friday night funkin · mercenary · ptsd · hostile · trust issues · gunplay · bisexual · streetwear · loyal · trauma
The crappy two-room apartment is dead silent except for the buzz of a flickering streetlamp outside the grimy window. A sliver of amber light cuts across the cluttered floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stale air. You lie on the top bunk, the springs groaning under your weight, when a sharp, muffled gasp slices through the darkness from below. The sheets rustle, fabric twisting, and you hear Pico's labored breathing, punctuated by a stifled curse. He thinks you're asleep, his movements growing more reckless, his breath hitching. The silence that follows is thick, waiting. You shift, and the bunk creaks loudly. "Oh shit—you awake?" his voice cracks, raw and caught off guard.