penelopepine

[penelopepine]

Cupcake

They didnt know your birthday.

141 x neglected!f!reader

“Hey bonnie, you busy? I have a ton of paperwork to do but i was planning on- whats that?” Soap stops his rambling questions upon seeing me with an open flame.

I look down at the candle on the cupcake, it was halfway melted from when i had lit it. The wax was already mixing with the frosting.

“Yeah but its all good.” I say trying to sound light hearted.

I got up and pinched the flame out not bothering to make a wish.

“I can do the writing dont worry about it. Go have fun.” I say looking back to Soap in my doorway.

I walk over and softly grab the files in his hand, expecting him to hand them over easy and take his leave. Only he doesn’t, he doesn’t even move, he hadn’t looked away from the lone cupcake on the counter.

“Hey if im gonna do it i need the files.” I say trying to pull them out of his grasp without ripping them. Only then he looks down at me, i was surprised when i couldnt read his expression. The man was usually an open book, you could read him cover to cover without flipping the page.

“What is that.” It was more of a statement than a question, like he knew but couldn’t believe what it meant.

I look back to the treat i had bought myself, a little more than just confused now as i look back at him. “It’s a cupcake?” I say now skeptical. “Its not gonna bite you, relax.” I joke hoping he would snap out of it.

Soap stares at me still unreadable in the doorway, he takes the papers back and walked down the hall to presumably Prices room without another word. I close my door for the night, no need for anyone else to be upset with my presence today. It seemed no one was remotely happy with me all damn day and that for lack of better words was the cherry on top.

I hadnt expected anything to happen on my birthday, not really anyway. I hadnt brought up my birthday with the team and i had only joined the 141 less than 10 months ago. They hadnt asked and i never told so really it wouldve been my own fault if i had expected anything. But i had hoped for at least a happy birthday wish, as stupid as that sounds. I had thought for sure as the Captain, Price wouldve known my birthday and maybe he wouldve said something, anything. But wishful thinking can hurt worse than a bullet.

When i had emerged from my room this morning to find Gaz had started our usual run without me that had hurt a little, but no worries i can catch up or just run it alone. Only Gaz had stopped running after i started and had gone back to the barracks. I had shrugged it off then.

Later was Ghost, he quite literally ghosted me on training together, it was supposed to start at noon on the dot. Nothing, not a text, not a call, not even 4 hours later. It was when i was training recruits that i saw why, Ghost and Soap had been at the range all day. Shooting the new guns Soap and i had agreed to try out together.

So three of the four men i worked with day in and day out had done something completely out of character. Surely Price would break the cycle of today.

I decided to test it out, walking to his office across the base. I decide i need to start telling the guys more about myself, hell, did they know anything personal about me? They never really asked so i didnt worry about it. I knew so much about them, i could recall all of their favorite movies, food, drinks, guns, knife brands, i could even remember the family members theyve talked about and Soap had so many. But i cant remember telling them any of that about me. By the time i got to Prices office im so lost in thought i almost just walk on in. Luckily im pulled from my thoughts hearing Price on the phone, louder than normal.

“I dont care if the best is on my damn team i need to be able to trust every single person on it! Im not keeping someone if i cant trust them!” The other person talks calmer more trying to coax him to relax.

Price still raises his voice annoyed. “I don’ know shite about’em! Im done, im not having this conversation anymore.” Hanging up the phone he sighes loudly. I blink back tears in succession.

He didn’t trust me? I get not knowing much but i didn’t hide things from them, if they asked i wouldve told? I didn’t mean to make them not trust me, i just didn’t want to share if they didn’t want to know. I didn’t mean for this. I didn’t mean for any of it. How did it get this bad? How did i miss the signs of them pulling away, i hadnt seen anything different up until today.

But now it made sense, Gaz wouldn’t want to run with someone he couldn’t trust, Ghost would never train someone he didn’t trust, and why would Soap test guns with me? It was so obvious now.

I wipe my tear streaked face and walk quickly back to our- their, barracks. I couldn’t call it ours anymore, i wasn’t part of the team. Id need to pack, id need to find a new team again. Only i didn’t want to and that just caused me to cry again. I loved the guys with everything now, it took me so long to let them in and just as long to get Ghost to trust me, i thought everything was okay. It was so perfectly fine just 12 hours ago.

I walk into my room shutting the door quietly, packing wouldn’t take long, i didn’t have much. I hadnt joined with more than a duffel bag to my name. I could still fit everything in that bag in the corner of the room. But when i opened the fridge is when I remembered the cupcake i had bought myself.

Now here i was packing after Soap had walked out, i didn’t relight the candle, i didn’t really have a wish that could come true. The only one i could think of is that today hadn’t happened at all. But it was bound to happen if Price was that upset on the phone. Better to jump ship than to be pushed. I finish up packing and look around, nothing of mine, nothing that could show i had even been there at all except a lone cupcake on the counter. And thats exactly how i had lived before the 141, why would now be any different. Price had said in the beginning that i could change the room however i wanted, glad i didn’t.

Walking out of the barren room i could hear voices down the hall, some louder than others, seemed like an argument. I turned and began the walk to the front base gate, no longer do i need to worry them with my presence. No longer did they need to worry about an untrusted stranger.

Should i make a part 2?

[penelopepine]

cowboy ghost

[penelopepine]

HELLO MS. PEN!!!!! I recently read your Younger Years dp x dc fic on AO3 and I was wondering if you're ok with people turning your work into Podfics. I was really enjoyed reading it and thought it was so cute!!! I would like to record your work but if you'd prefer people not to then I understand. I just wanted your permission before I did anything and to tell you how much I loved it!! (Seriously you had me kicking my feet on the first chapter)

OMG thank you for loving my fic!! I’m going to be updating it again as soon as I can.

As for making a podfic I’m all for it, and I definitely give you permission to do that!

( PS if you’re interested in more of my dc x dp writing I do all of that on my sideblog @livinghalfway )

[penelopepine]

Price’s lil Wife Poly!141

Price’s rules for the boys

- work and home are separate. He can not stress this enough. No call signs used in the house. No ghost mask (told Simon this the very first time he met you. No mask. Not now. Not ever)

- soap used “gaz” once and price made him run laps around the neighborhood (the other housewives loved it)

- No talking about any mission any op. Complaining about recruits or higher ups was allowed. Only can talk about what happened on base.

- The missus was kind and pure and he would not let the type of work they do reach her

- When it came to what could and could not be done physically that was fully up to you “stop asking me. It’s her bloody body for christs sake” after the thousandth awkward “can I please fuck The Missus tonight 👉🏻👈🏻”

- If you wanted one of them one night? Just fine. All of them one night? Also fine

- In fact most things in this new relationship were completely up to you. If they stayed/lived in extra rooms, what they called you, how often and how they got to touch you

- Other than the No Work rule the only other thing Price (tried) to put his foot down on was “if she sends you a voice message. Don’t. Fucking. Open. It. In. Public” well that just seems weird now doesn’t it? No lil Mrs price was a lil tease and now she has more men to mess with????

- Only a week or so in to this whole thing Johnny was the first to get one and did he forget or just choose to ignore Price’s rule? The world may never know but he pressed play (full volume bc men always have their volume up for no reason) and the sweet sounds of you moaning his name played so fucking loud in the grocery store. The rest of the boys made the same mistake. Price tried to warn them, he really did.

[penelopepine]

Here we go again.

[penelopepine]

Soap, staring at Ghost across the room: He's a walking distraction

Gaz: Oh yes, what a sexy collarbone

Soap: YOU SAW HIS WHAT!?

Gaz: ... oh he changed his shirt

Soap: YOU-

Gaz: Wow, I've seen more than you. I even got to hold his hand during drills

Soap:

Gaz: Don’t explode, everyone has held his hand by this point

Soap: ... not me

Gaz: Loser

Soap: FUCK YOU

[penelopepine]

Graves: Is being a bitch a British thing?

Ghost & Gaz: *angry noises*

Soap: *snorts*

Gaz: ... bruv

Soap: I...

Ghost: You laughed at something Graves said

Soap:

[penelopepine]

the beloved bug boy 🪳🌟🌾

[penelopepine]

Ghost: We should get together and throw out all our trauma. Whoever gets horrified first has to buy everyone drinks for the month

Price: Hmm, fine. But you can't use any stories I've already heard

Ghost: Oh that's not fair

Gaz: ... what's my trauma?

Soap: Just tell us about one of your interrogations. I'm sure you got a good one in there

Gaz: The only good one I have is how I shocked a guy to the point his eyeball fell out of the socket

Ghost & Price:

Soap, quietly: Holy shit, Kyle

[penelopepine]

One of my Simon headcannons is you being a civilian cleaner on base that he's just a little obsessed with.

Next Part Series Masterlist

You dont have clearance for certain areas, mostly you just stick to cleaning bathrooms and mopping halls and emptying trash and stuff.

You're not very social. Mostly, you just stick to yourself and do your job and leave. In most people's eyes, you're an unremarkable footnote in the hundreds of people that walk through base every day.

Simon notices you though. To him you're everything.

He finds himself watching you when he has free time (sometimes when he's supposed to be busy). There's just something about you that calms him that he can't put his finger on.

Meanwhile, you've been silently freaking out because this giant ass army dude with a mask keeps watching you every day

Did you do something wrong????

Is he trying to catch you slacking on the job????

You're sweating

You can't lose your job because it has good benefits and you're taking care of your sister's kid and the base has a good daycare for staff.....

One day you confront him about it after he's followed you from the base cafeteria to the gym to the west wing bathrooms all day.

You literally just ask him what his deal is.

Ghosts just walks off without saying anything, leaving you more confused and lowkey pissed off

Meanwhile he's EMBARRASSED

He really didn't think you'd notice his 6'2 ass following you around, and when you confronted him, he had no idea what to say.

Watches you from a longer distance after that, but you still notice him.

You resigned yourself to having a scary shadow after that. Obviously, he wasn't going to talk to you, so you just kept to yourself and clock out at the end of your shift.

Scary dog privileges keep the other soldiers away at the very least.

Let me know if you're interested in more drabbles like this! I literally day dream about Simon to get through the day, and this is just one of the hundreds I've come up with at this point.

[penelopepine]

thinking about ghost dating a stripper and him being a bouncer at the club she works at 👀👀

Ooh he's such a big fucking MAN. The other girls think he's creepy but you sort of like that he doesn't talk much. You've never exchanged more than a "Hey can you bounce this guy" but he does it without question so he's gotta be an OK guy. Besides, it's gotta be boring seeing all of you strip all the time, and it's not like he could pay attention to the show even if he wanted to because he's constantly got to be on the lookout for actual creeps. So the guys pretty OK in your book.

The problem is he plays favorites with one of your regulars, and said regular has a penchant for getting overly handsy during lap dances no matter how many times he's told no touching. Unbounceable. Because every time you yell for Simon he gives you a look like he could eat you alive and it makes you want to recoil. Which sends you straight into the arms of his waiting friend.

Look, you know you're not supposed to fuck the bouncer but you need him on your side, and you're willing to use every tool in your toolbox to make that happen. If that means following him out during his smoke break and dropping to your knees so be it. Maybe you should consider keeping an ear out for any voyeurs while you're at it or you might find a different set of hands pushing you down Simon's thick cock and murmuring for you to swallow.

[penelopepine]

Soap:"what if graves was from like California?"

Gaz:"huh?"

Soap:" I just think it would be funny because he gives Texas vibes"

Gaz:

Gaz: "I don't get it..."

Soap:"the American reading this does.

[penelopepine]

Soap:"I like em sad and pathetic."

Gaz:"you're dating ghost?"

Soap:"yeah and he's just my type."

Gaz:

Gaz:"oh"

[penelopepine]

Guess who 🪳🪳🪳

[penelopepine]

Ghost: Just don't ever ask Soap to be your wingman, he's terrible Soap: Hey, it worked for you and Y/N didn't it? *flashback* Soap: Excuse me, Y/N? Simon needs someone to make out with *flashback ends* Y/N: I'm ashamed to say yeah it did

[penelopepine]

What did I do today you ask? Oh, just bought a house!!!!

[penelopepine]

still wakes the deep au | soap x f!reader

Installment 4/?: Something in the Water

prompt: You're an environmental scientist conducting research on an off-shore oil rig with only a few days left before you're slated to leave. The eldritch creature they accidentally awaken throws a wrench in the works. masterlist

There’s something in the water.

The numbers that stare back at you might as well be flashing red and sounding sirens. Your hands shake—like glass with too many cracks, you feel as if you’re standing on the edge of something but can’t look forward. Not because the abyss is too dark to see, but because someone is deliberately covering your eyes as you teeter along some uneven cliff.

This is the second time you’ve done the analysis. The first time, you were careful, but when you saw the results, you panicked. Maybe you forgot to calibrate the machine. Maybe the glass wasn’t cleaned properly, and all of your samples were therefore contaminated. Maybe you were just negligent, had done this sort of thing too many times, that you must have forgot some crucial step that skewed your numbers so terribly, there was no way to conclude anything but that your analysis was too poor to record.

You did it again this time. You had the manual out, and you crossed off the steps as you did them. Your math is correct. You’ve done it more than once, used a calculator for the basic algebra, in the event that perhaps your brain could not remember how to multiply, but the numbers stay the same. You shakily bring over the report you wrote the night before and compare them. The report looks worse. Something is changing, at a rapid pace, and you feel sick.

The rig groans, and you stand up abruptly from your seat. The chair you were seated in falls onto its side behind you, and you step backwards, until you hit the wall behind you, and you cover your face with your hands.

There’s something in the water.

As a scientist, your thoughts immediately try to come up with practical assumptions. From how you’ve observed the men on this rig, they try their best, but management is poor—perhaps they’ve let something slip through the cracks. Quality control declining, safety checks abandoned, perhaps in an effort to increase production, they’ve forgone proper training, and now there are men unknowingly wreaking havoc.

The thing is—you know what you saw. Oil and water do not mix; they are immiscible liquids that, because of their innate properties, separate and pull away from one another. What you saw was not a separation, and it wasn’t something else bridging the layer between oil and water—what you saw was something you have never seen before.

It glitters, shines. You saw it move, a very mind of its own, something microscopic almost and tentacle-like attaching to the edges of the glass sample. When you shook it, it hadn’t moved, just glittered, just stared.

No eyes, and yet you could feel it looking back at you. Something alive. Something not real and yet, you see it, just there—

As a scientist, you tell yourself that the ocean is vast. The ocean is unpredictable. What you see can be explained, but you just need a few books to look through, and this rig is not a fine collector of those kinds of things.

As someone who wants to get the fuck out of here, you know that something is wrong.

There’s something in the water.

You cannot sleep. You usually don’t anyways, but your work keeps you up now, keeps your eyes glued to the water-stained ceiling. You feel suffocated here. The four walls that surround you are tiny, and the ocean is so loud outside of your window. She never shuts up—she screams, pounding on the thick glass, pulling on the rivets and digging her nails into the metal so that you know of her disdain, her displeasure.

She doesn’t want you here. You are somewhere that you don’t belong. Manmade claws dug into her very skin, and she throws it back at you as a warning because she wants you to leave. You’re not supposed to be here. You didn’t ask her for permission, and now she’s telling you to go, but you know already that no one will listen.

When you send these reports, they won’t believe you. They’ll suspect contaminated samples, and they’ll ask you do it again, and when you come back to them with the same numbers, they’ll say you don’t know how to do your job.

You’ll warn them. You’ll scream. Maybe you’ll cry—maybe you’ll beg. When they realize you’re telling the truth, you know already that it’ll be too late.

It’s in the water. It’s in the water. It’s in the water.

You shake your flashlight, hitting the side of it until the yellow bulb flickers and turns on. You grab the knob of your door, unlocking it and pushing it open, and your feet carry you down the hall. There’s a satellite phone that you can use to call someone. You want to explain yourself, you want to tell them that you tried again, and that you didn’t fail. You know what you’re doing. There is science, there is knowing, but there is also instinct.

You pick up the satellite phone from its box in accommodations. You shake it, watching it come to life, and you take a seat on the floor as you spread your reports out in front of you and dial. It takes a few tries before anyone picks up, and even then, it’s difficult to hear them. The connection is noisy, but it’s enough.

“You cannot be serious.”

That’s what they tell you. Wrong, you’re wrong, it can’t be right, there was no need to waste an expensive phone call on an analysis that was simple and easily performed. Your lip trembles, and you try to find your voice, but it escapes you.

“No,” you whisper. “I swear. I swear. Something’s not right—we need to—”

One more time. You have to do it one more time. You toss the phone, clutching your head. Your hands tangle into your hair, and you pull, just to feel something. You need to make sure this is real. Your toes curl in your shoes, and when you feel the floor of the rig resist you, you know you’re not dreaming. You’re in the middle of the fucking ocean, and there’s—

The satellite phone crackles. The speaker enables, loud, and you flinch when the screen flashes, on and off, crackling with static. You hear distant laughter through the speaker, and you crawl to the phone to pick it up.

“Hello? Hello, who’s there?”

There’s a low chuckle on the other end. You recognize it. You can practically see his smile, pearly whites all too happy, innocent, masking the nasty thing it hides under the surface. You’d liken him to the ocean, but she doesn’t keep secrets the way he does. He hides everything he really is under a pretty face. He lures you in, takes a bite, and he swallows before anyone sees the chunk he takes out of you.

“S-Soap?”

The phone crackles, and when the screen fades out, and the speaker still sounds, your body goes cold.

“You didnae hear? ‘s in the water, bonnie.”

You’ve never been to his room. You know where it is; every time you walk past him here, he reminds you. He points at the door, his name scribbled on the plaque to the side, and he tells you this is where he is, if ye ever need me ta lend ye some soap. You usually tiptoe past it; even though there’s carpet throughout the accommodations section, you fear he has memorized how your footsteps sound, and you never have wanted to give him a reason to seek you out again, but now you’re standing here, in the middle of the night, frantically knocking.

The door swings open. The look on his face, though only there for a second, is nothing but pure disgust, anger, a dullness and a depth to those baby blues that you’ve never seen when you’ve ever looked into them. At the sight of you, his entire body relaxes.

He’s shirtless. Thick, pronounced pecs that your eyes fail to look away from that follow a solid middle. He’s hairy, a nice trail that lines his chest and falls under the band of his boxers, and they hug his thighs much too well, so much so that you can see him chub up just at the sight of you at his door. He smiles.

In just a moment, the depth of his ire disappears, like he flipped a switch as soon as he noticed it was you.

“Och…’n ta what do ah owe the pleasure? Had a nightmare, luvvie? ‘s nice ‘n warm ‘n my bed.”

“Why were you on the sat phone?” You snap. It’s the angriest you’ve ever been, you think. Your eyes are watery. Your anger is a defense for all the fear that lays just under the surface. “I heard your voice. What the hell did you mean? What did—”

“As much as ah’wud like ta spend all night listenin’ ta yer pretty voice, bonnie, ah’ve no idea what yer on about.” Soap leans against the doorway, raising a brow, and while he’s trying to be coy, you’re not having it.

“Why did you say that?” Your voice shakes this time. “W-What did you mean?”

“Bonnie—”

“It’s n-not right,” you spill. You hold up the papers in your hand, and Soap stands up straight when he notices the way your hands are trembling. He steps closer, into your space, and you stay there, rooted to your spot. You look up at him, pointing to the bottom of your reports where your math and algebra sit, and you shake your head. “Something’s wrong. I know it. I know this doesn’t mean a-anything to you, but no one is listening to me, there’s something wrong, there’s something—”

His kiss is wet. He swallows your words, tongue in your mouth, and you whine instinctively when he pinches your chin between two big fingers and tilts your head to the side so he can devour. His mouth is filled with saliva, as if he was drooling for you, and you open your mouth to taste him, leaning just that much closer so that the only air you breathe is each other’s. You open your mouth again to protest, getting just a whiff of clarity, but then those hands are on your ass, and he’s squeezing the fat of it in two hands and dragging you closer to him. Your palms move to brace yourself against his chest, and you note how warm he is. He radiates heat, and the muscle does not give, and if you were somewhere else, you would lower yourself and get your lips on the skin, suckle and bite and mark him. He’d look so pretty. He is so pretty. He’s fogging your head—his kiss distracts you. You wish you had more bite, but you do not. When he spits into your mouth, you swallow it, and that simple fact makes your eyes water with shame at how easy you let him have you.

“Shhh—shh…” Rough palms spread along your cheeks, thumbs fitting just under the curve and teasing the seam of your cunt, and you let out a strangled cry when you shake your head again and try to pull away.

“Please listen to me—!”

“Ah’m listening—”

“No, you’re not! There’s something in the water!”

When you are back in your bed, Soap is the one to tuck you in. He brushes the hair off of your face, cooing as he kneels beside the bed, and you’re staring at him through wet eyes. You are so sleep-deprived—you haven’t slept a full night in days, and you must look it. You feel it, because you’re letting Soap this close to you. You’re letting him drag his lips across your skin, letting his hands under your blanket, ignoring the way he thumbs just over your breast, your nipples pebbling at the slight tease of attention.

“Ye need some rest,” Soap murmurs. You sniffle, clutching the edge of the blanket, and when his hand draws back, you reach for it, holding it tight. He scrunches his nose just a little when your nails dig into his skin.

“You believe me, right?” You whisper. “P-Please say you believe me.”

“Ah believe ye,” Soap nods, “sure. Ah ken.”

You sit up a little, getting closer, and you squeeze his hand.

“Then why…you’re not scared.”

“Ah’m no’afraid of what isnae there,” he soothes you. Soap sits up on his knees, and you try not to think too hard about how large he looks leaning over you. He presses on your shoulders, until you lay back again, and he smiles down at you. It’s softer this time. He’s trying to relax you, and it’s working, just a little. “Ah’ve been out there, bonnie. Been workin’. She moans and groans real scary like, but dinnae worry—” He touches your cheek again, and you give him those eyes. Fuck, those eyes. “Ah’ll find ye if somethin’ ‘s off, bonnie. Yer safe.”

Safe.

When you’re alone again, another wet kiss drying against your lips, you feel anything but safe.

You would be more upset if you felt like he didn’t mean what he said—but he does, you know he does. Soap is like you in a way—practical. If while he was working, he noticed something off, he would know. He’s worked rigs like this before, he’d told you so, and you’ve worked with him long enough to know that Soap isn’t stupid. In fact, he’s the most competent person on the rig, maybe, and you’ve stared at his arms long enough to know that there is nothing half-assed or improper about the way he works. He is methodical, careful, and he knows the job well. Sometimes you see him press a big hand against one of the walls of the rig and close his eyes to listen. Like the ocean speaks to you, the rivets speak to Soap.

So why are they telling us different stories?

Opposites, just like yourself. You try to put distance between you and him, and you try to hate him. You tell yourself he’s been borderline harassing you, but then why is it that your feet gravitate towards him? Even when you don’t mean to, you’re in his proximity. You never go looking for him, and yet he is there. Your thoughts are filled with it, filled with him, and even when he goes, you can’t stop thinking about him.

Those eyes. Those hands. So much of him, that you want him between your teeth, and you know if you bit down, you’d meet delicious resistance, and in the face of panic and fear, his voice—like some lilt you must know, your heartbeat slows. What he says must be truth, even if it isn’t one you want to hear. Even if it’s something disgusting and terrible and obnoxious, Soap would never lie to you.

You’re so tender. When your fingers slip under the band of your sleep shorts, you find yourself so willing. You part your thighs a little, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to keep quiet when you feel how soaked you are. Your panties are ruined—so slick, sticking to your skin, and you peek it back to run two fingers between your folds and shake from how nice it feels.

When you close your eyes, you think of him.

You think about the oil under his fingernails. You think about what it might taste like if he stuck those big fingers into your mouth and pet your tongue with them—how bitter and foul the oil would be. You wonder if the salt of his skin would cancel it out or if he’d pity you and feed you his cock instead. When your fingertips slide and circle your clit, your back arches, and you think about what he would’ve done if instead of berate him, you simply had pushed him into his room a few hours ago and tested how quiet his mattress springs could be.

You’re ashamed, you think. Ashamed that someone like him could have you so out of sorts. So many different jobs, so many different men, but this one has you breathless. When you wet your fingers with your own cum, you remember the only thing in your head is him telling you that everything is okay. His unforgiving chest muscle under the palm of your hand, leaning over you to whisper in your ear, to kiss just where your jaw meets your throat.

Nothing amiss, bonnie. Ah’ave ye.

It isn’t the morning sun that wakes you.

Bleary, you sit up onto your elbows. You hear voices outside your room. Lots of footsteps. You get yourself out of bed, haphazardly slipping into clothes before opening the door and stepping out.

It’s eerily quiet in the hallway. You hear a heavy door shut in the distance, but then there is nothing. You flinch when something cold and wet hits your forehead, and when you look up, the ceiling is leaking. Water damage bleeds throughout the material there, more pronounced than before. You wipe the glob off your forehead, looking down at your hand, and your stomach drops when you see something sparkle. You cringe, shaking your hand, wiping it against your pants to dry them before moving again.

The air is too humid. The salt of the ocean tastes rancid. There is some meter somewhere, you think, that has hit its limit. What it measures, you’re not sure, but something is standing too close to an edge. It will either fall over or right itself, but there is no predictability and no balance in the middle of the ocean.

She will turn it which way she wants it to go, and today, you fear it won’t be in your favor.

You see it before you feel it. You make your way to a window on the far side of accommodations, one that looks out towards the rest of the rig. You can see sparks where men are working, large towers with cranes that are swinging. The fog is dense—you can’t see anything past the rig, just clouds that make the world around the rig seem small and void. You narrow your eyes when you see something shaking. You’re convinced that you’re off balance, that maybe it’s your knees shaking and not the metal cage you currently reside on.

It takes your breath away, the first blast. Something in the distance erupts just after a bright flashing light, and you feel it in your toes. You cry out when the force of it reaches where you are and throws you backwards, enough that you hit the wall behind you and crumple into a heap onto the floor. Something incredible must have broken apart—you can feel how heavy of a break just gave out underneath you, somewhere deep within the rig, suspiciously close to where the drill rests at the deep center of it all.

Your vision spots. Metal creaks and bends, giving out under some other kind of force, and you cower and cover your head with your arms when you hear a plethora of terrible, carrying screeches. Something surrounds you now. There’s air coming out of the ducts that smells off, and at the distance of it all, you hear the ocean.

She’s not sorry. She told you to leave. No one believed her, no one believed you.

When you finally uncover your face, you look around. Everything looks somewhat normal, but off kilter. You stand on shaky legs, continuing towards the kitchen, but just as you make it to the staircase, something blocks your way.

The walls have been broken through. Metal is shredded and bent backwards, giving way to something you can only describe as bizarre. Inhuman. Not of any kind.

Thick strands of pulsating flesh take up the stairway. In brilliant, large swirls, they come from somewhere outside, twisting and moving until they break through another wall and continue where you can’t follow. The sound of it—something sticky, wet, gooey with a pearl-like substance that drips. It shines, and you blink when you realize that you recognize the way it glitters, the way it catches the light.

There is something in the water.

It draws you closer. You can hear something from inside of it. The soft flesh of it, pink and fat with something you can’t decipher, beats to a rhythm that squeezes the organs inside of you. Your feet move without you telling them to, but just as you are about to get near it, a stringy arm of flesh breaks off from the pillar of it towards you.

You scream as you fly back from it, falling onto your back as you crawl away. The sticky end of it misses you just by an inch, landing and suctioning to the floor just beside your foot. You kick your feet, crawling away from it on your elbows, and you do the only thing you’ve thought about doing since you arrived—you run.

You see spots. Something glittery protrudes what you see, but you wipe the water out of your eyes and keep running. You’re losing it—this isn’t real. You’re in a dream, and all you have to do is wake up. You’re having a nightmare. When you wake up, you’ll run your analysis again with new samples, and the numbers will read normal, and you’ll pack your bags in preparation to leave, and you’ll do just that in such little time.

You won’t have to worry about the open waters, or the ocean that won’t forgive you. You’ll realize she can’t speak to you, and that it is all in your head. There is no angry woman under the surface. There is nothing throwing off the samples. There is no flesh breaking through the rig and trying to devour you. There is only you and the terrible things the mind can do.

You scream again when something grabs you. Flesh, warm, wrapping around you and holding you solid, breaking your run and forcing you against them. You scream and thrash, trying to break free, but then flesh speaks.

“‘s me! Christ, ‘s me, bonnie!”

A hand clamps over your mouth, and you stop. You blink through wet eyes, and when you can finally focus, you see him. When he knows you won’t scream, he lowers his hand.

“S-Soap?”

“Aye. Now quiet.”

“Soap…Soap, I saw—”

He puts a finger up to his lips, and your lips close. Your eyes widen when the rig groans, something breaking under your feet, glass and metal and the crack of destruction echoing against the fog.

In the distance, you hear a cry. It isn’t a cry you recognize. It gurgles, and it echoes, and something about it is just off enough that you know it can’t be explained. When you meet Soap’s eyes, you see the same conclusion in them. Finally, you see in them what you saw in yourself, what you could read on paper and see in the water and feel just under your ribs, making your heart beat against its cage like a frantic drum.

There was something in the water—and now it has come out.