#u.s. navy shirt

[thespliffbunker]

[usarmytrooper]

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

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“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. “Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. “Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”

[infamous-light]

Captured Part IV

Dark! Wandanat x Villain/Mutant! F! Reader

Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3

AO3: Captured

Summary: You and your mutant friends have been in hiding due to the havoc you all wreaked over the past few years. One day, you all decided to make your presence known and rob one of the largest federal reserve banks in the U.S.

Unfortunately, things did not go as planned for you.

Word count: 2.3K

Warnings: Mind manipulation, kidnapping

The soft rays of the first morning light, like a delicate brushstroke, filtered through the curtains, creating a mesmerizing dance of shadows on the walls. The bedroom seemed to come alive with subtle warmth as if the sun itself was gently caressing the entire space. As you gradually opened your eyes, the bedroom came into focus, and the events of the past day lingered in the air like a dream, though their details were veiled behind some sort of invisible haze.

The beginnings of a headache had crept in as you tried to piece together the fragments of your recent memory. It was as if a fog had settled over your thoughts and each attempt to recall any details brought forth a dull throb across your temples.

As you continued to awaken, the ambient sounds from outside the bedroom window seeped into your awareness – the distant chirping of birds, the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the liquid melody of a nearby stream. The bright colors of the bedroom took on a dreamlike quality, with the pastel hues of the walls and furnishings appearing more vibrant.

Once you sat up in bed, the door creaked open, and Wanda entered with a warm smile on her face.

“Good morning. I hope you had a restful night." Her voice was pleasant but there was a subtle undertone of amusement that went unnoticed by you.

Your response was hesitant, your mind still grappling with the fog of confusion. "Good morning." You managed to mumble.

Wanda moved across the bedroom and sat down next to you on the bed.

"Such a sleepyhead," she teased, playfully tousling your hair. "Come on, rise and shine. There’s breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen, and I thought you might want to join us. Natasha’s currently setting the table.”

You blinked a few times, attempting to shake off the remnants of sleep. “Uh, yeah. I’ll join you two in a few minutes.”

“Ok, but don’t take too long. Breakfast won’t wait for you forever.” With that, she leaned in and planted a sweet, unexpected kiss on your right cheek.

The tenderness of it left you momentarily breathless as a cascade of emotions played out within you – surprise and a hint of vulnerability. Wanda’s lips curled into a smirk as she observed your reaction. Her fingers trailed over your cheek for a moment before she pulled away. She left the bedroom and closed the door on her way out. Only the subtle scent of her perfume lingered behind.

You snapped out of the daze you were in and swung your legs over the side of the bed, making your way to the bathroom. Once inside, the mirror revealed a face still marked by sleep. As you gazed at your reflection, something uneasy overcame you, a mysterious force shrouding the edges of your consciousness.

With a hesitant hand, you reached for the faucet, allowing a stream of cool water to spiral into the sink below. Your eyes met their own reflection once more, seeking answers to the discomfort that had settled low in your gut. You splashed water on your face, but it did little to dispel the nagging feeling that scraped against your mind like talons.

After finishing your morning routine and with your undergarments in place, you selected a plain navy blue shirt from a neatly organized wardrobe. Its soft fabric embraced your skin as you slipped it on. Next, you opted for a pair of comfortable grey sweatpants that you had stumbled upon while rifling through the drawers. Its snug fit provided the perfect balance between casual and relaxed.

Heading toward the kitchen, the savory aroma of sizzling bacon wafted through the air, its enticing fragrance mingling with the rich, buttery scent of eggs. It made your stomach growl in anticipation. Upon entering, your eyebrows rose at the spread before you.

On the porcelain plates, golden-brown pancakes were stacked high while each layer was adorned with a pat of melting butter. The edges of the pancakes boasted a perfect crispness while the centers promised a fluffy tenderness. Nestled beside the pancakes were eggs cooked to perfection – sunny-side up, their yolks like liquid sunshine ready to burst forth at the slightest prod. The bacon was also expertly prepared. Each strip exuded a smoky aroma that mixed well with the rest of the food. Completing the breakfast set, there was a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice placed in the middle of the table.

Wanda motioned for you to take a seat. "Come on. Sit with us.”

"I hope you like your eggs sunny side up." Natasha said, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

Grateful for the unexpected treat, you gave them a small smile as you sat down at the table. "This looks amazing. Thank you."

As you took your first bite, the eggs melted in your mouth, and the burst of flavors from the seasoning complemented the dish perfectly. You couldn't help but express your delight.

"This is incredible.”

Natasha smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”

After finishing a fulfilling breakfast, Wanda and Natasha exchanged glances with each other, seemingly satisfied that you had eaten everything on your plate.

Wanda, with a cheerful demeanor, suggested, “How about we all watch a movie together?”

Your lips curved into a genuine expression of joy and you nodded in excitement.

“Wonderful.” Wanda remarked.

The rest of the day settled into a subdued ambiance as the three of you found yourselves in the living room, nestled together on the plush couch that was littered with an assortment of cushions and throws.

Wanda sat on one end of the couch, leaning against the armrest while Natasha sat to your left, leaving you in the middle of the couch.

As the plot of the movie thickened, Natasha edged closer to you. Her movements were smooth and unassuming, yet the warmth emanating from her presence was palpable. In a tender moment, she playfully nudged your arm, silently expressing a desire for a closer connection.

You turned your head to face Natasha, meeting her eyes with a questioning look. Without a word, she scooted even closer and draped her arm around your shoulder, pulling you into her side. The comfort of her body drew you in and your head instinctively nestled in the crook of her neck, a position that felt surprisingly natural despite the unfamiliarity of the situation. Her fingers threaded through your hair and in that moment, time seemed to slow down.

Wanda noticed and couldn’t help but smile. Seizing the moment, she shifted closer, joining the cuddle session. Her touch added an extra layer of warmth.

Just as the movie reached a suspenseful climax, the room was interrupted by the sudden ringtone of Natasha's phone. The sound caused you to jump, your attention torn away from the TV screen. Natasha frowned, reaching for the phone in her jeans pocket. Its bright screen cast a brief glow against her features.

Without uttering a word, Natasha exchanged a knowing look with Wanda that left you puzzled. Natasha sighed and turned her gaze toward you.

"Stay here," Natasha said, her tone carrying both reassurance and a sense of urgency. "We'll be right back."

Wanda disentangled herself from you but not before giving your hand a quick, comforting squeeze and rose to her feet. They left the living room, leaving you alone on the couch. As Wanda and Natasha ventured down the hallway, their voices became muffled whispers.

With the movie still playing in the background, you made a valiant attempt to focus on the plot unfolding on the screen. However, your attention wavered, and an insatiable curiosity about the secretive phone call tugged at your thoughts. Unable to resist any longer, you kicked the many blankets off yourself and got up.

You made your way to the door, your hand grasping the cold metal handle. The hinges let out a faint creak as you eased it open. Silently, you stepped past the threshold, carefully closing the door behind you to avoid any unnecessary noise.

The soft carpet beneath your feet absorbed the slightest of sounds, turning each step into a near-silent dance across the floor. The hushed voices became more distinct as you approached the source. The sound seemed to originate from a room at the end of the hall, drawing you closer with each carefully placed step. Straining your ears, you could have sworn that your name was being said.

As you reached the partially open door, you peeked past the doorframe, catching a glimpse of Natasha engaged in a seemingly intense phone call. Natasha, her brow furrowed in concentration, held the phone to her ear while gesturing emphatically with her free hand. Wanda, on the other hand, leaned against a table, her keen eyes focused on a distant point in the room.

“I know, Steve!” Natasha’s tone was sharp, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. “As for now, Wanda and I have her under control. She’s not an immediate threat to anyone. Once we find out where the rest of her friends are, we’ll send her over to you, alright?”

You stand frozen in disbelief as Natasha's words rang in your ears, her voice slicing right through you like an icy blade. The revelation sent shivers down your spine, and a knot tightened in the pit of your stomach. You searched for some sign that this was all some twisted joke, but Natasha's unwavering gaze and the gravity in her words crushed any hope of that.

Your mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. Just then, a wave of disorientation hit you like a two-ton truck. Your immediate surroundings, once stable, seemed to warp around the edges. It was as if reality itself was playing tricks on your mind.

Wanda's face materialized right before you. A cruel smirk aimed directly at you.

Swirling magnetic red emanated from her eyes. The intensity of her gaze pierced through the very fabric of your being.

Then, in the shadowy backdrop, a black mass shifted behind Wanda.

Natasha now stood above you, her presence casting a chilling shadow. Her gaze was cold, devoid of any warmth as she stared down at you.

“You’ll never break me!”

A voice rang out. It sounded familiar but you struggled to place it.

“We’ll see.”

The response was murmured. Calculated.

The hallway around you seemed to spin as you were brought back to the present. The abrupt transition had you struggling to regain your bearings and you clung to the nearby wall for support. The relentless surge of pain that radiated from your skull intensified with each passing moment and you clamped a trembling hand over your mouth, desperate to stifle the pained groan threatening to escape.

You didn’t want to alert Natasha and Wanda of your presence, uncertain about how they would react to you eavesdropping on their conversation.

A frustrated huff sounded from the room and your attention snapped back to the two women once more. Natasha placed the phone back in her pocket as she began to pace back and forth.

“I should’ve known Steve was going to find out sooner than later.” Natasha muttered, her voice tinged with a mix of exasperation and concern.

“I’m guessing someone at HQ snitched on us.” Wanda said with a roll of her eyes.

“Yeah, and he’s pretty adamant about having her confined under their supervision. His reasoning is that he wants to expedite her trial.” Natasha explained, her irritation palpable as she paused in the middle of the room.

“We can’t let that happen.”Wanda asserted as she took a step closer to the assassin.

“I know.”

Wanda's brow furrowed as she stood there, deep in thought, the gears of her mind turning with a cunning intensity. A few seconds had passed before Wanda's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as a devious idea took shape in her head.

“I have an idea,” she said. "Let’s fake her death.”

Natasha, intrigued, arched a curious eyebrow at her. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

Your eyes widened at her words and apprehension began to churn in your gut. The air felt charged with an unsettling energy.

"How about we arrange for her to be transported in one of those high-security prisoner trucks. During the transfer, we stage a crash – nothing too crazy, just enough to make it look fatal. We'll have emergency services and the media involved, creating a narrative that she died in the accident." Wanda continued, her mind already working out the intricate details. "We can use the chaos and confusion to discreetly move her to where we want, away from prying eyes.”

Natasha sighed as she folded her arms across her chest. “They’re not going to buy that. S.H.I.E.L.D is too skeptical and you can bet they'll dig deep into the details.” The room fell into a thoughtful silence, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of her fingers against her bicep.

“Then what should we do?” Wanda asked.

"What if we let her escape?" Natasha suggested, her gaze narrowing with intent. “You could use your powers to create an illusion, make it look like she died by your hand.”

"That's risky." Wanda said in a measured tone. "But it's doable."

“Good. We can discuss the details later.” Natasha concluded. “We should get back to her and see how she’s doing.”

A sense of uneasiness lodged itself in the pit of your stomach as you moved away from the door. The hallway seemed like it was closing in on you. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe.

Natasha and Wanda weren’t what they seemed. It became evident that their sweet demeanor was a mask, concealing intentions and motives that were far from benevolent.

A decision loomed – you needed to get out of here.

[nihonio]

Character Summary: REX TURNER

FULL NAME

Rex Turner

ALIAS • "Pyro" (callsign) • Lab rat (general), manwhore (general) • The brit guy (by Víctor), weirdo (by Víctor)

AGE • 25-27 (beginning) • 35+ (current)

DATE OF BIRTH • October 23rd

PLACE OF BIRTH • [CENSORED], Cheshire, England.

NATIONALITY • British

TRAINING

Royal North Adshill Institute, Great Britain. Specialization in Chemistry.

Royal College of Military Engineering, British Army training. Specialization in Chemical Warfare Countermeasures.

Advanced Training Course for the Special Air Service (SAS).

Active training at the SCP Foundation, Mobile Task Force Beta-7 ("Maz Hatters"). Specialization in Analytical Chemistry and Anomalous Procedures.

RELEVANT EXPERIENCE

Operation "Green Door." British SAS in coordination with the SASR. 20██.

Joint operation with U.S. Marine division. Classified location.

Anti-terrorist operation in collaboration with the MI6. Several European countries, 20██.

SPOKEN LANGUAGES

• English (main) • Portuguese (second language) • French (limited)

PSYCHOLOGICAL REPORT

Reading the previous interviews of Agent Rex "Pyro" Turner did not truly prepare me for the experience it was going to be to actually have one firsthand. The psychological profile of the agent is characterized by the predominance of a choleric temperament… To say the least. It seems that the previous specialists had to write their reports trying to keep the best possible tone, as I found out after our first session.

His background suggests a family environment of financial difficulty, which is why he enlisted as soon as he finished his studies, in order to pay for his university studies on chemistry and to be able to prosper. Several years in the Navy and his talent for science earned him a place in the SAS. Despite his accomplishments, he says he never felt entirely comfortable with his ranks; he was too eccentric and rebellious for the liking of his superiors and frequently clashed with them.

The first time I asked him about how he got his scar, he told me it was because of a lab incident. I was about to check the records on the alleged incident, until he started laughing and told me the real reason. The way he joined the Foundation was just as turbulent as the way he joined the military. He was hospitalized for several months in one of our hospitals, after defending himself against the Type Blue that caused the distinctive mark I had asked about. (Honestly, I've seen plenty of burn scars throughout my life, and this one is definitely different from the rest).

Behaving exceptionally well right after the attack, he was offered a position as an agent once his recovery was complete. His general knowledge of science, specifically chemistry, led him to join the Beta-7 task force seamlessly. He said that he was paired with agent Marcelo Oliveira ("Marcelinho") several times during the operations, and that they generally got along well in their work.

He currently seems to be comfortable doing what he does, and there are no reports of clashes or difficulties with other agents, at least within his time working at the Foundation, that have come to my attention. It seems that, after all the bumps in his road, he was finally able to find where he belongs.

— Dr. William T. Falcone, Department of Psychology.

-----

APPEARANCE Black-haired male, 175cm, weighing about 78kgs (172lbs). Fair skinned, slightly tanned. Notorious burn scar covering about 1/3 of the body, from the upper forehead down to the left tensor. Usually seen donning v-neck shirts and relatively tighter clothing. Posseses a tattoo depicting a white sword (Excalibur), pointing down with a pair of wings representing the Special Air Service logo located the bicep region of the right arm. — Surg. Steffano Damiano González, SHRP Head.

STORY SUMMARY Due to his family's declining economic situation, at the age of 16 he decided to enlist in the Royal Navy in order to pay for his higher education. Upon completion of his secondary studies, he entered the Army Foundation College in Harrogate, majoring in Chemical Engineering. Upon reaching the age of majority, he formally enlisted into the Common Military Curriculum, where he received his nickname “Pyro” due to his habitual habit of burning himself slightly while soldering pieces of military equipment. Eventually, through specialized education he would attain a degree in Chemical, Biological, Radioactive and Nuclear defense awarded by the Royal School of Military Engineering Group (RSME).

Having completed the course and received his commission as an officer, he decided to further his role in the navy by going through the basic special operations course and joining the special group British Air Service (SAS) after a couple of years of service. While there, he managed to achieve the role of High Mountain Specialist serving in Troop 19 of the 22nd SAS. Over the years and with the growing problem of domestic terrorism, he was moved to the counter terrorism unit where he was able to put into practice his in-depth knowledge of CBRN defense as applied to metropolitan environments.

A subsequent incident within the unit led to Specialist Turner being placed on standby, taking him out of the field for an extended period of time. These events occurred during an emergency deployment requested in response to a possible terrorist attack. Operator Turner's squad encountered a pyromantic threat without understanding the actual nature of the threat (anomalous). Due to miscommunication and poor operating conditions within the deployment, Rex ended up neutralizing the entity on his own, but suffered third and second degree burns to approximately one third of his body. He was hospitalized in the intensive care unit at Site-44, where he was subsequently offered a position within Beta-7 due to his extensive history of expertise in the subject matter of interest, supporting the Chemistry Department in the development of new technologies focused on containment.

ADDITIONAL READING: SHRP series hub written by me and oniricshogunsoldier

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Photo Finish

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader

Description: I don't really have words for this. @desert-fern and I were chatting about Hangman thots. And this spilled out of my brain.

Warnings: This is just porn. Porn with Plot. Consume at your own risk.

Word Count: 6484

A/N: This is dedicated to @desert-fern, @dakotakazansky and @horseshoegirl! Read and enjoy the thots my darlings!

AO3: Cross-posted Here!

Wattpad: Cross-posted Here!

It is an unforgiving job, working as a photographer. You'd been all over the world taking pictures for exposes, portraits of world leaders, and scenery. You could name a print material with a portrait on the cover and say you'd taken a picture of that kind. 

It's your first time in New York after six months of working on assignment after assignment for your agency when you're called into your boss’s office and ordered to get a studio ready. You're expecting a shot with supermodels or perfumes. Hell, you've even taken photos of cans of dog food. You're not expecting to hear that the client is the U.S. Navy. Not at all.

The U.S. Navy's recruitment numbers have fallen to an all-time low. They're looking for a propaganda vehicle or five to kickstart recruitment. They've ordered a squadron of pilots to fly to New York and have professional portraits taken. It had been decided it was too risky to have civilian photographers on base, so your company had rented a colossal hangar from the airport for one day. The squadron and their jets would land tonight, and the shoot would happen tomorrow. The information has you reeling and more than a little flustered. The U.S. Navy? As a client? That’s huge. This assignment could make or break your whole career. How do you even start? This shoot is on an awfully quick turnaround for something so big.

Your mind is spinning, thinking of how you could make these spreads work. To begin your prep work, you go to your office, collecting your assistant, stylists, makeup artist, and lighting coordinators. Once everyone is clustered around your office, you fire up your computer and display pictures of each aviator. The Navy has selected six aviators for this spread; they’re all gorgeous. And per the sanitized dossiers you hand out to your team to read, each has risked their lives to serve their country. Of the five men on the dossiers, one keeps catching your attention. His name is Jake, Jake Seresin, and his eyes pierce into you even through the low-quality picture you’ve been given.

“Alright. So how do we do this? The Navy asked for shots of each aviator and their plane in flight suits and uniforms. We’ll have all four jets in the hangar with us tomorrow. Additionally, I want to explore who they are as people. So I think we’ll also do shots of them in formal wear. As a last step, we’ll tie into their sex appeal and do shots of the boys in their flight jackets and dog tags with no shirts. For Lieutenant Trace, I thought we could explore the duality she naturally poses as a highly decorated female Naval Aviator. How does that sound? Any ideas for how we can accomplish that? Start pulling pieces on racks in the bullpen. I want to do a final review of all of the options at 4 o’clock.”

Your stylists, Adam and Lea, are already huddled up and discussing pieces to pull for the formal wear shoot. You can see an unholy gleam in Lea’s eyes as she finds pieces for Lieutenant Trace to wear for the sex appeal shot on her tablet. You grin at their enthusiasm before turning to your lighting techs.

“Seb, Kris. I want you both to head out to the hangar today. I don’t know what the lighting is going to look like. Feel free to start setting up the lighting for the shoot tomorrow. But don’t lock anything down. We’re going to have to share our space with the planes.”

You turn to your assistant, Amy. 

“Ames, go with them. Get an idea of the space we have to deal with. Measurements would be useful. Start visualizing areas where we could lay out a backdrop to do a set of pics without the planes in the background. Scope out everything — the facilities, where we could set up changing booths, a refreshments table, etc. We’ll also probably need to coordinate deliveries from the usual food platters and drinks places. Get an assortment of things that would apply to any dietary restrictions you can think of.”

With that, you turn to the last member of your team, your makeup artist. 

“Hey, Katie. We will want to keep the makeup for this shoot subtle and touch up any blemishes and under-eye circles. That should be it for the boys, but we’ll want to do something eye-catching for the formal wear portion for Lieutenant Trace. So pack accordingly. Go ahead if you want, and head to the hangar with Ames so you can coordinate placement for the makeup station.”

You call your team to attention by ringing the small gong on your desk.

“We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us today. Call me for anything you need. This shoot is important for the studio, and we will have many eyes on us. Here are the credentials for the hangar. Measurements for the aviators are included in the dossier packets. For the formal wear portion of the shoot, pick coordinating colors except for Lieutenant Trace. Good luck!”

The rest of your morning is spent coordinating with the Navy Liasion. During your lunch break, you head to the hangar and help your team as they work there. You pick up sandwiches and drinks for everyone and drop some off for Adam and Lea. You reach the hangar at 1:30 and use your credentials to let yourself in. Unsurprisingly, the hangar is a hive of activity. Amy’s marking down placement points near the bathrooms with a measuring tape, and Katie’s getting a vanity plugged in and organizing her equipment.

Meanwhile, Seb and Kris are testing the lighting. A large swath of the Hangar floor is as yet empty. A clear path has been left from the hangar doors to the open area. The open area is where four F/A-18A Super Hornets are going to sit. You call your team to grab their lunches and catch up with Amy on her progress. It’s your first time delegating so much of the admin work to Amy since she’s the newest on the team, and you’re ecstatic with her progress.

She’s gotten everything organized, including the food and beverage deliveries. When a pair of workmen back in a truck containing the backdrop and the changing rooms, you supervise as they build them and place them where you want them. They’ve just started assembling the backdrop when your phone rings. You step into the afternoon sunshine to take the call. It’s the Navy Liasion. He’s calling to inform you that the squadron will be landing shortly. Sure enough, you can just hear the engines as you hang up and bolt indoors. Amy’s just sending the workmen on their way as you help your team clear the open areas of the hangar and stand near the open hangar door. 

You can feel the thrum of the engines as Four F/A-18As fly in formation and finally land in all their glory. They’re beautiful machines. You can smell the stink of the jet fuel and feel the heat from the engines as they roll into the hangar. The next moments are full of frantic activity as the flight crews help ensure the jets are safely landed. Once all the furor has died down, you finally reach where the aviators have descended from their jets. They’re examining your team's work with eagle eyes that dart to your person as you step closer, your heels echoing as you make your way to the jets. 

They’re even more gorgeous than their pictures indicated, even sweaty with helmet hair as they are. As one, they line up in front of you and salute, introducing themselves with their rank, full name, and callsign. You can hear Amy and Katie’s giggles from behind you as you introduce yourself and your team. The entire time you lay out the plan for the following day, you can feel a set of eyes boring into the side of your face. All the aviators are staring right at you, but Lieutenant Seresin makes you feel like squirming. His green eyes stay on you as you show them the different areas in the hangar and explain the order of the day. Thankfully, they leave the hangar shortly after you tell them their call time for the next morning. 

A couple of hours later, everything is ready to go, thanks to Amy, Seb, Kris, and Katie. The corner near the bathroom has two changing rooms set up. Nearby are spaces for the racks of clothing and the makeup station. It will be perfect for the photoshoot you have in mind. The concrete floors are a little chilly, so you text Lea and ask her to add some of the rugs from storage to the truck. You send her a snap of the current layout so she and Adam know what they’re walking into the following morning. You know she and Adam will pick something that complements the gunmetal gray of the planes and the clothing they’re selecting. Before long, you and your team are packed into the back of two Ubers and heading back to the studio for the final part of your day, evaluating the clothing Adam and Lea have picked.

You’re satisfied as you head home that night. Your team has done an amazing job, and the only thing you have to do is pack your cameras and lenses. You carefully wipe and pack each lens and each camera, working as quickly as possible since you have to be at the hangar with an early 6 AM call time. Amy’s picking up the coffee and breakfast deliveries at 7, and the Squadron will show up at 8 AM sharp.

When your alarm goes off at half past four the next morning, you feel barely rested. Your hair is a bird’s nest atop your head, and your eye bags could put a raccoon to shame.  But you’ve got a busy day ahead of you, so you gulp a scalding cup of coffee and walk zombie-like into your shower. Forty-five minutes later, you’re dressed in a smart blouse and pencil skirt with heels on your feet and bleary but ready to face the day. You’ve thrown your hair into a French braid snaking down your back and left your makeup and jewelry simple to avoid causing unforeseen sparkles and shadows when Kris and Seb turn the lights on.

Your team has just reached the hangar when you step in. All the lights are on in the early morning haze, and you’re immediately swept up in the preparations. It’s like you’re needed everywhere. You only get fifteen minutes to lay out your camera equipment and hook up the cameras to your laptop before you’re pulled into last-minute adjustment after last-minute adjustment. It feels like barely any time has passed when the aviators swagger through the open hangar door. They’re dressed in khaki uniforms, each holding a hanger with a leather flight jacket.

Adam and Lea direct them to leave their garment bags on an open rack, and you’re off to the races. You start with individual shots of each aviator with their plane and then against the backdrop. You’ve cued up a playlist of Top-40 hits, and you can’t help humming along as you snap away. As expected, it takes a bit for the aviators to warm up to being photographed. Two, Lieutenants Bradshaw and Seresin, take to posing for the camera like a fish out of water. Lieutenant Fitch follows shortly after them. Then all you needed to get Fanboy to cut loose was get him talking about his favorite tv show. You don’t mind the onslaught of Star Trek facts and figures because Lieutenant Mickey Garcia is adorable once you get him smiling and dancing to the songs playing. 

That leaves you with Lieutenants Trace and Floyd. Lieutenant Floyd goes next, and the first thing he does when he sees you holding the camera is blush. The bashful look on his face makes a soft squeal slip out of Amy’s mouth, and you side-eye your assistant with your fiercest glare to get her to chill out. Thankfully, Lea drags her away to help with some of the clothing. There’s no need to make the sweetheart even more uncomfortable. Much like Lieutenant Garcia, you try to get him talking. And it works, at least until Lieutenant Seresin opens his mouth and says,

“C’mon, Baby On Board. A pretty girl’s taking your picture, and you can’t even smile? This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, at least for you. You should enjoy it while it lasts.”

You can feel your blood pressure rising at how rude he is and are about to open your mouth to tell him to get out of your field of vision when Lieutenant Floyd does it himself.

“Why, Bagman? Are you afraid that if I start posing for real, all the girls will dump you as fast as possible for me instead?”

You have to stifle your giggles as Lieutenant Seresin blinks wide-eyed at Lieutenant Floyd before walking away. 

“That’s a great idea, Bob!” Lieutenant Trace is never one to leave an opportunity to cheer on her WSO.

That’s what breaks the ice between you and Lieutenant Floyd. You feel his solo plane shots have turned out better than the others. The final aviator in uniform to photograph is Lieutenant Trace. But no matter what you do, you can’t get her to loosen up. 

“Alright, everyone. Let’s take fifteen. Adam and Lea, can you get the Lieutenants in their formal wear while I finish up with Lieutenant Trace?” 

That clears the gentlemen away and leaves you and Lieutenant Trace by the planes. That’s when you finally see a fraction of the tension she holds in her shoulders drain away. She’s still standing stiffly but no longer in full parade rest. You turn the music up, put on ABBA, and pray that the music finally gets her to unwind. It takes a bit, and Lieutenant Bradshaw, now wearing a navy blue tuxedo, wiggling his hips to the beat but unwind she does. He gives you a wink before shimmying away. You can see the rest of your team laughing as the aviators pull out their silliest dance moves. 

After finishing up Lieutenant Trace’s final uniform pictures, you leave her in Lea and Katie’s capable hands and start taking the solo shots of the men. They’re all dressed in navy blue tuxedos with white shirts and shiny black dress shoes. There isn’t a tie in sight, and the jackets are perfectly tailored to their figures. You can’t help the impressed looks you give them and mentally note to compliment Lea and Adam later. Everything is going well until you start to see slack-jawed looks where the lieutenants had been smoldering into the camera. You turn and grin satisfactorily as Lieutenant Trace steps forward. Lea had selected a gorgeous crimson and burgundy gown, and Katie had chosen to leave her hair in loose curls. You’re not surprised at the boys’ awe. She looks breathtaking and like her callsign in all its fiery glory. The contrasting color combinations as she joins the boys look fantastic in the pictures. 

The final set of pictures happens after a lunch break. The gentlemen are only too eager to slip off their shirts, though you can hear Bob pleading with Lea to spare him. You wish him luck, as you know from experience that Lea’s not one to give in easily. The only other aviator who looks discomfited is Lieutenant Trace. You pull her aside.

"Lt. Trace. How would you feel about doing a shot wearing just one of the men's jackets, some heels, and jewelry? You don’t have to wear one that one of the guys has worn today. Lea and Adam brought plenty of spares."

"Please, call me Natasha. And no. I'm not doing that."

"Natasha, I have a feeling I know why, but would you tell me?" Her shoulders surround her ears as you try to reason with her.

"I'm not going to wear that just to act as the sole piece of eye candy in this group. I got here by working just as hard, if not harder, than all of them. I won't negate all my hard work with a pin-up pose on Navy propaganda."

"Thank you for telling me that. I'm not going to pressure you into doing this. But, I would like to bring one item to your consideration. You think taking a picture like this will negate your hard work. Doesn't that negate your inherent sense of femininity? You're a fighter pilot. Yes. One of the best of the best. But you're also a woman. And to me, that's one of your biggest strengths. Girls walking into Navy recruitment offices deserve to know they can be kick-ass officers and beautiful too.”

You take a breath, cataloging the emotions flitting across her face.

“I'm not asking you to do this shot because you're beautiful. As we both know, you are. I'm asking you to do this shot to show the world that you can be one of the best and still be feminine. Be strong and delicate. Sweet and savage. I want you to show the world that serving your country doesn't mean you have to only act like men. Women can serve and do everything that a man can without compromising anything. Be it their looks, their career, or their femininity."

Your words have resonated with her. You can see the figurative light bulb go off in her head as she resolutely nods, gathers up the skirts of her gown, and walks right towards Lea like a woman possessed. You grin and proceed with taking shots of the others. But this time, it’s Lieutenant Seresin that you’re having problems with. He’s stiff like his charm has melted away. You switch to the others and finish their shots easily. Even Natasha stuns in just the oversized blazer. You take a break and review the pictures on your laptop. They’re all perfect. You’ll need a day or so to clean up any small defects, but other than that, they’re exactly what you were looking for. The Navy will be pleased with the results, you hope.

You just need this one set of pictures from Lieutenant Jake Seresin, callsign Hangman, and you can finally go home and take off your heels and bra. Your irritation grows as you attempt to take the pictures you need five times. Your groan of exhaustion and irritation is far longer and louder than it should be. That’s when you start dismissing your team and the Daggers.

“Head on out, all of you. We have to clean up the hangar by the day after tomorrow when the Daggers leave. I will finish up these photos with Lieutenant Seresin, and we should be following you shortly.”

The Daggers all scramble to change, and it's less than half an hour later when you say farewell as the Daggers and your team file out the Hangar door and close it behind them. That’s when you’re left alone with the one man who’s been driving you crazy all day. You try, futilely, to get him to pose how you want, but no matter what you say and how you move him, the pictures don't turn out like you want them to. 

Partway through the latter half of the photo shoot, you'd switched to having all of the Daggers standing against the backdrop. You're regretting that decision now. 

You're done, and the blonde idiot is just standing there and smirking at you. In the studio light, you can see every ridge of his abs and the downy hair dotting his torso. You kick your heels off and let your hair out of its braid. After so long in the tight braid, it feels great to let your scalp relax.

You stalk up to Lieutenant Seresin and grab hold of his arm.

"Right. Let's make this easy on both of us. I will position you how I want you, and you won't move. Okay?"

"Darlin', just tell me to jump, and I'll ask you how high."

And now he's trying to flirt with you. Great. You roll your eyes and position his head and arms as you want him. This close, you can smell his cologne, the cedar and plum scent wafting from his skin. It's an expensive scent that is ever so inconsistent with his personality. Thankfully he doesn't fight you as you position him. 

You could cry. You're so relieved. You are finally getting the needed pictures, and Lieutenant Seresin is cooperating. His eyes still track you as you stalk barefoot back and forth from the laptop to the lights, all with your camera in tow as you make small adjustments. But you don't feel their weight as self-consciously anymore. 

In the final pose, you press on his stomach to get him to straighten his back, and your entire world seems to freeze. His abs are taut, the light dusting of hair soft against your fingers as you glance up at his face. His lips are bitten red as his eyes peer into you. It's electric being this close to him. Something is yearning in his eyes when you step away and take the final pictures. 

Your face is hot as you walk back to the table with your laptop and examine the pictures. You're exhausted, but you've finally done it. Of all the pictures, Lieutenant Seresin's looks the best. His photos exhibit strength, passion, and raw sexuality, exposing a stripe of his taut torso and dog tags. 

"Damn, darlin'. I knew you were a good photographer when I looked up your work before we flew to New York for this, but I had no idea how good you were. These pictures. They're something else."

You startle at his voice, emanating from near your ear, and jolt out of your seat. You nearly fall, but he catches you, steadying you with an arm wrapped around your waist. You gulp as you’re pressed against his chest. He's so close that you can count the flecks of gold swimming in his green eyes. You can't keep your gaze from trailing over his face, from his eyes down to his lips, and back up again. 

"Sweetheart, tell me if I'm reading you wrong, but it looks like you want to kiss me. And I know I want to kiss you. I have since I saw you for the first time yesterday."

You can't keep yourself from nodding at his words. But he's watching you like a hawk and catches your movements. So it's hardly a surprise when he trails his other hand up your side and pinches your chin before slanting his mouth over yours. 

He kisses as he flies, you think. Precise and pointed, each brush of his tongue against your calculated to make your cunt clench and throb with need. You're wet, embarrassingly so. He doesn't pull away until your lips are swollen from the rough kiss. 

Your chest heaves as he traces his finger across your lips. He's got a smug smirk on his face. You pull away from him, carefully selecting your video camera from all your camera equipment, and return to his plane. You turn on the lights, dimming them until there is just enough light to throw the area in the jet's shadow in relief in your camera, hit record, and beckon him to come to you.

"Lieutenant, it's been a bit since I've had some fun. What would you say if I suggest we make a movie?"

His grin is salacious as he lets the leather jacket fall to the ground and tugs you back into his arms.

"Baby, it'd be my pleasure."

Your answering laugh transforms into a moan as he kisses roughly down your throat, paying special attention to your pulse point. His talented hands trail up and down your waist, nimble hands rucking your blouse up from your skirt until he can finally touch your bare skin. Your moans as he traces patterns across your ribs are muffled in his kiss.

"Jake."

Your voice is breathy and high as you try to get his mouth back on yours. But when you look at his face, something is commanding in his gaze.

"Take your shirt off, baby. Let me see what you're wearing."

You tug your shirt off, thankful there aren't any buttons or ties to impede your progress. Jake’s groan at the sight of the lace covering your breasts sends goose bumps over your skin.

His voice is reverent as he walks around you.

"God, baby. You killed me this morning. Wearing that pretty little skirt and those high heels. I wanted to bend you over and fuck you until you were leaking my cum."

He stops before you, pressing his thumb between your parted lips. He dips it in until it's wet with your pooling saliva and drags it down your throat. His finger drags over the soft flesh of your breasts, leaving a cool, damp trail as he pays special attention to the peaks of your nipples. 

He continues walking, stopping at your back and dragging you in until your back is flush against his chest. He positions you with both hands until you're centered with the camera. He keeps up a filthy litany of praise as he carefully uses his thumbs to drag your bra cups down, sending your tits spilling free. His hands immediately find their way to fondle and caress them, calloused fingers kneading and squeezing until your hips are canting unconsciously, searching for additional stimulation. 

His smile is filthy when he finally pulls you away, intertwining your fingers with his and leading you to his plane.

"Put your hands on my plane, baby. And whatever you do, don't take them off."

You can't resist your soft moan as you do exactly what he says after unfastening your bra. You can't see his face, but you can feel his lips in the hollow behind your ear as he grinds his stiff cock against your ass. 

"Stay there, baby. Gonna take these trousers off so you don't get in trouble if we make a mess."

Your nipples are pebbled in the cool air as you wait for Jake to return to you. You can hear the clink of the belt buckle and the rustle of fabric as he drags the garment off before padding back to you. His hands trail teasingly over your sensitive skin as he brackets your waist. His thumbs rub soothingly at your waist as he peppers kisses across your bare shoulders. Jake then carefully drags the zip at the back of your skirt down and eases it off your hips.

It pools to the ground at your feet, and you shudder at the feeling of his hand on your ass as he collects it and sets it on a chair in your line of sight. He's gorgeous. You can see every line of his muscles and the bulge of his erect cock in his boxers. The only thing you're wearing now is your thong. He slides the flimsy lace off, and that's when you feel his breath across your hole.

"Oh, baby. You're so wet. Wet for your Lieutenant, huh?"

He blows a stream of air over you, and you can feel your hole clench at the sensations. 

"What do you want me to do to you, baby? How do you want to cum? On my tongue? On my fingers? On my cock? You gotta tell me, sweetheart."

Your voice is breathy as you babble, "All of them, Jake! I want your tongue, your fingers, and your cock. It's been so long since I came. Please!"

He kisses your shoulder before kneeling and burying his tongue between your thighs. Each brush has you practically sobbing with pleasure. It's been so long since you came that it's only a few minutes before his tongue brings you to the brink of your orgasm. You're already chanting his name, your moans echoing through the hangar.

"Cum," he growls, his mouth still sealed to your cunt, and you're only too happy to comply, your hands scrabbling for something to squeeze on as you ride out the waves of your orgasm on his tongue.

He pulls away after a few minutes and turns you around. His mouth is on you instantly, nipping at your breasts before he kisses you hard. You can feel how hard he is against your thigh as you sink to your knees and free him from the constricting fabric.

It's only fair that you return the favor. So you start with kitten licks flicking across the head of his cock. Each tender pass of your tongue has him moaning. It's not long before his hands find their way into your hair, holding the loose strands in a ponytail at the back of your head. You use the extra leverage to begin deep-throating him in earnest. You use as much suction and saliva as possible, moaning wantonly as he fucks your mouth. His pants and grunts send heat pooling into your cunt as he approaches his orgasm. But before you can convince him to come on your tongue, he jerks himself off over your tits, spurting his release over your skin in hot thick ribbons.

There is a feral look in his eyes at the sight of you like that on your knees, and Jake lopes over to your cameras, carefully grabbing one. He drapes his dog tags around your neck and carefully snaps pictures of the pearl necklace he'd given you. He lays the camera onto the chair before coming back to you.

"Do you still want me to fuck you?"

"Yes." Your consent is less words and more a cock-drunk mewl, but Jake interprets it correctly.

"Can you get on all fours for me?"

You're only too eager to comply, positioning yourself under his eager hands as he takes his spot against your ass.

"I don't have any condoms, baby. How do you want to do this?"

"I'm on the pill, Jake. Please, fuck me. Fuck me raw."

He groans before pressing himself inside you. The slow drag of his big cock as it presses into you has your pulse racing. Jake keeps the pace purposefully slow, using his hands at your hips to hold you still as he deliberately fucks into you. It's so good that each press has you screaming, and you've long since reached the cliff of your orgasm. But what Jake's giving you just isn't enough. That's when you start wiggling your hips to meet his thrusts.

The first heavy smack of his palm against your ass has you freezing completely, caught in the pain-pleasure-pain sensation his hand is wringing out of you. The second has you moaning, your pussy fluttering around his length. His groan is near musical as he continues to smack your ass. Each smack brings you closer to your orgasm, and you're practically begging for it now. You wail when he begins to fuck you again in earnest. His balls smack against the hot skin of your ass as you finally let yourself cum. 

Your orgasm is so strong and intense that you black out. When you come to, you're cradled against Jake's chest, his hand tracing lazily over your back. You're both still under his jet. You prop yourself up on his chest with shaking arms and groan at the sensation of cum dripping out of you. It’s several long moments before you rise carefully on wobbly legs. But the sight you see when standing has your cunt clenching in need again. Jake’s torso is now covered in droplets of the mixture of both of your cum. You grab your camera and take a picture of that too.

Jake grins as he collects the bundle of your clothes and follows behind you to the bathroom. You can’t help the gasp leaving your lips as you see yourself in the mirror. He’s marked up your decolletage, and now is when you can feel the painful sting in your ass. 

“God, baby. Let me take a picture of your ass? It looks beautiful. You can see my whole hand on it.”

You groan as he presses a kiss against the sore cheek before positioning you and taking the pic. All you can see is the globe of your ass, the handprint, and the cascade of your hair down your back.

“Are you sure you didn’t pick the wrong calling, Jake?  You could’ve been a fantastic photographer if you’d chosen to.”

“Oh, I’m sure, darlin’. I love flying too much to regret my decision. And flying brought me to you.”

You grin before beginning to clean yourself up. Jake can’t resist kissing you, and you can’t resist kissing him back, either. Before long, you’re all clean and dressed in your underwear, blouse, and skirt again. Jake even has your shoes and chivalrously kneels to slide them onto your feet. He’s back in his trousers, this time sans the leather jacket. You can’t resist trailing your fingers across his skin and wrapping your arms around his neck as you kiss him. But you have to break away from him. You only add to his current look by slinging his dog tags around his neck.

Back in the hangar, you’re packing up your cameras after ensuring your home movie is saved when the door to the hangar opens. It’s a security guard, and you’re glad he didn’t pop in earlier.

“Hello, miss. I just wanted to check in and make sure everything is alright.”

“Yes, everything is fine, officer. I just finished a photo shoot with my last client, and we’ll leave shortly.”

"Alright, miss. We have to restrict access to the hangar at 11 pm. It's about 9:30 now, so finish up and head on your way."

You can hear Jake opening the curtain to the changing room behind you and can see the Officer's position stiffen as he catches sight of the medals on his breast.

"Sir, apologies, I wasn't aware that the client she mentioned was military."

He's falling over himself, and you can see the smug smirk on Jake's face as he grins and walks the officer out. You can't help grinning as you finish packing your lenses and begin unplugging your laptop after saving all the footage you’d captured today. You know Jake is back when you feel an arm wrap around your waist. You lean easily back into his expensive-smelling embrace and can't resist sagging against him for a few moments.

"It's been a long day, huh, darlin'?" He presses a kiss against your jaw. "Let's get you packed up and home."

You smile at the new, softer side of him and kiss his jaw.

"I'm all packed up. Walk me to my car?"

"'Course, sugar. Give me your camera bag. D'you need to check on anything else before we head out?"

You pad over to all the electrical outlets, hitting the switches on power strips to ensure nothing is still on. The final place you check via phone flashlight is the area under Jake's jet. You're wearing all of your clothing. You just want to make sure you haven't made a mess with your extracurricular activities.

"I cleaned it all up already, baby. It was when you were knocked out after your orgasm." 

You startle, having grown used to his presence over the past few hours.

"Then let's head out?" 

You relinquish your camera bag to him, keeping your oversized tote on your shoulder as the two of you stride out of the hangar. You lead him to the small parking lot to the side and pop the trunk for your car, thankful you'd decided to drive to the airfield. 

"Let me give you a ride to your hotel. It's the least I can do after keeping you so late."

"Darlin', I should be thanking you. I haven't cum like that in a long time."

You've seen the man completely naked and writhed in pleasure at his touch. You shouldn't be so flustered in his presence. But you can't explain the catch in your breath as he opens the driver's side door for you before loping around to the passenger side and settling in. Everything between you and Jake doesn't feel like the aftermath of a hot frantic sexual encounter. It feels like a date.  You feel light and easy as you cruise back into the city. The silence between the two of you is comfortable. It’s not long before you drop him off in front of his hotel. He presses a kiss against your lips before swaggering in. And you head home to your small New York apartment, feeling the ghost of his presence as you go.

The next morning, you’re glad you chose to work from home because the first pictures you edit are the ones you’d taken of Jake and the ones he’d taken of you as well as your home movie. You can’t resist fingering yourself as your moans and his grunts spill out of your computer speakers. You don't have to do much editing there, but you carefully load the incriminating footage onto two flash drives — one for you and one for him. The photos for the Navy, too, are edited in no time flat. 

It's in the afternoon when you head into the studio. When you get in, you're surprised to see all the Daggers, your boss, your team, and two Admirals waiting for you. Your boss runs the show, introducing and greeting them before the floor is ceded to you. You show the assembled guests the pictures you'd taken for the Navy. 

The pictures are well received, especially the photos of Lieutenant Trace. You wink cheekily at her as Admirals Simpson and Mitchell praise the juxtaposition of those shots. As you show the last picture, you can finally breathe. Your boss is proud, especially as the Admirals turn to her and approve the pictures. But you have one final set of pictures to deliver.

"Lieutenant Seresin, apologies. I found this in my bag this morning. It was lying in the changing room when I looked through it to ensure everyone had taken their things. It must've fallen out of the pocket of your flight jacket."

His smirk is salacious as he accepts the flash drive from your hand, apologizing for leaving it there. You hand him a note, too, and leave the room. You would pay to see the look on his face when he sees what you’ve written on it.

Jake -  Thanks for last night. Call me the next time you're in New York. I'd love to do it again. It certainly was a photo finish. XXX - XXX - XXXX

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

Taglist:

@desert-fern 🎥 @dakotakazansky 🎥 @bobby-r2d2-floyd 🎥 @roosters-girl 🎥 @sarahsmi13s 🎥 @bradleybeachbabe 🎥 @lovinglyeternal 🎥 @roosterforme 🎥 @horseshoegirl 🎥

[usafphantom2]

Once F-4 crews told the SR-71 couldn’t go vertical after takeoff. They gave up after a Blackbird did a high-performance takeoff (with sensitive equipment replaced with ballast).

The SR-71

The SR-71, the most advanced member of the Blackbird family that included the A-12 and YF-12, was designed by a team of Lockheed personnel led by Clarence “Kelly” Johnson, then vice president of Lockheed’s Advanced Development Company Projects, commonly known as the “Skunk Works” and now a part of Lockheed Martin.

CLICK HERE to see The Aviation Geek Club contributor Linda Sheffield’s T-shirt designs! Linda has a personal relationship with the SR-71 because her father Butch Sheffield flew the Blackbird from test flight in 1965 until 1973. Butch’s Granddaughter’s Lisa Burroughs and Susan Miller are graphic designers. They designed most of the merchandise that is for sale on Threadless. A percentage of the profits go to Flight Test Museum at Edwards Air Force Base. This nonprofit charity is personal to the Sheffield family because they are raising money to house SR-71, #955. This was the first Blackbird that Butch Sheffield flew on Oct. 4, 1965.

The Blackbirds were designed to cruise at Mach 3.2, just over three times the speed of sound or more than 2,200 miles per hour and at altitudes up to 85,000 feet.

Throughout its nearly 24-year career, the SR-71 strategic reconnaissance aircraft remained the world’s fastest and highest-flying operational aircraft. From 80,000 feet, it could survey 100,000 square miles of Earth’s surface per hour.

So, it comes as no surprise if, thanks to its astonishing flight characteristics, the aircraft has set numerous speed and altitude records throughout its career.

Blackbird high performance takeoff

An SR-71 Blackbird mechanic who wishes to remain anonymous tells the following story;

‘I won’t say Who, I won’t say when, but I did see the SR go vertical ONCE and that was at Kadena [Air Base]. The F-4 jocks used to tell us when they were going to do a high-performance takeoff during an FCF (Functional Check Flight) so we could watch a “real takeoff”!

‘Our DET Commander had chewed his lip long enough and the stage was set. We finally had the kind of flight scheduled where the plan could be put in to action.

‘All sensors were removed and replaced with ballast. That included the ballast nose. This didn’t lighten the aircraft, but removed sensitive equipment, gyros and such. On the morning of the launch, the Fighter wing was notified. The SR did its thing getting ready to launch. Brakes released, burners on and once it was up, it accelerated just above the runway. And then, IT HAPPENED. It went vertical in full afterburner. It was loud AND impressive! Needless to say, it shut the F-4 lads up for a while.

‘Written by somebody who knew.’

Be sure to check out Linda Sheffield Miller (Col Richard (Butch) Sheffield’s daughter, Col. Sheffield was an SR-71 Reconnaissance Systems Officer) Twitter X Page Habubrats SR-71, Instagram Page SR71Habubrats and Facebook Page Born into the Wilde Blue Yonder Habubrats for awesome Blackbird’s photos and stories.

Photo credit: Linda Sheffield Miller, Boeing and U.S. Navy

Linda Sheffield Miller

Grew up at Beale Air Force Base, California. I am a Habubrat. Graduated from North Dakota State University. Former Public School Substitute Teacher, (all subjects all grades). Member of the DAR (Daughters of the Revolutionary War). I am interested in History, especially the history of SR-71. Married, Mother of three wonderful daughters and four extremely handsome grandsons. I live near Washington, DC.

@Habubrats71 via X

[the-whispers-of-death]

What If?

Pairing: John Price x Male!Reader Summary: After a mission, you're left shaken up. Your boyfriend, Price, is determined to get you through your self-doubt. Word Count: 938 words Content: Slight angst turned fluff, short!reader with height described (like really short), desi!reader, military inaccuracies (I'll explain in the A/N), gender-affirming petname (lad), and other petnames (sweetheart & darling). Author's Note: This is just a little imagine/drabble (I mean it's a little longer than 500 words but whatever) because I just couldn't get John Price out of my head. He's my love. The reader is Desi (though it's not really clarified in the work) because this is just very self-indulgent in terms of how tall the reader is. This isn't very military accurate because when I looked up what was the minimum height limit in the SAS, it was 5'1" but I'm 4'8", which is the minimum height for women in the U.S. Navy (I believe) so accurate kinda but not really. One last thing, the ending's a little wonky, I could not figure out how to end it in a satisfying way.

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Your body was thrumming with adrenaline despite you being back from the mission and in your quarters. Your lungs were desperately trying to take in oxygen, your mind stuck on how close you came from not being able to reach the helo in time.

You were a medic for the infamous Task Force 141 and you were very good at your job, you just were short. The shortest soldier in the entire base at four-foot-eight. Normally, your height didn’t deter you from being just as capable as your fellow soldiers, but this time… This time your short legs were a hindrance.

You had been on a standard raiding of an enemy base mission, sneaking in and out almost successfully. Until Soap had accidentally tripped an alarm inside the base. You and the rest of the Task Force had ran out of the base before any enemy soldiers could wake up, but you had been at the back of the group.

You weren’t nearly as fast, you had been sprinting full speed and sweating so much while the others had barely broken a sweat since the helo technically hadn’t been too far from the base. But still, it had been quite a lot of ground for you to run and by the time you had made it close enough for Price to grab you and pull you the rest of the way into the helo, the enemy soldiers had already gotten their bearings and had been shooting at you and the others.

This led to now, to here in your quarters, your gear off and you were in some sweatpants, your brown skin showing as you were shirtless. You were alive, you were safe, but your mind couldn’t help but go to what if you hadn’t made it? What if you hadn’t been close enough for Price to pull you in?

“Lad, I can feel your over-thinking and spiraling from my quarters,” Price said as he stepped into your quarters, you having not even been aware he had opened the door. 

He was in a regular t-shirt and jeans now, about to settle down for the night. But he couldn’t leave you to spiral in your own quarters, not when he was your boyfriend of three years. After all, he was here to take care of you, both as your captain and as your boyfriend.

He walked over to you, gently wrapping his strong arms around your smaller waist, his mutton chops tickling you as he leaned down to kiss the crown of your head. “What are you thinking about so hard, darling? The mission is done and over with,” he murmured, his gravelly voice so soothing and not gruff as it usually was.

“What if I hadn’t made it to the helo?” You blurt out, his arms around you making you melt and want to pour out all of your worries.

“You did make it, lad,” Price replied, kissing your cheeks to try and stop you from continuing down your line of thought.

You gritted your teeth, turning around in his arms and resting a small hand on his broad chest and pushing him away just a little bit. “But what if I hadn’t? I’m… My legs, they’re too short. I’m not as fast as you all are.”

And just like that, the true reason of why you were so shaken up about this incident became clear. You thought because you weren’t as tall as them, then you weren’t good enough.

Price gently took hold of your chin with his two fingers, making you look up at him. “Hey now. Sweetheart, you know you’re good enough. You may not be as fast, but you are good enough. The SAS wouldn’t have accepted you into the military if you hadn’t proven you could be one of the best, even with your height.” He pulled you closer, squeezing you tight. “No one else can patch us up like you can, no one can run with us like you. Now, you were slower tonight, but you usually are so good with your stamina. It was just a bad day for you, you had been up on your feet for most of the day, helping out in the infirmary.”

“But—”

“Shh, but nothing,” Price answered, cutting you off. “You are one of the best. I knew it the moment I saw you out in the field during one of the drills your former squad was doing, the way you managed to lift yourself up and over those tall obstacles, the way you outran at least three of your taller fellow soldiers. I was the one who said you should be on the Task Force, and you trust my judgment, don’t you?”

You relaxed at his words, nodding. “Yeah, I do.” You paused before smirking up at Price. “Unless it’s about your ability to eat spicy food. You say you can, but I’ve seen you sweat when eating my Indian dishes,” you teased.

Price huffed and growled playfully, leaning down to nip at your earlobe. “That’s not fair, you have such a higher spice tolerance than me.” His blue eyes softened and his larger hand, so warm and calloused, rubbed your bare back, feeling the few old battle scars you had gotten due to your years in the military. “I love you, lad.”

“I love you too.” And you meant it, you loved him so much. He was the one who pulled you out of your self-doubt, the one who made you feel safe.

“Now, how about I massage your legs? They’re shaking, sweetheart,” he said with a small laugh, gesturing to your legs.

“They’re so sore from running,” you whined, pouting up at him.

He chuckled and picked you up easily, taking you over to the bed to give your legs a massage.

So you weren’t the tallest, but at least you were alive and with him.

Reblogs are welcomed & appreciated!

[thebroadwayking2]

Navy

U.S. Navy buddy of mine. USS Seawolf for 5 years. His chest hair was always a weakness of mine. It always peaked out of every T-shirt he wore. Not to mention he could grow a fantastic beard if he wanted to.

[jackoshadows]

With the assistance of an experienced FOIA litigation team, we repeatedly sued the military. Over four years, the agencies released enough documentation to us that, assisted by other source materials, we were able to put together a collection of seven hundred and eighty-one possible war crimes, perpetrated against more than eighteen hundred alleged victims, that the U.S. military took seriously enough to investigate.

Examples of these crimes and these cases being dismissed:

Forcible kissing and disrobing of female detainee On October 7, 2003, a female detainee was allegedly sexually assaulted by military interrogators at Abu Ghraib prison. The woman, whose name is redacted in records, told investigators that the interrogators took her to an abandoned cell in a deserted wing of the prison, where one held her hands behind her back and a second forcibly kissed her while a third served as a lookout. They then showed her to a cell where they made her look at a naked male prisoner and threatened her. After that, they allegedly took her back to the abandoned cell, where they forced her to kneel down and take her shirt off. When the interrogators returned the woman to her own cell, they told her that they planned to visit her again. All three soldiers received nonjudicial punishment on charges of indecent assault, conspiracy, maltreatment, and communicating threats.

Of the seven hundred and eighty-one cases we found, at least sixty-five per cent had been dismissed by investigators who didn't believe that a crime had even taken place. Soldiers would return to the United States and confess—to women, health-care workers, job interviewers—that they'd murdered civilians or prisoners, but military investigators would find that the allegations couldn't be substantiated. Detainees at Abu Ghraib prison reported abuse by their guards, but investigators did not find sufficient evidence to confirm that it had happened. Civilians driving distractedly or too fast were shot dead approaching traffic checkpoints, and investigators deemed these killings acceptable escalations of force. Young men were found unresponsive at Camp Bucca prison, and their deaths were attributed to natural causes.

We identified five hundred and seventy-two alleged perpetrators associated with these hundred and fifty-one criminal cases. Only a hundred and thirty of them were convicted. The records show that they rarely received lengthy prison terms. Much more often, their cases were dealt with by commanders, who have broad discretion to punish their troops with extra duty, demotions, or reprimands, circumventing formal prosecution altogether. (The commanders themselves almost never seemed to face consequences for the misdeeds of their subordinates.) Fewer than one in five alleged perpetrators appear to have been sentenced to any type of confinement, and the median sentence was just eight months. "The conviction rates and the rate of sentencing for these kinds of very serious person crimes is just far below what you would see in the civilian system," Roman said.

We sent summaries of our findings to the Army, the Navy, the Marine Corps, and the Air Force, and requested an opportunity to present their leaders with the details of our analysis. None took us up on the offer. The Army replied that it "holds Soldiers and Army Civilians to the highest standards of personal conduct." The Marine Corps didn't respond. What we're publishing is not a complete record of the atrocities committed by the military since 9/11; it would be impossible to know them all. This is a repository of the seven hundred and eighty-one possible war crimes investigated by the U.S. military that we were able to identify.

[inattentivemint]

I’ve decided to do a reward chart but with body fat percentage instead of weight :) I’ve decided that I’m okay with having some amount of muscle but the fat has to go lol

Starting Bfp - 31%

Goal 1 - 28%

Reward - make a band t shirt

Goal 2 - 25%

Reward - make 3 patches

Goal 3 - 22%

Reward - make as many patches as I want

Goal 4 - 19%

Reward - put up a few things on my Etsy

Goal 5 - 16%

Reward - wear patch pants to school again

Goal 6 - 13%

Reward - start doing my makeup again

Goal 7 - 11%

Reward - wear battle jacket to school again

I haven’t done any of these things since getting fat, so I’m really looking forward to them! Starting right now, I’m gonna attempt to get hot :)

[nicolaradano]

I’m thrilled to introduce the first drop of my line NICOLA RADANO – ARCHIVIO, a collection born from my long-standing friendship and collaboration with Military Goods, the vintage kings of Ercolano. This initial release is a curated selection of vintage military pieces, each with a rich history and distinct character.

NR ARCHIVIO #1 drop consists of three standout items:

– U.S. ARMY, VIETNAM SHIRT – A beautifully crafted, heavy cotton shirt originally worn by the U.S. Army during the Vietnam War. Its rugged quality and classic khaki tan color bring a timeless appeal to any wardrobe.

– MARINA ITALIANA, WHITE CHINO PANTS – These are classic chinos from the Italian Navy, made from a cotton blend, with a single pleat and a superb fit. Their simple, clean lines and versatility make them ideal for pairing with almost any look.

– SWISS ARMY, WORK JACKET – A durable work jacket in a unique gray-green denim, featuring two chest pockets. Robust and full of character, it’s a piece that brings both style and functionality to the collection.

Working with Daniele, we’ve created a cohesive yet dynamic look that can be worn as a complete outfit or easily broken up into individual pieces to suit any occasion. This drop represents a blend of authenticity, craftsmanship, and style that truly defines the ARCHIVIO line.

Check it out: https://nicolaradano.com/product-category/nr-archivio/

[hellishfig]

i hope everyone who sees me walking around in an old, fucked up jacket with u.s. navy patches on it understands that i wear it bc it was my grandfather's and it's comfy, not out of any love or respect for the u.s. military

sadly i am wearing a shirt with captain america's shield on it as well, which is unfortunately bc i do like captain america, but not for the america part! i like him bc i was gay in 2014 and watched the winter soldier!

basically i want everyone who sees me to know that, despite my sartorial choices, i don't love my country and am gay

[jordanianroyals]

Royal Fashion → Summer vacation, U.S. (Summer 2023)

Chloé for UNICEF Oversized T-Shirt in White (€13.50)

On Prince Hashem:

Camouflage Mesh Cap with U.S. Navy Seals Alpha Team Logo (Different Brand & Model for Showing Purpose)

Adidas Yeezy Boost 350 V2 in Ash Pearl ($220)

[allie-campbell-bradshaw]

Chapter 2: Plebe Summer

A/N: Welcome to the second chapter of Top Gun: Baby, a love story following Bradley Bradshaw and Allie Campbell. This story is sequential, so if you have not already read the first chapter, please go back and do so! All links to chapters and their mood boards can be found on my masterlist. I mention this in my notes for every chapter, but just in case you missed it– I do not give permission for my work to be re-posted without credibility. If you do want to post this story to your page, please be sure that you tag my account or at least mention its original source in your post. Again, thank you for being here and I hope you enjoy :)

Warnings: Angst, swearing

POSTED: 05/14/2023

Chapter Two: Plebe Summer

BRADLEY’S POV

I pulled my ray-bans off of my face so I could get a better look at the campus. I didn’t even notice my mouth hanging open until the taximan gave me a strange look, but I didn’t care. This place was immaculate! 

White brick and stone lined the exterior of the buildings. Most of the roofs were light blue with a few a crimson red color. Attendees of the Academy were wandering around the commons of the campus, talking with their families and holding onto their final hugs a little longer than normally necessary. But this isn’t normal. This is the biggest day of our lives! The day where we pledge ourselves to our country and join the U.S. Navy.

“Sir,” the taximan said in a tone that made me think he had said this phrase quite a few times. I glanced over at the meter and read the total, whipping out my wallet and giving him a fifty dollar bill, telling him to keep the change. He gave me a muttered “yeah”, obviously not impressed with the small tip, but I didn’t care. Nothing could bring me down right now! I quickly got out of the cab, grabbing my bag and flinging it over my shoulder, smiling at the campus I was now able to call home. I pulled my raybans back over my eyes while the sun shone down on me. Yep, nothing could ever bring me down.

Fuck. I was wrong. I kept my eyes glued to him, standing still and refusing to move. My smile was long gone from my face and my jaw tightened, watching him as he looked at me, with an excited smile on his face. An excitement to finally see me after four years, which was a decision he made when he interfered with my life.

His smile dropped from his face and he looked down at the ground, shrugging his shoulders as he took a deep breath. I kept my eyes and my emotionless face glued on him, wanting him to feel every ounce of hatred that was radiating through my body.

He gave a slight nod and then looked up at me again, taken aback with the notice that I had yet to move. I wanted to end our interaction as soon as possible, so I turned my head to the center of campus and started to make my way to the check-in table. Luckily, he didn’t follow.

“Well hi!” A very cheery woman greeted me, she wore a shirt that said ‘Welcome Cheer Volunteer’. Jesus... She must have read the angry expression on my face, that was half hidden by my ray bans, because she quickly dropped her smile, cleared her throat, and asked for my name.

“Bradshaw” I answered coldly, looking over my shoulder to try to find him, luckily he was nowhere to be found.

She quickly went through her files, wanting our interaction to be over as quickly as I did. “Bradley?” she asked in an earnest tone.

I nodded, my hair blowing in the early summer breeze that was starting to come in. We were on the coast, so there would always be a breeze that accompanied the heat. Thank God!

“Well,” she said, collecting herself and grabbing a pen from the side of the table, “If you could just verify all of this information and then sign here,” she pointed to the bottom dotted line, “then you will be all good to go!”

I looked over the paper that she handed me, filled with basic information as well as an emergency contact. My initial application listed him as my person to contact, but this time I listed Kazansky. He barely knew me, and apart from the brief interaction we had at my mom’s funeral, we’d barely spoken. However, I knew him well enough to know that if the Academy called to tell them they needed his consent to perform an emergency surgery, he would figure out why I made the switch and help out.

I signed the line with the quick signature that I had been practicing for years. The B and the Y are the only eligible letters in my first name and my last name was crystal clear. It keeps people on their toes, showing them that I can be one of two things; cold and confusing or crisp and clean. You never know which Bradshaw you’re going to get.

I handed her back the clipboard and papers and she grabbed them with a fake smirk on her face. “Thank you!” she faked. I could see right through her. “Be sure to be back here at 1400 for your first inspection. AND this is your alpha number! Be careful with it now, it’s your ID for the next four years”!

I raised my eyebrows at her and brought my index and middle finger up, closing my fingers together like scissors with the paper in between them.

She looked very perplexed by me, clearing her throat and adjusting her body, ready to greet the next person.

I looked over my left shoulder and saw him standing in the distance. Far enough to show me that he wasn’t interested in coming over, but close enough to tell me that he wasn’t going anywhere. If he wanted to be so involved in this day, then he would’ve been…four years ago… when I should’ve gotten here.

I walked over to the far left side of the commons area and dropped my bag to my feet, leaning against the edge, playing with the paper in my hands.

I looked down and unfolded it. Two lines were printed in the center:

Bradley Bradshaw

112454

My thought process, or lack thereof, was interrupted by the sounds of laughter, sobs, conversations, and yells. I swept through the crowd, taking notice of all of the men that were hugging and kissing their girlfriends. Most of the girls were crying, holding onto their partners for dear life.

That’s why I made it a point to not have a relationship during my last year of college. I knew this was coming, and I didn’t want to be that person to make her go through all of this. We’re only allowed to call three times this summer. All other forms of communication need to be through letters, which are cleared by a team of navalmen and women before it’s sent anyways.

Yes, I’ve had my fair share of girlfriends. First there were the middle school crushes, which I seemed to be the center of for most girls there. One caught my eye though, Emmah. She was what you would call my first “puppy dog love”. My mom would chaperone us on movie dates, bowling nights, and would sit in the living room with us whenever she came over and watched T.V. That didn’t stop me from sneaking in a few kisses though, when she wasn’t looking. It abruptly ended the summer before high school. I think it was mutual. I don’t know. We just stopped texting.

Then there were flings that I had my freshman year; Katy, Olivia, and Jepson. Nothing really came from those. I just went to football games with them and maybe held their hand once or twice on the bus rides for field trips. Honors courses went on a lot of field trips to apply the knowledge we acquired in the classroom. I guess Olivia got the closest. I went on my first unchaperoned date with her at the beginning of Sophomore year. Olive Garden. I know, fancy! Again that one just died out the same way. Then there was Jennifer. She took my breath away!

We dated for two years in high school. Definitely my first love! She was on the yearbook committee and was in charge of taking pictures of the baseball team. When I saw her on that hot late spring day, I knew. I found her in the hallway the next day and asked her out. This time, I made sure to take her on a proper date, dinner and a movie. A nice dinner though. We were inseparable after that. I walked her to every class, sat with her during every lunch, she came to every game I had, and even took me on her family vacation to Florida during summer vacation. I lost my virginity to Jennifer, and her’s to me.

I knew she was wanting to break up with me during senior years spring semester, but with my mother’s admission into hospice, she held back. I took the liberty of giving her a proper break up a week before she died. I saw her and her family at the funeral, and even gave her a smirk to acknowledge her presence and support, but didn’t talk to her after that. She went to Columbia College in Chicago to better her art skills. She was a hell of an artist!

College contained the natural amount of tinder flings and hookups. I deleted the stupid thing during my junior year, not wanting to put the energy into it anymore. Then I met Danielle who was in my History of Politics class. She made me feel a spark I had never felt before. A genuine adult love. We went out a few times. An intense chemistry was developing between us. It scared the hell out of me! I brought up these fears to her, and despite her plea to take our relationship to the next level, I knew I couldn’t. So naturally, we made love one time, and then I let her go, watching her cry as she left my house in the middle of the night. I offered to let her stay, but she said it would be too painful. 

Maybe I wish I kept up with that one. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t hurt her the way I knew I would. Leaving for summer camp would be too much for her. I knew her heart well enough. She would choke it all down and then one day, explode. I didn’t want to get my “Dear John” letter from her, or be the one to end it myself through a letter.

If I wasn’t here, if I was rejected, I would’ve married her. She’ll be my biggest “what if” when I find myself sitting on a carrier in the middle of the ocean at night in my bunk. When I’m toying through my thoughts, listening to everyone’s stories about their happy families, I’ll think about her, and the life we could’ve had if I was wired differently.

I shifted my focus to the families on base. Looking at my classmates as they hugged their dads and moms. That part stung. I saw one kid, he looked to be just fresh out of highschool, and handed his mom a single red rose. Damn it! That brought me back to the thought of my parents. My mom told me that whenever dad came home, or when she came to visit him, he would give her a single red rose and a hug and kiss bigger than the universe. She preserved the last rose that he gave her when he was in Top Gun. The one she got just a day before he died. It was in a pane of glass with his call name “Goose” printed in black cursive on the bottom right corner. He had that now. Promising to keep it safe until I wanted it. I couldn’t stand to look at it once she died. It had a different meaning after her death, and I couldn’t keep it in the house anymore.

I was so lost in thought that I didn’t even notice a girl approach me until she said; “You don’t have family either.” It was more of a statement than a question.

I looked over at her. She had olive skin and deep brown air. Her eyes were a deep color of brown, but had so much light in them, yet so much pain. She understood me… “Yeah.” I answered, hurt that my emotion got the better of me. She already had me all figured out.

She looked down at the ground, her arms crossed as she kicked a loose rock to the side. “Well, at least we’re not alone”.

I kept my eyes down on the ground, a stubbornness emotion held on my face. A look of pain that she knew too well. I nodded my head and looked at her as I realized just how right she was. I wasn’t alone. She found me. She came to me.

A smirk found its way across my face and she mirrored mine. I took off my ray bans so she could know she had my full attention. The sun hit my eyes hard and it caused me to squint. My right eye snapped shut at the sudden brightness and I brought my hand up to shield my eyes. “What’s your name?” I asked her, watching as she picked up the rock and threw it in the direction of the happy families. Luckily, it landed on the ground by their feet.

“Natasha Trace” she answered as she looked at me, shielding her own eyes.

[underthetree845]

Attack on Titan Characters’ Halloween Costumes (Headcannons)

What I think each of the Attack on Titan characters would dress up as for Halloween.

(Yes I know it’s June but I just had to get this out of my system)

Cws: modern au, college au, Halloween, I don't know what to put here really

Includes: Eren Jeager, Armin Arlert, Mikasa Ackerman, Jean Kirschtein, Sasha Braus, Niccolo, Connie Springer, Historia Reiss, Ymir, Marco Bott

Summary: What would some of the Attack on Titan characters wear if they all attended a Halloween party together in a modern au?

Eren- Solider

I’m seeing camouflage pants, a black compression shirt, combat boots, and maybe even those metal tags that soldiers wear around their neck. Mikasa is absolutely in love with the look, and jots it down in hopes of accidentally matching with him next year. Eren idolized the whole solider thing as a kid.

-

Armin- Milo Thatch from the animated Atlantis movie

If you don’t know who he is, Milo Thatch is a young explorer on a team that discovers The Lost City of Atlantis. He wears a long muted green trench coat, baggy army-colored explorer pants, a beige sweater, round glasses, white knee breeches, low-heeled dress shoes, and he carries around a brown cross body satchel with an old book. I feel like impersonating Milo would be so in-character for Armin, he could pull it off well. And he would look adorable.

-

Mikasa- This is partially influenced by Isayama’s modern au, but I’m just seeing her completely decked out in goth attire.

She would wear rose-patterned lace black leggings and matching gloves, high black boots, a black leather skirt and sleeveless top set, V neck with an abundance of chokers. Rings, probably. We all know her makeup game would be absolutely bomb (and perfect for the dim lighting of the party). If anything, her outfit is comparable to a Misa Amane (from Death Note) cosplay.

-

Jean- A Prince

He wants to have people falling over him so bad, and what better way than to show up as a literal prince for the Halloween party? Goes all out with a navy suit and gold buttons, matching pants, sleek dress shoes, does his hair nice, even carries a pocket watch on a gold chain tucked into his pocket. His mom probably helped him with the outfit. Eren absolutely dies when Jean tries to hit on a girl dressed as a princess at the party and she asks if he’s dressed up as George Washington (the first U.S. President).

-

Sasha/Niccolo- they go for a Ratatouille Remi and Linguini couple costume (Sasha wanted to and Niccolo loved her too much to say no).

You'd think that Niccolo, the actual cook, would the the chef, but no. Sasha wanted to be the chef because then she’d “get to taste test all the food.” Sasha goes out and buys Niccolo a fake rat nose and ears. He wears white loafers, grey sweatpants, a grey long-sleeved shirt, and Sasha paints three little black whiskers on each cheek. Niccolo lets Sasha borrow a chef’s uniform and hat from his restaurant and has to take a few deep breaths because the uniform matches the one he wears while he works and he loves that. Lots of selfies.

-

Connie- Wearing a goblin mask of some sort

This man has two primary goals on Halloween. One: to consume as much candy as humanly possible. Two: to scare the absolute living crap out of as many people as possible. Connie grew up with a few siblings, so his parents probably couldn’t spend a lot of money on each of their Halloween costumes growing up. They were probably given twenty bucks, take to spirit Halloween, and told to have at it. He’s also a relatively simple, straightforward person in general, so I feel like he drops by the convenience store like the day before Halloween and picks out the best goblin mask he can find. Wears dark jeans and a black hoodie so he can wait in the bushes outside the party to catch people by surprise. Armin’s soul almost leaves his body when he falls victim to one of Connie's jump scares.

-

Historia- An angel

I know this isn’t the most creative costume for her, but there was really no other option. Plus Ymir insisted and takes a million pictures once Historia is all done getting ready. She wears fluffy Angel wings, a well-crafted gold headpiece from Etsy to be the halo, and a sleeveless, pure white, almost floor-length dress with gold rings on the shoulders. Her makeup is soft and she seems to glow, even in the darkened lighting. She looks like she was sent from heaven. (Reiner stares so hard and Ymir keeps shoving him away).

-

Ymir- A basketball uniform

Now keep in mind, Ymir doesn’t actually play basketball (although I do feel like she’d be involved in a sports team of some kind). Her top is sleeveless and has a big 00 on the front and back. Ymir probably got it at the Walmart or some convenience store like Connie. Not the type to put too much effort into a Halloween costume unless she gets to do really gory makeup and scare people (which Historia does not allow her to).

-

Marco- A Hogwarts student

He and Armin are such nerds I love it. It’s probably a Hufflepuff robe, he wears the tie and everything. He carries around a wand he got off of some authentic seller. It’s real wood, he and Armin fanboy at the attention to detail since both of them have read the books.

-

The professors aren’t supposed to attend student-organized parties or gatherings, but everyone is fairly certain they saw a displeased-looking Levi chasing Hange wearing an inflatable dinosaur costume in the distance.

Thank you for reading!