing, even if it was just a tiny bit.

Bunny smiles a little, continuing her strokes of Maggie in her spot now sat cross legged across from the woman.

“They’re akilahs really…” bunny responds softly, her voice quiet as she speaks, breaking for a moment before continuing, “but I help her with the animals sometimes…this is Maggie”

“You guys have more animals out here?” Hannah asks with a confused voice, trying to gage the whole situation.

Nothing she had seen or heard about these girls so far had made any sense, more so the strange ritualistic activities they had walked in on, where what looked like one of their leaders, killed Edwin.

She remembered seeing bunny then too, the tears streaming down her face as they all screamed, and the terror in her eyes as she rushed towards Edwin when he fell to the ground, axe in the back of his head.

If she had stayed any longer she would have seen the blonde hurriedly trying to shove the man’s organs and blood back into his body in an attempt to save him, and their way home.

“Um yeah…” bunny said with a small uncertain smile, her voice growing less tense talking about the animals, “we found them at the beginning of spring, we have a goat too”

The woman can’t help but frown at the blonde teen, watching her hug the bunny close and smile about the animals.

She looked so young…

“Do…” bunny started, voice little as she looks away from the woman again. She tucked some hair behind her ear, before turning back to Hannah, his eyebrows furrowed a little.

“Do you think you could get us home?” Bunny whispered, like someone could appear and shoot her down for saying the words.

Hannah doesn’t know what to say. What can she say? She wants to reassure this girl, to tell her she would get them back to wherever they came from. But she didn’t want to lie.

She didn’t want to say how she truly felt, that she thought herself as dead as Edwin was now they had practically imprisoned her, her guide too as soon as one of them catch him.

“Because we didn’t want your friend to die!” Bunny says in a rush, panicking at the older woman’s lack of response.

“I promise, we didn’t know Lottie would do that…” she continued, desperately trying to tell the woman, “w-we just wanna go home i swear”

“How…how did you guys get out here?” Hannah asked in confusion, slightly avoiding the blondes questions.

The younger girl eyed her for a minute, clearly hesitant to speak.

“We were in a plane crash” she says softly, sighing slightly as she retold their story, “we were on our way to nationals for school…um we’re on the soccer team”

Hannah wasn’t sure what to say, she could remember the story slightly, all over the news a year ago about a group of teens and their coaches having disappeared on their flight, probably dead.

They were out here this long?

“From New Jersey?” The brunette asks hesitantly, making bunny’s eyes light up.

“Y-yeah! Wiskayok! Have you heard about us?? Do you know how my parents are?!” She starts rambling out in a rush, “Does everyone think we’re dead?”

“I um…” Hannah starts, unsure what to address first.

The blonde stares her down, wide eyed with a faint look of hope on her face at getting some sort of answers about he outside world.

Hannah hated to break that hope.

“I don’t know much about it…but um” the brunette didn’t know what to say, she didn’t want to lie, she wasn’t even sure what exactly would comfort Elizabeth, what could she say that would make it better?

“I’m sure your parents are ok” she says in a softer voice, “I would have seen if something happened I’m sure…”

The blonde nods slightly at her words, biting her lip again in thought as they settle into a somewhat comfortable silence.

“I just wanna go home…” the blonde whispered, looking up at Hannah again, her eyes wide and a little glassy, “I miss my parents”

Hannah’s frown deepened.

“But, you and your friend…you’re going to go home at some point aren’t you? We…we could come with you” bunny continued hesitantly.

“I don’t even know where kodiak is…” Hannah said unsure, “and…our phone broke…”

Elizabeth’s eyes watered a little more in panic, staring at Hannah and clutching her bunny even harder in panic.

“B-but…you can take us home right?” Bunny stutters almost desperately, her voice breathless as she stares at Hannah wide eyed.

“I-I don’t know…” the older woman responded hesitantly.

“Please?!” Bunny continues anxiously, her breathing getting more ragged, “you have to get us home!”

Hannah swallows, watching as the young girl gets more panicked, her breathing shaking and body restless.

“I’ll try” the brunette says with a sharp exhale of breath, “I-i promise”’

Bunny only pulls her bunny up to her chest like a teddy bear, sniffling as she nods slowly.

Taglist

@homopheli

[2-dsimp]

.... I won't lie, the Soma post broke my heart.. But enough to make me want him to pay back.

Sooo given the case Soma's darling couldn't stand or survive the virus and just became a lifeless body. Imagine the angst in his eyes after the lucid moments once he realised what he had done. 👀

Or even worst if he could have some glimpses on his memory by the way his darling was trying to get on his senses, crying his name.

(Please don't blame for being petty, I know it's mean)😢

Yandere Zombie x survivor reader

Tw: heavy angst, gore, suicidal attempts, doomed lovers, cannibalism, no happy endings.

◣────•~❉᯽❉~•────◢

Your voice sounded like the pleasant chimes of bells ringing off in his head.

So mesmerizing, so distracting. He needed to ground himself before—

Crunch!

The zombie boy lost his train of thought. It was hard to keep his mind clear now that he was surrounded by the traces of his beloved, you.

For once, your undead boyfriend felt safe, secure, and warm. Now that he didn’t need to worry about finding you anymore. Since he caught you just like he warned you at long last.

But a couple minutes into y’all’s reunion he wondered why the melodic bells started to change in pitch…

Why now did it sound so shrill? Or did it always sound like that? Like sharp nails scraping against a chalkboard. It got louder, more desperate, every time he’d take a big—

Gulp!

Ah, his tunnel visions slowly clearing, come to think of it he never did take a good look at you. He was just too immersed in the feel of flesh coating his teeth… Wait. His teeth?

A cold tremor ran up his spine registering the taste of iron, the enticing aroma of honey mixed with raw meat. It reminded him how starved he was beforehand. But now, his hunger slowly diminished.

How odd he doesn’t recall catching prey, he was with you after all, his darling, the one he’d promise to cherish and hold. For life and death, but how could he do that if you were dying?—

And he was the cause.

Crunch!

The startling realization pulled him from the depths of his subconscious. And back to consciousness. Or better yet what was left of it.

Gods the bells, were just a trick of his imagination. Trying to divert him from the heart wrenching screams, of his name falling from your lips.

Looking down he mourned, seeing in full clarity the prey who was in his arms, wrenching, squirming, dying.

Soma hyperventilated.

He couldn’t handle the truth. Those eyes he reveled in revealed his reflection. A monster who ate his precious player 2, the one he claimed to protect, oh what a hypocrite he was.

Soma began dry heaving eyes flickering from the splotches of red coating his hands, his clothes, and you. He couldn’t even cry over the way you looked at him so tenderly. The guilt was tearing him up from the inside out.

Yet you still smiled, you were missing skin from your mouth. Chunks of your neck bitten off, you had stopped struggling moments ago accepting your fate. As you could only gaze up at him full of love and yearning.

You wept not for being devoured, but for how you knew he’d self destruct once you were gone.

Sure you had regrets but what better way to die in the apocalypse than to the one you loved the most? If only you could join him, but sadly the virus was privy to its hosts.

You weren’t eligible to be with him even in a half life. Nor could he be able to go to your side, since he couldn’t truly die. No matter how hard he tried.

Months from now on—

Survivors would see him, a ridiculous sight of a zombie deteriorating itself on purpose. Slumped against the a familiar place, your favorite cafe he took you to for a surprise date. Before the tragedy all began.

Seeing him clinging onto a shriveled up carcass that had no signs of infection.

They would never understand the whimpering croaks, coming from the zombie man. Trying to communicate with you, even though you were no longer there to listen.

Thus he was referred to as the lovelorn parasite.

Cursed to yearn for you till he withered into nothingness.