#just crunched that motherfucker

[shineyfish]

I love drinking canned drinks this is an optimal way to consume a beverage [PHYSICALLY RESTRAINING MYSELF FROM BITING THE CAN. DO NOT BITE THE FUCKING CAN. DO NOT-]

[splickedylit]

vivid childhood memory activated: stealing and eating entire heads of iceburg lettuce out of the fridge

[bookwyrminspiration]

sat down like okay. gotta be serious for a second to figure out this kink in my story. it might be annoying, it might take some effort, but it's crucial for the end result. and then 30 seconds in I realized I'd actually worked it out a few days ago

[froggierboy]

there should be a way to gain muscle that doesnt involve exercise

[fantabulisticity]

Waiting in the airport for 2 hours and someone is fucking C R U N C H I N G behind me and I am going to DIE

[refrigerated-conscience]

tell me why my back sounds like a glow stick then huh

[abyssruler]

the 7-eleven diaries

albedo, alhaitham, childe, scaramouche, venti x gn!reader

your job isn’t the best one out there, but it’s easy and keeps you from drowning in tuition fees and rent. working at a 7-eleven on a midnight shift was supposed to be peaceful, so why is it that you constantly find yourself being bothered by weird customers? (modern au)

fluff, comedy, crack, cashier employee reader, modern au, written for fluffvember!

ALBEDO

It’s difficult not to take notice of the perpetually tired college student (much like yourself) who always comes at the latest hours to order a cup of black coffee and a can of beer. The first time you saw him order that drink was a memorable one, if only because of the way your eyes had nearly popped out of their sockets when you saw him mix the two drinks in a large, empty slurpee cup and proceed to drink it all in a matter of seconds.

Another memorable time was when he came in with only enough money to buy a bottle of water, then took a seat at a table near the counter and took out a box full of what you initially presumed were cookies. It was a traumatizing memory you look back on with a shudder as you remember the way he crunched down on it like it was a piece of biscuit instead of a motherfucking spider.

“They’re surprisingly nutritional, full of protein and fibre. It leaves a strange aftertaste, but it’s a good substitute for dinner.”

Since then, you’ve made sure to keep some food ready in the microwave for him, free of charge. He just looked so pitiful sitting by himself with dark under-eyes and greasy hair — the very image of a normal college student — that you couldn’t help yourself from taking money out of your own pocket to help a fellow comrade.

One day, he came to the store with blown pupils and a sort of dazed look in his eyes, words slurring together as he tried to explain to you how he’s finally created an edible liquid that can keep sleep at bay for at least 120 hours…with some small side-effects, but it’ll wear off with time. That’s when you found out he was a bio-chemistry student well on his way to getting a PhD at his young age.

When questioned why he drank the liquid instead of having someone else do it, his response was, “To experience it firsthand, of course. The basis of research is accuracy and precision, how could I be remiss as to leave such an important experiment to someone who could, in their ignorance, fail to mention an important detail that their mind might have labeled as useless.”

You’re not quite sure how he’s still alive by this point.

But his weirdness aside, you resolve to take care of him in your own way, from a fellow tired college student to another. You remind him to get some sleep, steering him away from eating spiders and encouraging him to eat more meat.

“But I am eating meat?”

“Albedo, that’s a spider.”

“And are you saying that spiders do not possess meat?”

“Oh, for the love of—just eat the goddamn sandwich.”

You think he appreciates it, if the way he dedicated his latest thesis to you is any indication.

ALHAITHAM

You were in the middle of answering a math problem your professor assigned that morning, papers sprawled over the counter with you hunched over it, hand in your hair and trying not to pull at it in frustration over how difficult the problem was. And then he’d come in like an angel, all perfectly shiny hair and a no-nonsense look on his face, took one look at you and the papers scattered across the counter and said one sentence that saved your grade in math.

“You forgot to put a negative sign right there.”

That was the moment you decided that he must be an angel sent from heaven. He always grunts whenever you call him that, though whether it’s from amusement or annoyance remains to be seen.

He doesn’t visit the convenience store much, but when he does, he always spares the time to help you out with whatever assignment you were working on, sometimes even taking the initiative of asking if you need his assistance in answering a problem — though he says this on a much less nicer tone.

“Are you gonna make me do your homework again?”

“My professer didn’t assign me one today, surprisingly enough, so no.”

He seemed strangely disappointed when you told him no, but you chalked it up to him being some sort of math wiz who gets riled up by equations and the like. Seems like kind of guy too, what with all the times he’s made a subtle jab at your intelligence — or lack, thereof.

“How could you possibly need a paper to calculate the answer to four-hundred and thirty-two times fifty-eight?”

“Not all of us are smarter than Rukkhadevata like you.”

“Who?”

He’s not bad company, though that opinion stems solely from the fact that he helps you (solves it for you, more like) with all your homework. Not without making comments about you lazing about on the job and letting your customer answer your assignment for you. You respond in a mature way by making fun of him.

“I’ve never seen you without those earphones. Are you hiding a pair of large ears or something?”

“No.”

He refuses to elaborate more on the subject.

Sometimes you give him a drink, usually cola or juice, as thanks for helping you out. He takes it without question, taking sips from it as he tutors you about this and that, occasionally commenting about your job and how you’re only making yourself suffer by taking on midnight shifts. You don’t see why he cares. For all that you jokingly call him an angel, you know he’s far from actually being one.

You once saw him on campus reading a book by the library. It’s easy enough to come up to him and make conversation, handing him an unopened drink you just bought from a vending machine. It just feels wrong not to, more of a habit by this point.

It’s then that someone decides to dramatically drop his books to the ground and point at you and Alhaitham. The blonde guy gapes and asks how in the world Alhaitham managed not to scare you away. His eyes zero in on the can of grape juice on Alhaitham’s hand, and then he proceeds to laugh, asking Alhaitham since when did he decide to start drinking what he once called was an unhealthy drink composed of sugar and artificial flavoring.

You made a mental note of that response, and later that night, you decide to hand him a packaged biscuit. Nothing unhealthy there. Technically.

“Good. I was beginning to wonder if I should start taking medicine in case my stomach burst from the amount of cola you hand me.”

“You could’ve just not accepted, you know.”

“It was given to me. Not accepting would be considered rude.”

“Didn’t Kaveh say you threw a bottle of orange juice to his face after he gave you one?”

“I did.”

He refuses to elaborate more on the subject, but you’ve since resolved to only give him the healthiest thing you could find on the store—which isn’t much considering this is a 7-eleven, but hey, microwaved salad is still salad, right?

He grumbles about the radiation but eats the salad anyway. Another win for you, you suppose.

CHILDE

He came in near the end of your shift, lips busted and an eye swollen shut, blood splattered all over his clothes. The grin on his face should’ve hinted you at his lunacy, but you’ve always been blind to warnings and the like, so you went over the counter and helped him up from where he’s slumped over the chips and candies isle.

Aether, your co-worker and the one who’s about to take over from your shift, only looked at you with tired eyes, “It’s too early for this shit.” That was, of course, Aether’s way of basically saying, you’re on your own.

So you picked up the ginger lying on the linoleum floors, heaving his arm over your shoulder to drag him to the nearest pharmacy — never let it be said that you were just a bystander. He groaned as the movement bothered whatever injuries he may have, but he still looked at you with wide, strangely lightless eyes, as if only now registering your presence, and said, “Holy shit, you’re hot.”

After you finished dumping him on the pharmacy and leaving the people there baffled at what to do with an injured guy, he grabbed your wrist and, with a bloody smile he probably thought was charming, handed you a piece of paper containing his number.

You never text him. Or call.

He comes back to the store a week later with faint yellow bruises across his face and a far too bright grin for someone who’s visiting a 7-eleven at two in the morning. He pouts about not getting a single text from you, but before you can respond, he’s moving on to another topic, mindlessly picking up a box of tampons by the side and setting it on the counter.

He only seems to realize what he’s done when you give him a strange look.

“Tampons are, uh, great for bloody noses!”

“…Right.”

You weren’t convinced at all, but you decided to let it slide. He seemed like a genuine guy, if a bit too enthusiastic sometimes. His mouth never shuts ups, always going on about this and that, asking all sorts of questions that would’ve normally had most normal people backing away. But your brain isn’t exactly at its best condition and being sleep deprived for the better part of your life has made it less of a brain and more of an organ that just helps you get through the day.

You don’t know exactly why he stays to chat with you, buying ridiculous amounts of stuff that were frankly far too expensive just to have an excuse to talk to you. You don’t mind it much, especially when he’s a great deterrent for any unwanted petty thieves or middle school delinquents trying to rob your store every week or so.

Apparently, he’s got a reputation for being a bit of an adrenaline junkie and being willing to fight anything and everything that breathes. And apparently, word’s gotten out that he’s into you, like, really into you, so most guys who have less-than-well intentions have decided that robbing the local 7-eleven isn’t worth the trouble if it means having to deal with Ajax.

“Actually, it’s Tartaglia.”

“Tarantula?”

“No, Tartaglia. It’s my street name! Ajax just doesn’t inspire the same fear into other people’s hearts the same way Tartaglia does.”

“Whatever you say, Tortilla.”

“It’s Tartaglia!”

He never brings up the fact that you never call or text him back, even when he’s somehow gotten ahold of your number and started sending you memes and updates about his day. When asked, he just shrugs and says he’ll win you over eventually.

SCARAMOUCHE

It wasn’t intentional, and you’ll admit it was completely your fault, but did he have to be such an asshole about you dozing off on the counter?

“Have the standards really fallen so low that employees are now afforded to sleep on the job?”

Here was this guy at two in the morning, bemoaning society’s failure in raising the new generation to have a proper work ethic at a 7-eleven store. The guy had a rolex watch and clothes that looked like they were worth more than your monthly salary — you’re not one to judge other people’s appearances, but he’s the very image of nepotism. And frankly speaking, you’re of the opinion that rich people shouldn’t be entitled to an opinion on what the working class decides do with their life, like falling asleep on the job.

…And oh, you just said that out loud, didn’t you?

Oh well, your manager will understand.

The guy with a bowl cut leaves fuming, but not before slapping a wad of cash down the counter to pay for his stupidly expensive noodles, snarling at you to keep the change since you clearly need it more than him.

You do, in fact, keep the change. Money is money, whether it’s from your salary or a rich boy throwing a tantrum.

The next day in class, a bag slams down the seat beside you, and you’re met with the same rich boy from last night, a scowl painting his rather pretty face as he hisses lowly about how he’s surprised you can afford to go to college. Talk about holding a grudge, you would’ve forgotten all about him from last night if he hadn’t given you his change.

He fumes even more when you don’t give him any sort of reaction, merely nodding your head at him and turning back to the board to listen to your professor drone on about this and that. It’s rather difficult to focus, however, when he keeps muttering sarcastic comments and barbs to the teacher beneath his breath.

“If you even had an iota of charm about you, perhaps your wife wouldn’t have filed for a divorce.”

You choked on a laugh, hand coming up muffle the sound, but he clearly noticed, judging by the way he snaps his head to you, eyes wide and seemingly surprised you found it funny. You only smile at him, an amused little thing, but he quickly looked away and murmured something unintelligible beneath his breath, his fists clenched and the tips of his ears curiously pink.

He comes back to visit your job that night, still with that air of haughtiness about him but a bit toned down. Even more surprising was the fact he didn’t immediately leave the moment he handed you his money.

“Do you want the change?”

“Are you so desperate for money that you’d go begging a total stranger for some spare coin?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess.”

“Tch, fine. You can have it.”

He never fails to come back every night, always giving you the change for his bill, even when the amount is more than the items he paid for. Sometimes, he’ll even take out a snack or a drink from the bag and slide them over to you, cheeks suspiciously red as he did so.

“Don’t think this means anything. I’m only giving this to you because I know you can’t afford it.”

“It’s literally worth ten mora.”

“Would it kill you to at least give me a thank you?”

“Thank you, Kunikuzushi. I’ll be sure to treasure this can of cola that I would’ve never been able to afford without your help.”

“Shut up.”

He buys you a tub of ice cream the next night, the ridiculously expensive kind, to prove a point. The two of you eat it together at one of the tables, him grumbling about the stain on the table and the overall lack of quality and taste — at a 7-eleven — and you laughing whatever he says.

Well, you suppose he’s not as much of an asshole as you initially assumed.

VENTI

He’s a bit popular in campus, in the sense that nearly everyone is friends with him, which makes it impossible not to have heard about that one guy who’s really great at singing. You were, unfortunately, one of the few that aren’t well acquainted with him — aren’t acquainted with him at all.

So when he comes up to the counter, all boyish grin and ridiculously short shorts and a cute little pink hair clip keeping his bangs away from his face, holding an entire household’s worth of vodka and wine, you do what any rational semi-adult would do and look at him with a blank face.

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

He laughs at you like this is a common occurrence he faces on the daily before slapping down his ID on the counter. And huh, would you look at that, he’s even older than you are.

He then lights up once he gets a good look at you. “Hey, you’re Albedo’s friend, aren’t you?” He abandons his alcohol at the counter in favor of looking around your quaint little convenient store. “So this is that 7-eleven he keeps talking about…”

You’re not exactly sure what he’s going on about, but you do know he must be a friend of Albedo’s, which makes you ease up around him. He’s nice. Sort of. If you ignore the teasing and the jokes and the way he keeps asking you to give him a student discount. For alcohol. You’d given him what you hoped was your best imitation of Kunikuzushi’s stink eye. You think you got it on point, if the way he deflates is any indication.

He comes around the store every weekend, saying he’s here to get a little treat for the awful weekday he’s had. You never fail to remind him that he has class every Sunday, to which he responds by opening a can of beer (which he hasn’t paid for yet) and sitting on the counter, bemoaning the injustice of putting classes during the weekends.

You once asked him why he keeps hanging around this store when there’s a perfectly good bar right around the corner, owned by that popular red-haired business major from your university. Venti just laughed and said he prefers the quietness here — and the company, he added with a wag of his eyebrows. He always teases you, sometimes borderline flirting, but it’s easy enough to wave it away.

The day you discovered he was actually well known in campus was when your university hosted a local event. There’d been stalls and booths set up everywhere and even a little mock-stage put up near the center for any band or singer to perform in. It’d been nice to have a break from the monotonous routine of going to class and studying then working at your job and getting less than ideal sleep.

And then you heard your name booming out from the speakers, and you turn your head to see Venti on the stage with that little lyre he sometimes carries with him to the store, saying he’d like your opinion on a song or two he composed.

He dedicates the song to you in front of the entire student body, then proceeds to sing the cheesiest, most gut-wrenching and cringiest love song of all time.

“Why did you have to pick that song?”

“Because it’s fun and cute!”

“I sometimes question your ability to distinguish cute from horrifyingly monstrous.”

There’s a mortified look on your face, but amidst the embarrassment and the teasing remarks of his friends, there’s a smile on your face that you can’t bring yourself to wipe away.

i’ll be doing a part two on this but with diluc, dottore, kazuha, xiao, and zhongli!

@maehemthemisfit @sonder-paradise @96jnie @komiyaa @scaramouchenumber1fan @linn-a-a @wisteriaflowersss @ineriris @yesntforno @serramii @shadowmist0706 @jmgrule @imeanwatever @c00kie-cat @serramii @xtodorokismistressx @ieathairs @endlessmari @strawberryclumsy @serenity-ren-bliss @scarasbaby

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Day 268 and WTF is mostly done! I realized after saving that I forgot a bit of the shading, specifically on the hand and helmet, but oh well that's okay, I'll just get it tomorrow :D

[ghoulbrain]

mmm can we do: “Open your mouth,” before spitting into it. With ghoul x reader?

18+ ghoul x reader. you have a mighty bounty on your head with an order to be returned alive, but that doesn't mean your captor can't have a little fun with you along the way. kidnapping, deprivation, bribery, folks getting horny over water.

Fucked.

You're so completely fucked.

The worst of it all was that you'd been so close to making it out. You'd gotten far enough that you'd paid your weight in stolen caps to get safe passage away from your dead end life. You didn't have a cent left to your name when he found you.

The Ghoul.

Running didn't get you far. You couldn't bribe him. Begging only made him laugh.

He's got you bound thoroughly in coarse lithe rope. Your hands are clasped over your chest as if in prayer, and your elbows are tucked snugly to your ribs. The rope job makes for an excellent harness, and he hasn't been shy about yanking you by it.

It's been almost two days of this slog back towards the shithole you fled from. You fought hard at first, mouthing off at every opportunity, but the heat has worn you ragged, and this son of a bitch hasn't given you so much as a drop of water.

You collapse to your knees. Your throat is so dry, even breathing hurts.

"Trust me when I say you do not want me t'drag you the rest of the way, darlin'," he tells you, giving the rope a jerk. You barely manage not to fall flat on your face.

"At this rate you'll be dragging a corpse," you hiss, voice hoarse. "I need water."

The earth crunches beneath his boots as he approaches, crouching down near you. Roughly, he grabs hold of your chin, tilting your head up to look you over. He pinches your cheek with a thoughtful hum.

"Yeah, y'might just be right. Awfully dehydrated," he muses. You could swear he's enjoying your slow decline.

"Water," you repeat tersely.

"Y'know, for such a sweet face, you're a real sourpuss," he says, drawing his canteen from his satchel. You swallow dryly, too thirsty to even salivate. "I haven't heard a single 'please' outta that mouth of yours."

"I'm not going to beg for the life you're selling," you spit right back. This is the closest he's been to you since your capture. If you could gather wetness enough on your tongue, you'd be weighing the pros and cons of spitting that in his face instead.

He chuckles, unscrewing the lid. You can already smell the wetness of it. Your jaw aches. "Y'got chutzpah, I'll give y'that."

You lean forward, opening your mouth instinctively when he lifts the canteen. Please, please, please, please...

The Ghoul brings the canteen to his own gnarled lips, holding your gaze as he gulps once, twice, three times before drawing away with a satisfied aahh, humming like it's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. Your heart falls into your stomach.

"Oh," he says, looking from your dejected expressing to the canteen and back. "I'm sorry, did you want some?"

"You son of a-" you start, but he interrupts you with a sharp yank of the rope.

"Ah, ah. I've had just about enough of hearin' your gutter mouth," he says, but he doesn't sound it. His smile is downright chuffed. "Now, if you want so much as a drop of this, y'gonna say please."

You grit your teeth. Your pride is all you have left in this world, and apparently this motherfucker is determined to take that away, too. Your gaze drops to his mouth, where a rivulet of water rolls out from the corner. You're so desperate you almost lurch forward to lick the drop before it drips from his chin.

Steeling yourself, you drag your eyes back up to his. "Please," you say tightly.

The corner of his smile tics upwards. "Please what?"

You inhale a steadying breath. "Can I please have water?"

"That's much better," he says, lifting the canteen once more. "Open your mouth."

With a flood of tentative relief, still wary of his sincerity, you tip your head back and do as you're told, ignoring the wicked flicker of pleasure you see light in his black eyes.

"Now, if y'want a sip, keep that mouth open," he says, taking a long swig from the canteen. You stare in disbelief, beginning to protest, but he holds up a single gloved finger to silence you, humming sharply.

He swishes the water loudly in his mouth, and understanding dawns on you. Heat that rivals the arid desert sweeps through you in a hot rush of humiliation, but you refuse to let him see it. You refuse to back down.

Steadily, you open your mouth once again, chin jutting out defiantly.

He quirks a hairless brow beneath his hat, rolling the water from one side of his mouth to the other, as if daring you.

You push your tongue out, expression expectant.

He grabs hold of your chin and yanks you forward, fountaining the water into your open mouth, spitting to finish it off. You choke it down, trying not to cough for the amount of it that hit the back of your throat, your head hanging forward.

It feels like bliss on your tongue, soothing the burning dryness, but the relief of it is gone far too soon. You could easily guzzle a full bottle to yourself.

It's not enough.

After a beat, you lift your head, mouth once again open, tongue pushed forward.

The Ghoul laughs. You can feel his breath on what little moisture is left on your lips.

"Well now, don't you paint a pretty picture," he says, catching your chin in his grip again, pulling you forward. Resolutely, you keep your mouth open, waiting. His eyes flicker down to the sight of it, darkening. He licks his own lips as if he's the one deprived.

"Maybe you're worth the caps they're payin' for you after all," he says, drinking from the canteen. He moves even closer this time, tilting your head all the way back. His lips nearly brush yours while the water spills into your mouth.

You swallow it back greedily, little noises leaving your throat unbidden for the sheer relief of it. You swear you can feel the water rushing to your temples, soothing your pounding headache.

His thumb moves up your chin, collecting water you'd dribbled in your haste. He pushes it up over your bottom lip and into your mouth. Without thinking, you close your lips around the intrusion and suck, greedy for every last drop. His hold on you tenses.

You meet his gaze and in it you see dark prowling hunger. How much of his predator nature is he holding back right now? Would he sacrifice the caps if he thought you looked good enough to eat?

"Thanks," you say, voice little more than a rasp.

His jaw shifts like he's biting his tongue, and then he screws the lid back onto his canteen, hauling you up with him as he stands. He's rough with you, but not overly so.

If beggin' and cussin' don't work on the big bad Ghoul, you suppose you've got nothing to lose in trying to use good ol' fashioned manners to wriggle your way out of this.

Ghoul or not, what you just witnessed was a man's hunger, and that's something you can work with.

[piningforstan]

I just recently found your page and love your work!!

can you write an angsty Stan fic where reader and Stan are still dancing around their feelings and reader finally gets the courage to confess to Stan but maybe overhears a conversation with him and Ford out of context saying he won’t date them and r is crushed? Then cue r trying to move on and jealous!Stan and then they get together somehow?

Thank you!!💕

I ended up placing this fic when Stan and Ford are still in high school before their falling out. I apologize if the timeline with Carla isn’t canon, I just wanted to include her. Also, reader is mentioned as a female a few times but this can easily be read as gender neutral.

I hope you like it!

You loved alcohol as much as you loved getting bamboo shoots shoved under your nail beds. But Carla “Hotpants” McCorkle had just broken up with Stan, and it was your duty as his best friend to support him. And if that meant drinking cheap beer on the beach with his brother, then so be it.

“I thought she was the one,” Stan grumbled. He crunched his empty beer can, belched, then reached for another.

You rolled your eyes. “You say that about every girl. Even that one you saw in a dream.”

You knew because you kept a detailed record of Stan’s revolving door of women, each declaration of love another stake in your heart. Secretly, you were pleased that Carla ended things with Stan. You could never date him in fear of ruining your friendship, but that didn’t mean you liked to see him with other girls. Especially not stuck-up bitches like Carla.

“I just dunno what she sees in this new guy.”

“He doesn’t litter?” Ford answered. He nudged the growing pile of discarded cans with his foot. Stan’s brother never drank, but he certainly lamented about how much the two of you did.

Stan continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “So what he can play guitar. Anyone can do that.”

“Can you?”

“No.” Stan angrily kicked up sand. “But I would learn if I thought I had a chance of winning her back.”

“You don’t need her,” you told him. The beer in you warmed you from the inside out, initiating the familiar tingling sensation in your legs that happened when you drank. “You’re Stan motherfucking Pines.”

Stan grinned at you. “You’re right. I don’t need her.” After slurping down the rest of his beer, Stan grabbed the bottom of your chair and pulled you closer. He pressed a sloppy kiss to your temple.

It wasn’t anything you weren’t used to — Stan happened to be very affectionate, even worse when he was drunk — but it still sent your pulse skyrocketing.

“I got the only girl I need right here,” Stan said, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

Your insides turned molten. Of course, you loved when Stan called you “his girl” but the sting of the words were especially painful in the wake of his breakup. You would never actually be his girl in the way that it mattered.

You could never jeopardize your friendship with Stan, or Ford. You had been inseparable since you were children, when Stan received a particularly nasty note about you in class and instead of passing it on promptly ate it. You took a likening to him immediately. And, since Stan was never without his brother for very long, Ford became the reasonable cornerstone of your friendship.

It wasn’t until a few years ago that you realized you saw Stan as much more of a friend. To be specific, when he successfully grew out his mullet and you fawned over it instead of throwing up in your mouth. On anyone else you might’ve. But it weirdly fit Stan, who you’d watched go from a weird, skinned-knee little boy to a weird, broad-shouldered man with dark curls that you desperately wanted to run your hands through.

Ford shattered the moment. “Why don’t you guys just date then?”

You’d both been asked the question before. It was expected, when a boy and girl were friends. Parents, nosy teachers, old ladies peering at you from wiry glasses. Usually the two of you fielded the question with various degrees of hilarity — “he gave me an STD” or “that’s my sister!” — but tonight it felt profoundly different.

Perhaps it was because you were so close, physically. Or perhaps because you had confided in Ford the secret crush you harbored on his brother. You trusted him not to tell but to hear it now, spelled out in the air, made you stiffen.

“She knows all my disgusting habits,” Stan finally said to break the silence, “I couldn’t trick her into it.”

He grinned at you in your peripheral, a certain softness in the corners of his mouth that weren’t usually there. You rallied your best grin back,

“Yeah, it would be weird. Right?” You chuckled nervously.

Stan, with unprecedented exuberance, nodded in agreement. “S’weird. I’ve seen you in your retainer. Could never fool around with you after that.”

Ouch. You pretended it didn’t feel like a blow to the stomach. “And you smoke too much. It would be like kissing an exhaust pipe.”

“See? It could never work.” Stan tore another beer off the plastic rings, drained it, then announced he was going on a walk. You watched his retreating form until you were sure that he could no longer hear you.

You whipped around. “Ford! What was that?”

“I’m sick of you two dancing around the subject. If you just dated I wouldn’t have to sit out here every few months when you inevitably get dumped because you’re with the wrong person.”

You groaned and slid down in the lawn chair, covering your face with your hands. You actually liked the smoke that clung to Stan’s clothes, the deft flick of his thumb striking up the lighter. Why did you tell him you didn’t?

You’re a coward, your inner voice accused. You panicked. It wasn’t like you could exactly agree with Ford, especially not after what Stan said about your retainer. Did he mean that?

If he did, that was worse than anything else. Not only did he not harbor a secret attraction, but he was repulsed at the idea of you together.

Stan stumbled back down the beach a few minutes later, to your chagrin. It was much easier not to think of him when he wasn’t in front of you; even like this, swaying on his feet and looking slightly green.

“Stan, are you —?”

He lurched and fell face forward into the sand.

Ford glared at you like it was your fault. “This is the last time.”

“Sure. Just get his other side.”

“Thank you again, hun.” Caryn Pines smiled sweetly at you. The small kitchen smelled profusely of her perfume and cigarette smoke, wrapping around you like an embrace.

“Yeah, of course. No big deal.”

Caryn looked at you strangely, in that way that adults did sometimes. “You’re always takin’ care of my Stanley. I know he ‘ppreciates it, even if he doesn’t say it.”

“I couldn’t leave him on the beach.” You took a bite of the babka that Stan’s Ma put out, chewing thoughtfully. “Again.”

Caryn always tried to feed you when you came over, no matter how fleeting of a visit. You had seen her sneak the food out of packages and container and pass it off as her own, but you didn’t care. It encompassed her parenting abilities — well-meaning but slightly manufactured, a desire to be the mother that she wanted to be but not exactly the drive to put in the work.

Either way, you knew she loved you like her own.

“Ya know, I see the way he looks at you. And you look at him. It doesn’t take a psychic to figure it out,” Caryn said.

Your face warmed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He’s crazy ‘bout you. I know my Stanley.”

“But what if…what if we broke-up ? I can’t lose him in my life.” Tears strained your voice. Here you were, admitting your feelings to another Pines family member except for the one who actually needed to hear it.

Caryn clicked her tongue and edged around the island, pulling you into a hug. “But what if it’s great? What if it’s everything you imagined?”

“Maybe,” you said, muffled in her side.

Caryn gave you a final squeeze. “I could only pray for someone like you for my son. Say, you don’t happen to have a sibling for Ford, do ya?”

You shook your head. Caryn made a gesture like too bad then fiddled with the coffee machine.

“Here.” Caryn shoved a steaming mug in your direction, then wiped her hands on her dress. “Take this upstairs for me, will ya? I’ve gotta check on Shermie.”

You stood rooted in place for an embarrassing amount of time, mulling over what she had said. What if it was great? Your heart jumped. Maybe she was right. You would tell Stan.

Emboldened, you crept down the hall and past the living room. The TV flickered ghostly blue lights over the couch where Filbrick snored, and you were careful to avoid the creaky stairs. It wasn’t ever said aloud but everyone knew in the house not to disturb Pa after work. He wasn’t abusive, that you could tell, but somewhere on the verge of it.

Stan and Ford’s voice drifted from their shared bedroom — Stan’s gruff, drunken mumbles and Ford’s clever quips lined with affection.

You were going to tell him. You loved him.

A hitch of agitation in Stan’s voice made you pause at the first step, just out of earshot, a silver of light falling across you from the cracked door.

The delirious, bubbly feeling of excitement in your chest fluttered uncertainly.

“Oh, would give it a rest, Sixer?”

“Stan, I just think —”

“You know how I feel about her,” Stan interrupted. From your vantage point you could see him sprawled out on his bed, one hand over his face.

Her? Meaning you?

Your grip tightened on the mug. Here it was, the universe delivering you a sign that Caryn was right. That you were right.

The view didn’t offer any insight on Ford but you could hear his desk chair squeaking as he leaned backwards, contemplative. “And how do you feel about her?”

A beat of silence, the covers rustling as Stan lifted himself onto his elbows. “She’s my best friend.”

“Uh huh.”

“And-And of course I love her.”

“Uh huh.”

“But I could never date her.”

Your blood turned cold. What? Didn’t he just say that he loved you? Whatever brief, sweet bliss you had went plummeting into the ground. You turned away, coffee in hand, unable to listen to more.

Stan stared up at the ceiling, at the water stain that looked like an elephant. Sometimes when he tried to get his feelings out, the words would run circles around and around in his head until he chased them down. It didn’t help that he had drank so much.

Towards the end it wasn’t even really about Carla anymore, but you. You, with your dumb perfect face and laugh. The way that you stuck around despite knowing everything about him, about his family, leaving him feeling raw and infested like an overturned rock.

His stomach churned. Stan waited for the nausea to pass, pinning down his words before eking out, “I would fuck things up with her. It ain’t worth it. Losin’ her. Ya know?”

God he hoped he was making sense. The room was spinning and the elephant was now doing summersaults.

“I wouldn’t let you,” Ford quietly replied. “I know you love her. I’d stop you from fucking up.”

Stan laughed, dry and brittle. “No one can stop me. I’m a one man fuck-up.”

“You’ve never been one man.”

Stan curbed his nausea enough to look at his brother. Really look at him. Any other given day and he might’ve kicked him for saying something like that. His throat bobbed. “Yeah. Yer right.”

A moment passed between them, one of those brotherly, twin moments that he hadn’t felt since they were kids. Ford clapped his hands together.

“My first declaration of not letting you fuck up is to tell her tomorrow how you feel.”

“What? Tomorrow! No way.”

Ford narrowed his eyes. Stan waved a hand and flopped back down onto the bed, resigned. “Fine, fine. Hey, can you tell that elephant to stop moving? He’s bein’ a real dick.”

After that night, you avoided the Pines family like the plague, dodging after-class visits and letting calls go to the answering machine. Your parents asked where your “boyfriend” was, as they lovingly referred to him, but it only felt like salt in the wound. Stan would never be your boyfriend. He said it himself — he could never date you.

You hated the heavy grayness that clung to you, and most importantly, you hated that the one person you wanted to talk to about Stan was…Stan. And you couldn’t. How mortifying it would be to confess something so life altering for him to say that he only saw you as a friend.

Stan left message after message, wondering what he had done and if you could. But you couldn’t bear to see him. You ate lunch in the girl’s bathroom and nearly sprinted to your car after school, peeling out of the lot as soon as the final bell rang. He tried to come by your house, too. Your parents, loyal to you no matter how much they loved Stan, told him you weren’t there.

It was safe to say that, after a month of this, they were relieved when you stepped out of your room in actual clothes. Your mother actually clutched her pearls. “You look amazing. Where are you going? Did you make up with Stanley?”

You ignored that line of inquiry. “I have a date. Not with Stan,” you added, well aware that was the follow up question.

“Oh.” Your mother’s happiness faltered slightly. “Who with?”

“Just someone from school. I’ll make sure they drop me off before curfew.” You pretended to be oblivious to their probing stares, kissing them each on the cheek before striding out the front door to the idled car in the drive.

A dark shape shot out of the driver’s seat and scrambled to open up your door. Eugene glanced nervously at your house as you climbed in. “Are you sure you don’t want me to meet your folks?”

“I’m sure,” you said, monotone.

Eugene had been interested in you for a while now, but you always hedged your answers, not wanting to commit. Last week you finally said yes. You needed to get over Stan — even though the first thing you thought of was how he would laugh at Eugene for opening your door. You could just hear his rasping, seething laugh. Pussy, he would call Eugene, and you would punch him.

Throat thickening with tears, you forced yourself to admire Eugene in the glow of the streetlights that passed by. He was classically handsome. Smart, kind. A musician. Everything that, on paper, would make the perfect boyfriend. It was incredibly sweet that he wanted to meet your parents and open your car door.

Yet all you could think about was Stan: his untamed mullet and cauliflower ears from boxing, the nose slightly too large for his face that was crooked from all the fights he instigated. The braying sound of his laugh and how he thought it was funny to snap your bra strap. The fact that, beneath the jokes and the crude humor, he was soft and compassionate and an excellent artist. He always made you laugh. He was a million things that Eugene would never be.

But Eugene was one thing Stan wasn’t.

Interested in you.

You shoved all of that down by the time Eugene pulled up to your date, flashing him your most winning smile. A drive-in movie seemed innocent enough. You were confident that Eugene wouldn’t try to make any moves, but you still directed him to park near a minivan of children.

“Want to steal some candy from them?” You asked.

Eugene’s expression shifted as if you’d suggested something morally offensive. “What? From the kids?”

“I was just teasing,” you said. You hadn’t been.

Stan would’ve happily jumped at the offer, distracting the family with one of his wild stories while you snuck a pack of candy. The two of you would then share whatever snack and giggle the rest of the movie over your cleverness.

You felt like throwing up. Why couldn’t you stop thinking about Stan?

Abruptly you shoved open the door. “I’ll just go get snacks then.”

“Wait!” Eugene’s voice was muffled, you had already shot out of the car and nearly closed the door. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“I’ll pay,” Eugene said.

“It’s fine.”

You needed to get out. Needed to get away. Without waiting for any further questions, you slammed the door shut and stalked off towards the concessions. The night air was uncharacteristically cool, brushing over your flushed skin.

“Okay, calm down, you’re okay. You’re on a date with a nice guy,” you coached yourself.

“You’re on a date?”

You wheeled on your heel. Stan stood a few feet away, brow furrowed. His fur-lined jacket bulged with hidden contraband. “Stan?”

“You’re on a date?” He repeated, the timbre of his voice sinking dangerously low.

“Yes.” You raised your chin.

His jaw feathered. “I haven’t spoken to you in, like, a month. You’ve been dodgin’ my calls and avoidin’ me. What’s goin’ on? Now you’re on a date?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you bit back.

“You don’t?” Stan barked out a scathing laugh. “You just stopped talkin’ to me without any s’planation. What am I supposed to think?”

You stepped into line at concessions. “I don’t know, Stan.”

“Talk to me.” Your name on his tongue was a prayer. “Please. I can’t take this.”

A knot formed in your stomach. You ordered for you and Eugene then brushed past Stan, ignoring his protests. He followed you to Eugene’s car. You wretched open the door, intending to fling yourself inside, but Stan stopped it. He leaned down to peer at your date.

“Eugene? Really? This guy?”

Eugene sputtered. You gritted out, “Stan. Go. Away.”

Stan’s dark gaze bounced from you to Eugene, then back to you. The look on his face was unreadable. “Fine.”

The door shut with a resounding thud. It took all of your strength not to watch him walk away. You tore off the top of a box of M&M’s and shoveled the candies into your mouth.

“Was that Stan Pines? I thought you guys were, like, friends,” Eugene finally said.

“Not anymore.” The candies slid down your throat, suddenly dry and pasty.

“Oh.” Eugene pretended to fiddle with the radio, switching through stations. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Mercifully, the movie screen flickered to life and saved you from more awkward conversation. You kept putting handfuls of candy in your mouth to keep from talking or interacting with Eugene at all. Frankly, you just wanted this date to end.

Eugene respected your space, too, which only worsened your conflicting emotions of shame and regret. You wished you could apologize to him but you couldn’t form the words.

You were jerked from your self-loathing when a huge shadow played across the screen, disrupting the movie. Yells of outrage sounded from across the grassy knoll, until the dark shape on the screen split apart. The candy in your stomach threatened to come up. The profile was unmistakably Stan’s, confirming your theory when you twisted around to spot him in front of the projector, entangled with Carla McCorkle.

He grabbed her hand, smirking at the enraged onlookers, and ran off.

Carla? Again?

Eugene examined you. “Do you…want to go somewhere else?”

“Yes. Please.”

He took you to get Dairy Queen, then dropped you back off at home. The passing shadows in the window told you that your parents had anxiously been awaiting your arrival. Eugene moved to get out, to open your door again, but you laid a hand on his arm.

“I’m really sorry. About tonight,” you choked out.

Eugene smiled sadly. “It’s okay.”

You kissed his cheek and climbed out of the car, up the stairs to your house. Eugene waited until you were safely inside before pulling away.

School sucked. You were forced to see Stan with any number of girls. In fact, it seemed as if he was going out of his way to flaunt them, the lingering touches and kisses. It burned you inside.

He preferred anyone but you.

Another month passed, each day growing more and more unbearable without your best friend, without Ford, the reliable foundation of your friendship. With the end of school approaching, so was college, the awaiting jaws of a monster threatening to swallow you whole. You couldn’t even tell them that you got accepted into your dream school.

When a hand grabbed your arm, the familiar face following, you were struck with a swell of emotions. But it wasn’t Stan. The body was all wrong, the measured expression never once belonging to him but his brother. Ford’s eyes were pleading. “We need to talk.”

“Stan can’t know about this,” you said after consideration. Ford nodded.

He brought you into a deserted classroom. You lingered near the door, not sure what to say after all of this time.

“Stan is falling apart,” Ford said without preamble. “I don’t know what happened, but neither of you can continue like this.” A flicker of vulnerability crossed his features. “I can’t.”

You inhaled. It wasn’t fair to drag Ford into this, but it was hard not to. You could never make him side against Stan. “I just…I can’t do it.”

“Do what?”

You turned your face from him, ashamed. “I heard him. That night after we brought Stan home from the beach. He said…he said he could never date me.”

Ford’s face shutters closed. “Is that all you heard?”

“I didn’t need to stick around to hear about how abhorrent the thought of dating me is,” you replied, tone bitter.

Ford flipped open his messenger bag and rifled through it, muttering something that sounded a lot like “two idiots” before finding what he needed. He handed you a folded flyer. “Stan is throwing a party here this weekend.”

“And you’re telling me this because…?”

“You should go.”

You glanced at the paper. The address stated a beach not far from your usual haunt, promising alcohol and a good time. Leave it to Stan to make invitations to a party like this, complete with crude renditions of women in bikinis. You clutched the paper. “I’ll think about it.”

Ford was halfway out the door when he stopped. “He really misses you.”

The words resonated with you the rest of the day. Sometime between meeting with Ford and that weekend, you decided you would go. Eugene told you he couldn’t go, he had to study, so you informed your parents you were going out and that was that. They let you without complaint, probably because you had been moping around the house the last two months.

Tonight you donned your best dress, black and sparkling and totally inappropriate for a beach party but when you bought it, at the mall with the twins, Stan hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off you. There had been no reason to wear it until now and you secretly hoped he had forgotten about it so you could shock him all over again.

By the time you arrived, sweat had gathered at the base of your neck and dampened your hair. You regretted wearing the dress upon seeing the other girls in their bikinis and hotpants, and made a beeline for the keg to soothe your nerves.

The beer was sticky and warm. You sipped it, wishing that instead of being here with people you didn’t know (or care about) you were with Stan and Ford on lawn chairs. The usual. Instead you gazed out upon the rest of the party and found Ford, trapping someone into listening to his theories most likely, and Stan presiding over a beer pong games.

Almost as if your gaze was a beacon, Stan looked up immediately as you spotted him. A cord of familiarity, of affection, tied you together and you could feel its tug behind your navel.

Stan stormed over to you, kicking up sand in his wake. “What are you doing here?”

“Ford invited me.”

“He did?” Stan searched for his brother, who had conveniently found somewhere else to be. “Why are you here?”

“I got invited, remember?”

“Where’s Eugene? Is he here, too?”

“No.” You didn’t feel like giving him an explanation, didn’t need to. You especially didn’t want to tell Stan that it was because you were still in love with him.

His dark eyes hardened. “Where is he?”

“What does it matter to you?”

Stan’s mouth moved as if he was biting back a retort, debating whether to say it. He raked a hand through his hair. He spit. “It doesn’t.”

You spent the rest of the party drifting from place to place, never lingering long. The bonfire funneled smoke into the air, as inconsistent and tangible as you, a ghost on the outskirts. You’re not sure why you came, why Ford invited, why you were still here. The beer had given you a nice buzz, a certain looseness in your limbs, and you decided that was enough. You started up the sandy dunes, shoes in hand, when you heard the sand behind you being displaced by footsteps.

Stan followed you, silhouetted by the fire in an orange haze. “What do you want?”

“I’m walking you home.”

“No. You’re not.” You marched off.

He trailed behind. You thought that he might get bored or fed up and leave you alone but he persisted. Only once you hit the sidewalk did you furiously spin around. “What do you want?”

“I ain’t lettin’ you walk home by yourself,” he replied.

“I walked here by myself. I’m fine.”

Stan took a few steps toward you. “Just let me do this, okay?”

“It’s your party, you shouldn’t leave,” you replied.

“Exactly. My party. I can do what I want.” Stan drew to his full height, shoulders back, reminding you that without his rounded posture he cut an intimidating figure. But it wasn’t intimidation he sought, but protection — protection of you.

Your back molars gritted together. “Fine.”

It actually felt nice, relieving, actually, to walk side by side with him. He maintained a step or two behind you, undoubtedly sensing your anger, but you didn’t correct him. You stayed like that, your strange, wordless dance all the way to your house. When Stan moved as if to follow you inside, what he would’ve done before, you barred him from the door.

“You shouldn’t,” you told him softly.

His brow furrowed and Stan shoved his hands in the pocket of his jacket. The porch awning cast him half in shadows. “What did I do? I know you’re punishin’ me but what I can’t figure out is why.”

“I’m not…I’m not punishing you.” You wrapped your arms around yourself.

“Then what? Is it your new boyfriend?”

“Who, Eugene?” You shook your head. “No, this isn’t because of him. And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“He’s not?”

“No.”

“What ‘bout yer date?”

“It was just one time. And it was a mistake,” you admitted.

“Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

Stan’s infuriatingly handsome features were set in determination. You wanted to go to him, bury yourself in his chest and let him envelope you. But that same feeling twisted, grew sharp teeth that latched on and refused to let go.

“Why? What do you care?” You fired back. “You’ve been so busy with your tongue down every girl’s throat that I’m surprised you even noticed I wasn’t around.”

Something shifted in Stan, a spark igniting into an inferno. “You’ve been avoidin’ me and ignorin’ my calls, refusin’ to speak to me without telling me why. I don’t get it. If you’re so against me, then why do you care what I do?”

You hissed back, “I don’t. But it’s hard to miss when you’re dry humping your flavor of the week in front of the whole school.”

“How do you think I felt when I saw you with Eugene?”

You paused, his words soaking into your skin. The fist of anger in your stomach loosened at the pain in those words, if only slightly. “I didn’t know you were going to be there, Stan. And I didn’t think it would matter even if you were. You could never date me.”

“What?” Stan’s entire body stiffened.

“You said it yourself,” you said. You were loathed to say the words aloud, which made you cry, which only made you angry to be crying. “You could never date me.”

“When did I ever say that?”

“I heard you,” you said. You explained to him how you had overheard the conversation between him and Ford that night. He listened the entire time, quiet and unmoving.

Stan rubbed a hand over his face. “You didn’t stick around to find out why?”

“Sorry if I didn’t want to hear how repulsive and horrible I was,” you snapped.

“I told Ford that I couldn’t date you because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. The last few months have been hell, doll. Going without you every day has been…unbearable.” Stan brushed his knuckles over your cheek, tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “Please don’t make me go through that again.”

You leaned into his touch, eyes swimming with tears. “I’m sorry, Stan. I only did it because I couldn’t stand to be around you if you didn’t feel the same way.”

“Same way?” Stan’s mouth morphed into a tired, wistful smile. “I’ve loved you since that first day in class. Since you saw them passin’ that note and instead of bein’ upset you raised your chin.”

You faltered. “You love me?”

“Of course I love you.” Such a simple, genuine statement.

“Stan, I love you too. I’m so sorry —”

“No, I’m sorry. I should’ve just told you how I feel. I’m an idiot.”

You touched his arm. “No, you’re not. Well, you are, but not because of that. I was scared too. And I hurt you.”

“I’m tough.” Stan lifted your chin up, forcing you to look at him. In his face you saw a whole lifetime of memories, of laughter. “But you gotta promise me not to ignore me again. Messed me up so bad that Ford said he saw me stare at a wall for two days straight without sayin’ a word.”

“You? Not talking?”

“I know.” Stan shuddered. His composure softened a bit, examining you as if seeing you for the first time. “When I told you that you were my girl, I meant it. You’re the only girl for me.”

In way of reply, you grabbed the front of his jacket and pressed your lips to his.

You had kissed before, in middle school, just to get the first one over with. It had been brief and awkward, his front tooth clashing off yours. This kiss maintained the same level of comfort, of familiarity and safety, but charged with a current of passion. He kissed you like he had been waiting his whole life to do it again, pulling you into him in a frenzied manner.

Stan’s tongue ran over the seam of your lips, parting them so that he could slip inside, invited by your breath of surprise. You melted into him. Everything about him, this moment, felt right. Perfect. His hands in your hair and roving over the form-fitting dress you had worn for him, sighing and muttering praises on your flushed skin.

You didn’t stop until the porchlight flickered on and the front door ensnared you in its beam. Stan still held you to him, lips bruised, frozen. Your mother took one look at you entangled together on the porch and then sighed in relief.

“Well, finally.”

[psfortune]

Not over yet. - (1)

pairing: stalkerexbf!jungkook x female!reader

@ what was leah listening to? : one of the girls - the weeknd

⋆ summary. what do you do if your being stalked? call the police obviously. if you don't and something happens...you cant blame anyone.

⋆ warnings . 18+ mdni... dark/psychotic!jungkook, kidnapping, jk has no morals whatsoever, dirty talk, breeding kink, past relationship mentioned, fluff if you squint, unprotected sex , debatable happy ending , yandere elements, pwp , reader is a big overthinker, major angst dump, jungkook get jealous super easily, misunderstanding, jungkook is mean

Wordcount !!! 846 words ( short chapter )

no smut in this chapter but definitely in the next few. -

༉‧₊˚. this work is pure fiction. no acts performed in this are linked to the charecters that partake in the storyline. please refrain from reading if uncomfortable ༉‧₊˚.

He's been sitting there for hours now. Just sitting, not using the cracked mobile placed next to him or....even blinking? He is doing something obviously but not the most productive thing to do at all.

Watching you.

If you said that was the most creepy thing you've experienced today, you'd be wrong. Completely fucking wrong. What had you done to deserve this? To be locked in this shitty basement on a mattress that must have been bought in the medieval times, that is if they even had mattresses in those times. You'd been Jeon motherfucking Jungkook's girlfriend. Your stomach let out the most horrifying growl which broke the deafening silence.

A low chuckle echoed around the room as footsteps padded towards you. You held your breath and snapped your eyes shut. Trying your hardest to act like you were sleeping. Too bad you never payed attention in the classes your mother splurged on.

' Oh darling...you've never been the best at acting have you? ' a husky voice said. ' I know you're awake. ' a hand brushed your face, your body shivered involuntarily as it trailed down. hooking your chin and forcing you to look up.

Anyone would say he's a beautiful sight. A fallen angel perhaps. Not you though. To you he's the devil on earth. Fucking satan maybe.

He's a Monster.

⸻ . ࣪   . 　♪⃝ Flashback....2 years ago

' Morning love, ' Jungkook sighed. ' sorry for waking you up so early, I completely forgot about the meeting '

You smile at him and peck his cheek, ' Thats okay, I needed to wake up anyway ' you mutter while buttering a slice of bread. Jungkook gives you a side-ways glance ' Why's that? ' he says absent-mindedly, picking up his phone you check unread emails from work. ' I'm meeting up with a few friends from high-school, sort of a reunion i guess' you say awkwardly, hoping begging internally he won't ask which friends. ' That's nice....who's gonna be there? ' well, shit. the universe is definitely not on your side today. ' oh......uhm, just Lilya, Ana, maybe Siena and a few others ' it wasn't lying....they were going to be there...you just hadn't listed the names of ' a few others '. Luckily, Jungkook bought it, relief flooded your face as he walked out the door.........after a rather long make-out session. He did love his kisses, you smirk.

Everything was great. You had missed your old friends. As it was shown, so did they. You had especially missed one person in particular. Your best friend...Min Yoongi. You sweared you weren't crying when you pulled away from a bone-crunching hug that probably lasted a few minutes but it felt that a few seconds. That made you realize how long it'd been since you had seen him. You sat next to him when eating,smiled at him as much as you could, making the most out of the day......it was perfect.

until it wasn't

You turned your back for two seconds tops. You heard a low groan and whipped round only to find yoongi lying on the floor face-down a shadow cast across his body.

jungkook's shadow.

He stared at you with bloodshot eyes,his large frame shaking with rage. The room was quiet. deadly silent. then broken by the scared whisper of a worker as she whispered into the telephone, undebatably to the police.

' what do you think your doing huh?! FUCKING LIAR ! ' lilya, ana ....and maybe siena ' ' he says mocking you ' AND NOW I SEE YOU WITH THIS PIECE OF SHIT HUH? ' he let out a low sigh

Jungkook's eyes switched from yours to the workers and anguish washed over his face, he frowned and grabbed your arm.

' Hurry up, love. If we leave now we can get away.....love? ' it was too quick. the change in tone that is. Something bad will happen if you go with him. You just know it. So of course you stay rooted to the spot. he looked at you a questionable look etched on his face as he kept trying to pull you along with him.

You shake him off ' No. ' you state. Jungkook looked bewilderered ' What do you mean no? Babe there's no time hurry up. ' you shake your head ' No. Jungkook. I mean it. I'm done. This, ' you beckon around and point at him then yourself ' is done ' you finish.

In a moment of anger he lunges at you and grips your hair pulling it hard, making you gasp ' you fucking slut. you're leaving me? ha...this is for him isn't it ' he points at yoongi's still unconscious figure on the floor. ' you've been cheating on me haven't you, well listen here you- ' he never finished that sentence as several police officers strode in and manhandled jungkook until the hadcuffs were securely on his wrists. What Jungkook had done was assault. That was 6 months in prison. Minimum. As the officers dragged him out of the place he shouted something that made your blood curdle.

' you wait bitch. i'll come for you. just wait '

⸻ . ࣪   . 　♪⃝ Present......

You scurry away from him desperately ' JUNGKOOK....PLEASE. ' you sob out ' WE'RE OVER JUST LEAVE ME ALONE !!! '

he chuckles darkly

' but darling we're not over. not yet '

oh my lord.....i cant believe i just wrote that 😭

this is my first post and it going to be a series so... make sure to read the next few chapters 💗

[pandagyaru]

"Jasper, don't you think this is a little risky? And high?" You ask, clutching onto his shirt. Your finger nails catching onto the fibers. He grabs your hand, taking it off his shirt and into his own.

"Would I ever put you in a situation where you get hurt?" He asks, nuzzling into you. You look below you, at the ground covered in sparkling layers of snow. From up there in the trees it looks quite pretty, you stare at it for a short while; contemplating what you're going to say. (Completely not getting blinded by it)

"No, but I don't see how jumping from tree to tree is supposed to be fun for me" You deadpan, looking up at him and falsely glaring; a puff of air coming out of your mouth. His gold eyes watching as it disappears.

"You'll see pumpkin" He declares, grabbing your waist with one arm and jumping to the next set of trees with the other.

"You do realize if you DROP me. I won't just get up and walk it off like you would, right?" You whimper to him, grabbing him tighter as not to perish in the snow below.

"Well good news, we're where I wanted to go" He brushes branches out of the way to reveal a beautifully reserved clearing, which you assumed would have flowers covering it fully if it weren't for the snow. Jasper turns to tell you something but he stops at the sight of you staring in awe at a deer. It slowly walks into view, sniffing the ground as it looks for a place to just lay down and relax.

"Jasper! Look at it! Isnt it cute!?" You whisper to him, watching to make sure the deer doesn't hear you. He's still looking at you, a smile appearing on his face.

"Yeah it is" He whispers back. You turn to look at him and sees he's staring right back at you. Your face burns from the contrast of the cold air and your now warm face.

"The deer! Not me!!" You hit him on the arm. He chuckles and tightens his grip on you so he can jump down from the tree. The sound of his feet hitting the snow scares away the deer, causing you to pout. He sets you down.

"You scared it away!" You yell at him, walking into the clearing and just plop yourself down in the snow. The crunching of newly laid snow fills the silence. (You ever see people write "a pregnant pause" motherfucker what?!) You lay back and put your hands out above you, the sky is a cloudy grey color compared to the white on the ground and trees.

"Looks like it's about to snow again sugar" Jasper states, coming to lay next to you. You turn your head to make eye contact with him. (I hate eye contact 😭😭)

"Hey wait. Since your body temp is cold, do you not get cold from the snow?" You ask, starting to flail your arms about in a snow angel formation.

"Not really. Doesn't mean I won't bundle up in blankets tho" He tells you, turning on his side and propping his head up with his arm. You stop making snow angels and just stare at him. The beauty of his sparkly skin with the sparkling white snow, you wish you had brought your phone. (Wait, I know like non twilight vampires can't show up in pictures, is it the same for twilight vampires?? If it is the same, shhhhh)

"Should we be heading back? You're shivering" He asks, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him.

"Maybe, I can already not feel my fingers" You muttered, blowing hot air onto your hands. He chuckles.

"Let's go home then beloved"

At home

"Ahhhhh" you sighed out as Jasper wrapped another blanket around you. He stands up and looks over you.

"You warm?"

"Like a damn burrito" You joke, sticking your hand out of the blanket and reaching for him.

"Are you sure you need me up against you?"

"I always need you up against me" You tease, grabbing him. He rolls his eyes but then he smiles.

"You're dirty"

"Yeah but you like it"

It's kinda short but I have no idea how to write for this man. LOVE YA

[spockandawe]

You know what I can't get enough of? Speculation about what the fictional novel Proud Immortal Demon Way says about its fictional author. Because it would be completely possible to make a story like this without that connection. I'm not sure I've read any other transmigration story where the author was a character, so just that addition adds a lot of interesting texture to the situation even without getting deep in the author's head, but it's so interesting how deep I can speculate in so many directions if I think about getting in his head.

And oh man, I could talk for AGES about how Shang Qinghua and his iconic protagonist reflect each other, but a lot of people have written about that already! Including in the medium of fic, which is my favorite way to consume that kind of crunch. So let's talk about familial neglect and mistreatment and the author's favorite character.

Honestly, when I look at how iconic this ship is, I'm astonished there aren't more hit novels where the author gets yeeted into their own book and has to navigate platonic or romantic relationships with their own characters. A lot of the parallels between Shang Qinghua and Luo Binghe are about them being alike in ugly and vulnerable ways, ways I don't think either of them likes about themselves, and regarding aspects of their personalities that I don't think they'd be happy discussing period. Like, Binghe very much hates himself, that's right there on the page. And Shang Qinghua is a ridiculous character, he's very funny, but he's also not stupid. He's very aware of who he is and what he is, and makes a decision to behave the ways he does. I'm typing this up because I was scrolling through an old chat looking for something and tripped across a conversation about shang qinghua and fawn trauma response.

He knows he does this thing! He has an easy opening to turbokill Mobei-jun while he's unconscious and decides to go the route of begging for his life and trying to ingratiate himself after Mobei-jun wakes up instead, which is a much trickier process. He says it himself, that Mobei-jun is his ideal, that he embodies everything Shang Qinghua wants to be, that etc. And that's hilarious and all, especially in light of the eventual romance and the clownery it takes to get there, but in classic svsss fashion, it also becomes a lot sadder when you add up all the pieces and see everything Shang Qinghua hates about himself.

In some ways he's an even more avoidant narrator than Shen Qingqiu, he deflects and jokes like a motherfucker, so it really is a matter of assembling all the pieces and seeing where there are gaps. But what really underscored the connection for me was Mobei-jun's reaction to parental neglect. Because that's what pushed Shang Qinghua into being an author in the first place, his parents divorced and remarried and kinda just.... forgot about him.

Mobei-jun's dad doesn't exactly do that, but he is operating without a mom in the picture, and rather than remarrying, he just chooses to ignore the thing where his shitty brother is persistently trying to kill his son. That really sucks! But Mobei-jun never shows the smallest hint of weakness or vulnerability over this, even when it would have really helped to use his words, like 'hi my uncle is coming to kill me and i trust you to protect me.' He's everything cool, aloof, arrogant, proud, all a bunch of adjectives that really do not apply to Shang Qinghua. Mobei-jun honestly looks like a boring character if you just stick to the main story, because he's so self-contained and controlled. Compare and contrast to Shang Qinghua, who accidentally outs himself as a transmigrator like two minutes after showing up and proceeds to be hilarious for the rest of the book.

(Brief aside to say that I don't think Mobei-jun is necessarily a happier or healthier person for all of this, lmao. The conversation that fawn reaction thing came from was talking about freeze (tee hee) versus fawn in response to threats or stressful situations. But that goes along with the svsss theme of people used to engaging with this universe as a fictional property coming to terms with the depth and complexity of other people's emotions and not just seeing them as simplistic not-real characters in a book)

(Additionally, this makes the ship hilarious as a take on 'opposites attract,' but also it gives me actual Emotions that Shang Qinghua's ideal who he wishes he could be, purely incidentally, he is able to value and love Shang Qinghua in a way that Shang Qinghua can't and doesn't seem to totally understand)

And what's very interesting here. Is that Shang Qinghua made these two characters, Luo Binghe and Mobei-jun. His protagonist ultimately reflects a lot of his own vulnerabilities and insecurities (secretly and quietly in pidw, much more.... overtly in svsss), and Mobei-jun corrects for his vulnerabilities and insecurities. He's the person Shang Qinghua wishes he could be, which is basically... the opposite of Shang Qinghua, to an almost comical degree. And he then gives Mobei-jun the VERY BEST plot armor he can devise. It's hard for a male character to exist near a stallion protagonist without getting swept up in rivalries/suspicions/etc and getting killed by the protagonist, but he makes sure that his favorite character is safe from these things. He's protecting the character he wishes he could be from the character whose faults most reflect his own. That is very sweet and weird and sad, and that's very reflective of the svsss experience, I think.

[seattlesellie]

mirage

pairing: ellie williams x reader

summary: ellie doesnt like you. she cant. and then she does. but fuck, she cant.

warnings: suggestive themes, cursing, not proofread, lowercase on purpose

authors note: just wrote this on my phone. lil blurb abt ellie and u on a hot summer day and theres nothing i love more than ellie being pissed and reader being a sunshine, literally.

it was a hot, summer day. one of those days where your lips get swollen from the dryness of the air, and your breathing gets heavier with every step you take. the sun was cooking you up, quite literally. you could just feel the stinging pain of the sunburn forming on your shoulders.

what didn’t help this situation was at all was patrol. neither was the fact that your patrol partner was ellie. ellie motherfucking williams. the one girl that made your blood boil, the only person in the world you had to walk on fucking eggshells with, since every word you said, every sentence you formed, seemed to piss her off. she was like a mosquito to you, buzzing in your ear, not letting you sleep, never giving you any peace. was it your sweet voice that made her mad? was it your light steps, compared to her heavy ones? was it maybe the sound of your laughter filling up the room - every time she walked in? you couldn’t quite point your finger at it. something about you ate her up alive, biting forcefully.

“just fucking walk already” she said, dominating as ever. it wasnt her fault the flowers bloomed so beautifully - you had to get another look.

you stared her down, frowning at her demand, still crunched up with your nose deep in the blossom of the white daisies.

“i just wanted to see the fucking flowers, ellie. lighten up, jeez” you said, getting up quickly, trying to hide the fact that you were hurt at her words. it wasnt like you liked her or anything, but something about her made you want, no, need her to accept you. everyone else did. dina fucking loved you from the moment you walked in to jackson, all hurt and disheveled, jesse thought you were the fucking coolest and hell - even joel took a liking to you. everyone but her.

“just be useful for once and walk” she demanded, yet again.

you picked out a small flower, sighing at your patrol partner’s unwanted words.

“we need to clear this house and then you can go flower picking or whatever the fuck” ellie said, rolling her eyes so far back into her head you thought she might have an aneurism. her voice was stinging you harder than a bee.

“fine” you muttered. if you weren’t so small, figuratively speaking, compared to the auburn haired girl, you might have even cussed her out. told her she could go fuck off, do the patrol on her own and abandon you. but you couldn’t, because you were you, and she was ellie, and she always got the last word.

“fine” she spat back, and threw her hand ever so carelessly at the air so you could get the clue and follow her lead.

you followed her, keeping quite a large distance between the two of you. somehow, you swore to god himself, you could feel her. she wasn’t even close to you at that point, and yet her presence was still haunting you in the most physical sense of the word. her steps on the drying leaves - loud, stomping them. mad. her backpack - slamming against her back, making a small thump with every hit.

“could you walk any louder?” you said, raising your voice so she could hear you over the sounds of her own stomps.

“i could, actually” ellie retreated, sarcastic as ever. her voice was dry - was it her annoyance at her inexperienced, ever so easily distracted patrol partner? or was it the hot, dry, summer air bathing in her lungs?

she started purposely stomping even harder, all in order to piss you off. she loved seeing just what made you tick. one step closer to breaking you completely. for some reason - she needed it. needed you to tell her you were done, needed you to tell her to back off, to stop being so fucking mean. but you never did. the why of it all killed her. why didn’t you just put her in her place? why didnt you snap already? and why did she need to know so damn bad?

“real mature” you said, followed by a deep sigh. honestly, you were too busy focusing on how your sweat made your white tank top stick to the bottom of your breasts right now. too busy by your own uncomfortableness to give in to her bickering.

and then - you spotted it. the clear water almost blinding you with the reflection of the glistening sun. a lake. the lake. dina told you all about it, how when you take this patrol road, theres the most beautiful lake hidden by a number of trees. how jesse and her were convinced they were hallucinating as a result of the glaring sun, but when they realized it was real, not some mirage, they ran so fast dina almost tripped on a wire and took a dip, getting lost at the feeling of the cool water against their burning skin.

“ellie!” you shouted with excitement, like a little kid who spotted his favorite gummy at the candy store. when she didnt turn around - pretending to ignore you, you ran so fast to her you practically almost bumped into her back.

“ellie, look!” you exclaimed, pulling at her backpack and physically turning her around. she seemed startled, looking for any signs of danger, ignoring the huge smile on your face that would have pointed to her that the only danger was you.

“what? what?” she said, a bit frantic, already reaching over with her hand to grab her trusty switchblade. infected she could handle - but you and infected? she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pull through.

“the lake!” you were jumping up and down, still holding the back of her backpack, making her move with every leap.

she looked at you with a confused face, eyebrows squint together, her nose slightly scrunched. if you didnt find her so insufferable, you might have even thought that was the cutest face youve ever seen.

“wha…- what lake?” she said, eyes scanning the area. ellie williams - the ever so diligent.

“are you blind? look-“ you said, pointing at a bunch of trees.

“are you okay? are you having a heatstroke?” ellie said, half serious - half amused, looking at you up and down.

“just-“ you said, and grabbed her arm forcefully in order to guide her through. she didnt know if you could feel it, or if she had imagined it, but the contact of your small hand on her wrist made her pulse fasten. or maybe - it was the possibility of danger. she would definitely have preferred the latter. that was her reason to her heart dropping to her boxers. danger, not you. not the touch of the pretty girl, definitely not that.

she let you guide her - while her conflicting thoughts ate her burning skin up.

“faster, ellie c’mon!” you said, panting as you walked faster and faster, dragging the girl behind you.

jesus. those words, coming out of your delicate lips, they arose something in her, yet again. did she wish you said them in a different context? shit up, stupid fucking brain, shut the fuck up. the green eyed girl thought to herself. not her.

“i swear to god - if youre trying to kill me or something, ill fucking stab you” she said, still following your lead.

“you would be dead” you extorted back, with a stupid grin on your face you were grateful she didn’t catch. as if.

finally, you were there. you weren’t hallucinating, this was a fucking lake. and if you weren’t with that certain auburn haired girl, you would have taken all your clothes off and jumped right in. gosh, it was so fucking tempting.

“ta da!” you said, beaming, borderline salivating at the thought of the cool clear water caressing your skin.

“no” she deadpanned and walked away slowly, eyes glued to the lake, and then to you.

“i’m not doing that” ellie said.

“what? you cant swim?” you said, poking at her shoulder.

playful. you were being playful. and she didn’t know how to fucking react.

“i can fucking swim” she said with a sigh, hand forming a fist. what an grumpy toddler you thought to yourself.

“were on fucking patrol, y/n, i’m not going in” she said, certain of herself. she wasn’t supposed to lose control around you.

“suit yourself, williams, i’m taking a dip” you said with a sly smile, batting your eyelashes sarcastically at the girl. she let out a small chuckle, and then coughed.

she doesn’t get to have you like this, ellie, get it fucking together.

and then, without warning - you started stripping, desperately trying to get the sticky fabric away from you.

“jesus” she said with a loud voice, panicked look on her face - as if she walked in on someone doing the wrong thing. her eyes were flickering over everything that wasnt you. the tree, the ground, her feet, the lake. she could have turned around, she knew she could. but that wouldve made it even weirder.

first - it was your tank top. and then - your pants. and stupidly enough, you thought you could make her laugh. so what you did - was starting to unclasp your delicate pink bra, almost taking it off.

“what the fuck?!” ellie panicked again, and this time - she turned. it wasn’t because she didnt want to see, she didnt want you to see. her face was burning up - cheeks red as a rose.

“i’m fucking kidding, jesus ellie - i wasn’t gonna skinny dip… not with you around, anyways”

the joke landed terribly. ellie didnt find you stripping in front of her to be funny - it was anything but.

you kicked the sand under your shoes, awkwardness sending a shiver down your spine. you started fighting with your bra, trying to clasp in back on, but your clumsy hands, and the fact that you had your underboob on display in front of ellie made your hands shake even more. what the fucking hell were you thinking.

“fuck” you murmured, followed by a bunch of annoyed grunting at your failed attempt to clasp it back on,

“shit!” you were full on battling with it now.

ellie was just there. standing still, fidgeting with her hands.

“help me?” you said in a quite voice, shameful.

she let out a breathy laugh followed by an “ahh”

“fuck you, fix your own mess” she chuckled to herself.

got you.

“s’not funny, i cant do it!” you said, visibly frustrated.

“nope” she said, popping the p. she sounded so fucking satisfied with herself.

“fix your own mess” you mimicked, mocking her with a high pitched voice.

“did you just fucking mock me?” that was the last straw. she turned around, crossing her hands, still somehow trying to avoid your gaze. she was in her element now. and the element was anger. embarrassment, awkwardness, she couldn’t do - not anymore. but anger? that was her.

you were still fidgeting with your stupid bra, but somehow managed to keep your tits from spilling out.

“help. me.” you demanded, shooting arrows at her with your gaze.

“beg.” she extorted, eyes filled with pride. she couldn’t let that one go.

“pfft” you rolled your eyes- trying to ignore the butterflies creeping up on you. why did she make you feel like this?

“never” you said, trying to keep your composure, hands flailing behind you.

she walked towards you, slowly, like an animal who found her prey. she was a lion - you, a lamb. a half naked one.

she got even closer.

“then i’m not helping” she said, ever so casually. her her eyes - everything but casual.

part 2?

[idcbabyialreadylostmymind]

Fight to live

Pairing- Sully!family x Sully!reader

Summary- You distract Quaritch while they get off the boat.

A/N- I killed Quadratic cause this mofo need to be put DOWN and this was a request.

It was a horrible battle, all kinds of weapons going through the air, half of the boat was broken and Neteyam and Lo'ak were in a rock Neteyam got grazed by a bullet you pray to Eywa he is okay. But you got to the broken ship jumping up with your parents. You look around for Kiri and Tuk keeping close to the few walls they had. "Psst." You hiss to your parents. You jolt your head to the direction you needed them to look. It was Kiri and Tuk strapped to a pole.

"Oh Jake Sully." A country accent called out. Shit.

Neytiri runs to the girls and cuts them loose keeping the dagger close in case Quadratic comes out. She reaches you Tuk gives you a tight hug. And then you heard big foot steps and the load of a gun. "If we jump out he's gonna see us, and he has a ikran shit, shit shit." Jake said running his palm Inver his hair. And then an idea popped into your head.

"Father I have an idea." You say bringing everyone's attention to you. "What is it?" He asks. "I can distract him-" before you could even finish the sentence your father cut you off. "No." Was all he said. "If I distract him you, mom, Kiri, and Tuk can jump out since his focus will be on me he will not see and when you guys have made it to Neteyam I'll jump out and come to you." You explain your plan to the older man but he doesn't seem to budge shaking his head no, "No it's to dangerous." He says and you huff grabbing a hold to his arm harshly, if this is the only way he'll listen so be it.

"We don't have any more options we are doing it." You said it was obvious you weren't taking no for an answer. "Fine." He said you go to walk towards the towering figure that was getting closer and closer by the second. Before a hand pulls you back, it was Neytiri. She grabs your hand and places her dagger in it, "Here, my daughter good luck." She says tears coming out of her eyes.

"I don't need it." You said with a smile as you began to walk towards the man known as Quadratic.

You foot crunches on a leaf, you silently curse yourself. "Jake Sully that you?" The man chuckled out darkly. "Don't tell me your hiding last time we fought you had more balls than this." He spoke you clutched the dagger and gave no last prayer to Eywa. You walk out false smile on your lips. "Nope not Jake Sully." You say hand behind your back.

He puts a stupid grin on his face, "Didn't know he had little girls fighting for him." He said and your smile drop and jaw clenched. "Well this little girl is fixing to put you six feet deep." You say smiling afterward. His smile was the one to drop this time, he discarded the gun he had in his hands, "Oh I'm gonna enjoy this one." He says as he pulls a knife of his own out of a little pocket on his chest.

You tilt your head to the left pulling your hand from behind your back and get into fighting position. "Come on motherfucker." You say as he jumps at you as you were able to dodge him just in time.

He stumbles a little.

"You fight like a child." You mock him as he tries to catch you again. You pull his tail from behind making him jump around, just for you not to be there. And then he feels a piercing through his back. "Shit." He mutters out reaching for the dagger he had in his back. You pull it out, you grab him by his queue whispering in his ear. "I think I am going to enjoy this one." You mock his earlier words. He doesn't respond you pull the queue making him yell.

Blood covered your stomach from the way you were holding him and how deep you stabbed him, but you didn't care he needed to pay. "F-fuck you." He said before blood fell from his mouth. "No thanks." You say before stabbing him once more before you hear you mother call.

She was circling you on a ikran she flies down and sees you covered in blood, you grab her face "It is done mother."

[robiinurheart33]

Haha wouldn’t it be so weird if when soap was taken and brainwashed he was constantly being compared to this soldier named “ghost” haha

Anyways explicit descriptions of psychological torture and violent intrusive thoughts under the cut

He would be beaten and berated constantly. why wasn’t he stronger than ghost, why wasn’t he faster, more skilled, better, stealthier, healthier.

Ghost could’ve done better in worse conditions.

Ghost has done better in worse conditions.

Why was soap not better even after all this?

It drove him up the wall, the way he would wonder who he was, seething and bleeding by the lip. After all that he’s gone though, all that he’s endured, everything.

Why wasn’t be better? Why can he never, ever be better?

They drove his sanity to the ground, spat and kicked at it until there was nothing but a shell of who he once was, and rebuilt it to fit their ideals. Soap couldn’t remember who he was before this, before the experiments. He couldn’t think, do, say anything without being ordered to do so by someone else.

Some days, soap would pull on the thin stripe down his scalp, eager to find some semblance of control over himself, even if it were pain. He would always get punished.

“It was the only thing he can and will recognise him by.”

“Ghost likes that on you.”

It made him hate the Mohawk even more.

He hates Ghost. He was sick of it. He was done waiting. He was done being compared to. He was done with being second to him. He wanted to pull him apart limb from limb, feel the hot blood spill over his teeth and he rips his throat apart, hear the sickening crunch of his neck being twisted, feel the smooth muscle of his skin ripple and tremble in fear of the one that he was supposedly supposed to be stronger than. Soap will never, ever get anything else in his life but the pure, white-hot rage of revenge. He maybe thinks this had lingered on since he was younger, before everything. It felt like an old friend, more so than his other emotions.

His first mission.

He will be better. He will be better. He will be the best. He will be good. This might be his only shot. This is. He will be the best. He will succeed. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail. He will not fail.

He runs into ghost.

At first, he didn’t know who he was. Soap was in a room with a few others, guns up and masks drawn, ready to shoot anyone who tries to come into the room. They had been infiltrated, and soap wasn’t told more than that. He didn’t really need to know more. Shoot the hostiles, keep people safe. Suddenly, bullets start to rain from outside the door, and soon enough, more and more bodies start hitting the floor. Soap does not panic. He hides behind a bookshelf, waiting.

A big ass motherfucker in a skull mask walks into the room and it looks like the shadows are warping to his presence. Soap does not panic. He reaches for the knife strapped to his thigh, flicking it up and holding it ready. He waits patiently until he stalks near the bookshelf, tightening his grip on the knife. They make eye contact, and through the skull mask stained with blood, he can see jet black eyes staring at him in shock. Death incarnate. Soap does not panic.

“Joh-”

Soap quickly slips out of his hiding spot, wrapping a forearm over his neck and attempting to jab the knife right into his socket. He feels a hand grip tightly onto his forearm, and he goes weightless. All the air escapes his lungs as his back slams against the floor, his head spinning. He screams at himself to get up, fight, be better, before he hears the familiar crackle of a radio.

“Ghost, how copy?”

Ghost.

This is Ghost.

Ghost just fucking flipped him.

Soap does not panic. He does not panic but he feels a chill go down his spine as he sees red, scrambling back up onto his feet. The adrenaline starts to kick in now, and he lunges at him, ripping the radio off his vest and slamming it on the floor. He’s not completely sure why he did that, but in all fairness soap feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind, if his captors haven’t done so already. He punches Ghost, wincing slightly as his knuckle hit the cheekbone corner of his stupid skull mask. Soap starts to reach for his gun before Ghost punches back, hitting the mask clean off his face, pushing his back to the floor, one hand on his wrists. Soap starts to get really agitated now. After everything that he’s gone through, he’s still not good enough to beat ghost. He still hasn’t improved. He hasn’t gone anywhere. He makes eye contact with Ghost and is slightly taken aback when he is reflected with an equally crazed stare.

“Johnny.”

What the fuck?

Soap doesn’t say anything. Ghost’s eyes are brown, not black. Why hasn’t be killed him yet? Why isn’t Soap struggling? Ghost has blonde eyelashes.

“Where have you been?” To soap’s absolute horror, those brown eyes start to become glossy. He flinches back as if he’s been hit, and grits his teeth. No shit, he’s been here the whole time, where else is he supposed to be?

Soap surges forward and headbutts him in hopes of him letting go. He doesn’t, and it makes soap all the more dizzier, more frustrated. Why isn’t he fucking dead already? He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get his mind right.

“Johnny. Johnny.” Can he just shut the fuck up? It’s getting increasingly hard to concentrate for some reason. Shit. He feels overly exposed without the mask, feeling his body temperature rising steadily.

“Stop calling me that!” he growls out, twisting out of his grip and punching his across the face. The twisted skull mask looks almost comical out of place, but he can still see those eyes. Ghost’s hand comes to cup his cheek, and soap flinches back. His eyes look like Soap just mauled his puppy right in front of him. It makes him freeze in place, head awkwardly hovering between the floor and Ghost.

Images of blood spilling and needles, dirt and coffins fill his head, the sound of a neck snapping, gagging, screams and whimpers. Hands on him, eyes on him, never letting go. Stay. Soap snaps back into place, grabbing the mask and twisting it up, covering Ghost’s eyes. He quickly gets his other hand free and pushes ghost off him, sprinting out of the room.

“Wait-!” Is all he hears before flying down the corridor, back to safety, back to where it’s familiar, where he always is, where he always will be.

Loyalty has always been Soap’s best trait.