#i am an author

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane's Pets Chapter 104: Evolving and Adapting

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Before leaving, Puppy reluctantly puts her stuffed animals into her bag, along with everything nonperishable from the pantry that you and Leo didn't pack for yourselves. You think that's a good sign. She also grabs all the medical supplies in the house, which makes you feel really stupid for not thinking of that earlier. Before closing the bag up, she takes out two water bottles and passes them to you and Leo.

"If we're going to need water for the walk you will too," Leo says.

Puppy takes out one more water bottle mechanically and closes the garbage bag, then heads out the front door. You and Leo follow.

"Leo, make sure to let us know if you need a break, or help carrying your stuff." You say.

"I will. I'm not feeling too bad, though."

You believe them. It's been a long time since they were even a little okay, and the difference is very noticeable.

"We should ask the day and year as soon as we get to town." Leo jokes. "Like time travelers."

"Fuck, it'll be so nice to know what day it is again, and what time it is. I've definitely missed that."

"There are so many small things we'll finally get back." 

After a bit of silence, Puppy starts humming a lighthearted song. You feel like your heart could burst from happiness. So many small things…

Unfortunately, you're quickly distracted from that feeling by the annoyance of carrying full garbage bags through the woods. Your bag quickly collects several tiny tears, but luckily none are big enough for anything to fall out. It just means you have to hold the bag very carefully so that extra weight isn't put on the tears, causing them to get wider.

"We really should've double or triple bagged this stuff… or brought the box of garbage bags." You grumble.

Leo laughs. "We haven't gotten that far, we can go back if you want."

"Oh, no, I'm never going back. I'm just annoyed that we planned so much and didn't even think about what carrying this stuff through the woods would be like."

"Yeah, that's what happens when you have a group of three people where one is severely sleep deprived and probably still starving, one is experiencing withdrawal, and one is…"

"Brain damaged." You finish for them. Stupid Bunny.

"Right. Um… I'm really sorry I called you stupid, back in the basement. I don't think you're stupid."

"I am stupid. It's okay."

"B– Li– Austin. You're the one that found a way to kill Jane. You're so smart, and even if you weren't, you're so brave and compassionate. You're amazing. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, even me."

Are you… tearing up? "Thank you. You're… both of you are amazing too."

Leo smiles. "Of course we are. Just a little group of amazing people."

The rest of the walk is quiet. Trying to avoid your bag ripping open takes a lot of mental and physical energy. That'll be the first thing you buy when you get into town– new bags. And something for Puppy to drink to prevent her dying from malnutrition.

You take plenty of breaks, initiated by Amanda more often than not. She always opens her bag during breaks too, without ever taking anything out. When you asked her why, she took a stuffed animal out of her bag and showed it to you, which… didn't answer your question. Leo told you not to worry about it for now.

You feel… tense, stepping into the town. The last time you were in any kind of human civilization, Jane killed a lot of people to punish you.

It's pretty dark. You clear your throat. "Puppy, do you think the grocery store will still be open?"

Puppy shakes her head.

"Okay. Let's find a hotel. In the morning we can go get new bags and something for you to drink, and then… if there's a library we can use the computers to look at all the hotels nearby and see what's cheapest. Sound good?"

Puppy nods.

"So… do we just wander around until we find a hotel?" Leo asks.

You look over the three of you. "That'd be a good way to get the cops called on us."

"Well, what else are we supposed to do?"

"That's… a good question. Maybe we should've waited until morning to leave…"

"I'd rather spend all night in the woods than spend more time in that house than necessary. I… guess those are our options. Wander around trying to find a hotel, stay in the woods all night, or head back to the house. Should we… do a vote or something?"

None of those options sound particularly good. "I don't even know which one I want."

"Yeah… I guess we could split up, too."

You immediately shake your head. "Whatever we do, it should be together."

"But one person wandering around a town at night is a lot less suspicious than three people. Especially if said person leaves their bag of stuff here to be watched by the others."

Puppy stares at her open bag for a moment and then sighs. You guess she didn't bring anything to write with. "I think I'd be the best for that. I look the most pitiful." She lets her hair fall so that her missing ear is uncovered and touches the bandages on her face. "And I'm a scrawny white woman. It'd be harder to interpret me as a threat. Even if the police were called, I'd probably be fine. I've also been here before. I'll have an easier time navigating, even if I don't know exactly where to find a hotel."

These are all great points. "But… what if you get hurt?"

"I know people here. Including a lot of criminals, most of whom probably think Jane is still alive. People are less likely to mess with me than with either of you."

"But… I mean, if we're bringing race and gender into this, isn't it less safe for a woman to walk around alone at night? There are threats besides career criminals, people you probably never would've met."

"I'm not saying there are no risks. It's just the least risky option. Unless you think it's safer to wander through the woods at night, or sleep in the woods without shelter?"

Leo nods. "It does sound the least risky… though, to be fair, even if it does work, we'll have to walk to the hotel as a group with our garbage bags of stuff anyway. I mean, I'm the one that suggested it, but I don't think it makes much of a difference whether one of us finds the hotel, comes back, and guides the others or we just look around as a group for a while."

Leo's the best. "Right! Let's just go together. You should definitely lead, still. Like you said, you know this town the best. We'll look suspicious no matter what we do, let's just stick together."

Puppy hesitates, then nods.

"Perfect! Let's go."

Puppy walks quickly through the streets until you get to an area with fewer homes and more businesses, then starts moving more slowly, inspecting each building. Fairly soon after you've started searching, you stop in front of a building very clearly labeled as a hotel.

"I… think we spent more time arguing than it actually took to find this place." You say.

"Eh. Better safe than sorry." Leo pulls open the door. "After you."

It takes a bit of effort to get everyone's garbage bags through the door without ripping them, but you all manage it. The hotel clerk stares at the three of you the whole time, which you guess is fair. 

Leo sets their bag down and goes up to the front desk. "Are there any vacancies?"

The clerk puts on a customer service smile. "We do. What are you looking for?"

…you never discussed if you were going to share a room, or how many beds you'd want. Luckily Leo seems undeterred.

"The cheapest room available, please."

"How many nights?"

"One."

The clerk types something into a computer and gives the price. Puppy starts taking out some of the cash and counting it. 

"...do you take cash?" You ask. Probably should've asked that sooner.

"We can, but you would still need a card on file."

Shit. Shit shit shit.

"...Do you know of anywhere that doesn't need a card on file?" Leo asks.

"Nope."

The three of you look at each other. What are you supposed to do now?

Puppy goes up to the desk and places down the cash she just counted out. "I have a card."

There's no way that's true, but she reaches into her pocket anyway. She pulls something out, holding it in a way that covers most of it, but you notice a flash of green and realize it's just more money. She passes it to the clerk.

"Are you… trying to bribe me?"

Puppy nods.

The clerk looks at the money, then types something into the computer. They hand Puppy a key. "You'll be in room 104. Check-out is at 11 AM tomorrow.”

Puppy smiles at the clerk and heads down the hall, looking for the room. Leo grabs their bag, and the two of you follow Puppy.

"We don't have to hide," Leo says. "We can go try and get cards tomorrow."

Puppy unlocks the door labeled '104' and leads you inside. It's a pretty small room, and it only has one bed.

"Uh–"

"Puppy and you will share the bed. I know both of you would be fine with all three of us sharing the bed, so since I'm the one with the problem, I'll sleep on the ground."

They already did that sometimes at the house, when they wanted to be close to you but not sharing a bed close, so you aren’t as concerned as you might’ve been otherwise. If they chose to sleep on the ground when they had access to a bed, obviously it’s not that uncomfortable to them. They’re the one that asked for the cheapest possible room, anyway, they must’ve expected this.

"Yeah, let's make you a nest." You find extra blankets in a closet, take most of the pillows from the bed, and start the nest-making process. Leo tries to help as much as they can, but it really is just a one-person job. Puppy sets her stuffed animals on the bed.

“We should all get showered and change,” Leo suggests. “We’re dirty from walking through the woods.”

“Great idea!” You finish up the nest. “Puppy and I should replace our bandages, too.”

“You do that while I shower,” Leo says, pulling a clean outfit out of their bag.

“Perfect.” You bring Puppy to the bathroom and remove the bandages on her face and neck while Leo gets in the shower.

You wet a towel and start to clean her wounds. “I’ve been thinking. It’s okay if you don’t want to sleep tonight, I’m not as worried about that as you not eating. No one’s going to shock you when you start to drift off or anything, so you’ll fall asleep eventually no matter what. If you want to try and stay up tonight, though, I want to keep you company.”

You replace the old bandages with clean ones. Puppy doesn’t say anything. She takes your hand and takes off the bandage.

“Oh, I can do that myself.”

Puppy raises an eyebrow at you.

“Oh, I guess… you could’ve done your face and neck yourself…” It honestly didn’t even occur to you. “Sorry, I didn’t even ask.”

She waves dismissively and starts to clean the cut on your hand. 

“So!” You say loud enough that Leo can hear you over the shower. “Tomorrow, we’re going shopping and getting ourselves cards. Not necessarily in that order. Then we’ll use library computers to find the cheapest hotel nearby, and… go there. We’ll also research the buses around here.”

Puppy rebandages your hand. “We… need IDs. To get cards.”

“…shit. I lost track of mine after I came to the house, Jane probably took it. Leo, do you have access to any of your IDs?”

“I didn’t even have mine before Jane took me. I assume yours are lost too, Puppy?”

Puppy nods.

“She said yes. And we don’t even remember our names…” You frown. This is going to be a problem.

The shower turns off and Leo grabs a towel to dry themself. That was fast. “You remember your last name, don’t you? There’s that. And me and Puppy know your first name. Do you remember your social security number?”

You try to remember. There’s a shape to it, a rhythm you followed whenever you had to share it… but you can’t remember what actually went inside the rhythm. You don’t know if that’s because of the brain damage or just regular forgetting. “I don’t.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t know mine either. We’ll just… maybe you can get your hands on your school records? Or maybe someone you knew before could vouch for you? I mean, there are people who don’t even get a birth certificate when they’re born and they can still get IDs as an adult, so there’s got to be something we can do.” They get into their clean clothes. “We can worry about it tomorrow. I’m going to bed. We’ll want to get up pretty early tomorrow so that we can leave our stuff in here while we shop.” They exit the bathroom, leaving just you and Puppy.

“Hmm… maybe we should’ve replaced the bandages after showering…” stupid Bunny. “I guess we’ll just do our best not to get the bandages wet? And it’s not that big of a deal if we have to replace them again. Do you want to shower first?”

Puppy nods and leaves the bathroom to get clean clothes from her bag. She was allowed to shower when she wanted unless she was in the basement, so you don't think she'll need a lot of support in this. Having no reason to hang around in the bathroom, you go to hang out with Leo in the main room while Puppy showers.

Leo is playing with the clock on the nightstand. "I'm trying to set an alarm… if we get up at 7, we should have time to shop and stuff, right? Mostly I just want to be able to get back here and re-bag our stuff before we check out. It would be especially nice if we could do the shopping and the library research before we check out, so we don't have to worry about if we'll be allowed into the library with garbage bags full of stuff."

"Will stores even be open that early?"

"...I don't know. We'll have to ask Puppy. I'll leave the alarm at 7 for now, though." They set down the clock. "I really missed knowing the time. This is awesome."

You look over the small room. It's unremarkable in most ways, but… it has a clock. And you can leave whenever you want to. "It really is."

Leo yawns and goes to dig through their bag. "We should all eat something before bed. Or at least drink some water." They pull out a box of raisins and pour the contents into their mouth. "I'll try to convince Puppy to drink some water while you shower. Think you can handle convincing her to sleep? I heard you talking about it, but I didn't catch everything."

"I should be able to. I said I'd stay up and keep her company if she doesn't want to sleep– which I will do if she refuses to sleep– but I think if I just asked her to lie down with me she'd fall asleep quickly whether she wants to or not. It helps that this room is so small, she won't be able to keep herself awake pacing."

Leo nods. "Perfect. I, uh… I wish we didn't have to constantly push her, but we can't just let her hurt herself without trying to help… It's not fair that we get to adjust before working on any heavy-duty deconditioning while she has to be working on it constantly… But putting ourselves through that by taking off our collars or something wouldn't make things any easier for her."

"It sucks." You agree. "It wasn't fair for you to have to deal with withdrawal, either."

"...Yeah. I guess… we take care of each other. We have for a long time. And if we take turns, that's even better, because it means the person who's struggling can get the full undivided attention of the others."

"Exactly." You dig through your bag for some granola bars and have those and some water for dinner. Not the best meal ever, but far from the worst. 

Puppy emerges from the bathroom, her bandages still dry. She couldn't have been in there for longer than five minutes…

"Have you guys always showered that fast?" You ask.

"The water's cold," Leo says. "I… guess we could've waited… but in a place this big it would've taken forever. Better to just get it over with." 

Puppy nods in agreement.

"Okay…" You grab some clean clothes from your bag and head to the bathroom. "I'm gonna have a nice, warm shower, if possible, so… goodnight. Love you."

–

Puppy wishes she had waited, or spent longer in the shower. All she does when she's around is worry the others.

Kitty hasn't started pestering her to sleep or eat or drink yet, though. They look deep in thought.

She's so tired, and the white noise of the shower certainly isn't helping her stay awake. She forces herself to walk in place.

"It's weird, right?"

Puppy has no idea what they're talking about specifically, but she nods. Everything's weird right now.

"I mean… it didn't even occur to me to wait. I just… I guess the pathway in my brain between 'uncomfortable stimuli' and 'endure it' is so well-trodden other solutions didn't occur to me. Did it occur to you?"

Puppy shakes her head.

"Exactly. It's like… those guys that tortured those poor dogs… what's the word… Learned helplessness! That's what they call it. When you can't do anything to protect yourself for so long that you start to assume there's no escape without even checking."

Puppy remembers Master teaching them about that experiment… it's not a pleasant memory, but it could've been worse.

"It's good to be aware, though. I'm glad she taught us so much about psychology, at least. It was to hurt us and taunt us, but now it can be really helpful." They smile. "We'll have to look out for that. Times where we could make ourselves more comfortable easily but aren't."

Puppy is so, so tired. She misses just having to endure. Having all these choices… it's so hard. Things weren't easy before, but they were… simple. She misses that, even if she doesn't miss the torture.

"It'll be hard because we still have to endure a lot of things. We don't know when we'll next get money, so we'll have to settle for a lot of uncomfortable things to make it last as long as possible. So I guess… we just need to think of the reason we're uncomfortable. Make sure it's something we're consciously choosing and not just falling into because we're used to it."

Puppy nods along, but she doesn't really want to be comfortable. Comfort is for when Master chooses to give it, otherwise… it makes her sloppy. Like, if she was comfortable right now, she would fall asleep without permission.

Master is dead. Master is dead. Master is dead so she's never going to get to feel comfortable again– stop that!

"-uppy?" Her thoughts are interrupted. "Would you please sit down? Or… stop marching in place?"

She reluctantly stops moving.

"Thank you. I need you to drink some water, alright? You didn't drink any on our way here."

She feels… guilty. Like a kid getting caught not eating their vegetables. All she does is make people worry!

She grabs the water bottle she was supposed to drink during the walk and chugs it until there's none left. She wordlessly begs Kitty to stop worrying, to be satisfied.

"Thank you." They sound so relieved that she can almost ignore the waves of terror crashing over her. "Let's do something to keep your mind off it. Um…" They look around the fairly barren room. "Wanna play twenty questions?"

Puppy nods. A distraction would be nice.

"Okay, think of a person, place, or thing. You got one in mind?"

Puppy, not feeling very creative, decides on 'hotel.' She nods.

"Okay, is it a person?"

The two of them play a few rounds before Bunny finishes with his shower. Puppy feels a bit better about drinking water without permission again, as long as she doesn't think about it.

"Alright, I'm really tired, are you two going to be okay if I go to sleep?"

Puppy nods.

"Get some sleep." Bunny says. 

"Oh, wait– I set the alarm for 7 AM, do you think anything will be open then, Puppy?

Puppy nods. She remembers checking the hours the grocery store was open to try and figure out what time it was. It's open from 7 AM to 10 PM. 

"Sweet! See you in the morning, goodnight." Kitty gets curled up in their nest. 

Bunny turns his attention to Puppy. "Do you want to try going to sleep?"

She slowly shakes her head. She doesn't want to, but she knows she'll have to eventually.

Bunny sits on the bed, legs under the covers. "That's okay. I'll keep you company, like I said. You must be cold, though, after your cold shower. Wanna get under the blankets?"

She knows what he's doing. It's not subtle. But… being warm does sound nice, and she doesn't want to worry Bunny, and he was right that she'd fall asleep eventually anyway, so… it might as well be now, right? Better than passing out when she's needed.

She carefully sets each of her stuffed animals next to the bed before climbing into bed with Bunny and oh– he's warm. That makes sense, but she wasn't expecting it. She cuddles up close to him.

"Thank you." Bunny says, and that's all. He doesn't try to convince her to lie down or rest her eyes. He just holds her, and runs fingers through her hair, and breathes deeply and evenly.

She didn't stand a chance. She falls asleep within the first minute of sitting down.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else, or if you want to be added to or removed from the tag list! Let me know if you want a summary of any of these logistics-heavy chapters, I know they're a lot longer than normal and that not everyone finds the logistics of escape and recovery as interesting as I do.

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @thecosmicmap @quins-whump-stuff

@fuckcapitalismasshole @whumplr-reader

[inkskinned]

please i love you i'm begging you bring back suspension of disbelief bring back trusting the audience like. i cannot handle any more dialogue that sounds like a legal document. "hello, i am here to talk to you about the incident from a few minutes ago, because i feel you might be unwell, and i am invested in your personal wellbeing." "thank you, i am unwell because the incident was hurtful to me due to my childhood, which was bad." I CANT!!!!

do you know how many people are mad that authors use "growled" as a word for "said"? it's just poetics! they do not literally mean "growled," it's just a common replacement for "said with force but in a low tone." it's normal! do you hear me!! help me i love you please let me out of here!!!

[kriz-smthn]

[that-butch-archivist]

"Lesbian Weddings" by Wendy Jill York

source: The Femme Mystique, edited by Lesléa Newman

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

I am incredibly serious right now when I beg you all, please, and if you have Twitter or Tiktok or whatever to please spread the word: click on an author's profile on Ao3.

You want to know if an author has written more? Want to know if they're still writing? Want to see more from them? Want to know if they've written a trope or kink or sex scenario you enjoy?

Click on their name. And look at their profile.

I cannot tell you how many times in the last six months someone has read a new or newer fic of mine and said they (a new reader who has read nothing else I've done) "can't wait to see what you do next!" I've written 50+ fics and over a million words already.

"I don't know if you're still writing..." click on my profile. I am. I literally wrote a 128k+ fic for that ship last month.

"Would you ever do X?" "Please do Y!" I already did. Click on my name and look at my works.

Archive of our Own is a library. It's an archive. Not social media. It is your responsibility to fight back against the laziness that corporate algorithms have trained into you.

Click my author name. Just click it. Just click it.

Before you demand more, or ask if a writer will do XYZ, or wonder if the author still writing, or anything - click on their profile. Click on the author's profile.

I'm not trying to be mean or condescending or anything like that. I'm just exhausted. It's disheartening and frustrating to repeat myself ad nauseam, because someone couldn't take thirty seconds to do the tiniest bit of work to see if I've written lately, if I've written more for their ship, or scan my works to see if I've written what they're asking for. Please. Please. I'm begging.

Click the author's name, and explore before you ask.

[chaoticneutraltor]

[that1randomnerd]

That's just how you show that you love the character

The more traumatized they are, the more screen time they have. And the more they are hurt, the more they get comfort

[b0tster]

"ppl talk about firebombing a walmart then dont firebomb a walmart 😏😏"

walmart: gets firebombed

"um guys um excuse me this is baaaad this is morally wroooong violence is bad but only when people do it um wow this is so wrong yall need to stop encouraging thks wow um excise me im so disgus

[tadfools]

You guys are commenting on the fics you read right? You’re at least leaving kudos on the Astarion smut and the pairs that have less than 20 fics for them too? You’re bookmarking stories you really like that are still being updated and ones that haven’t been touched in over a year right?

You know that even the smallest interactions are like cocaine to fic writers right? You understand how important a string of emoji hearts left behind on a chapter at three am is right?? Right????

You’re treating AO3 like a community and not a content factory….right?

[bethanydelleman]

I was talking about a historical male author I dislike because I found his works misogynistic and the person said, "Oh, well I suppose you don't read Shakespeare either." and I was like, "Shakespeare? SHAKESPEARE?!?! Of course I read Shakespeare, that man loved women."

Shakespeare wrote a wide variety of fleshed out female characters. He wrote Damsels in Distress, Cross-dressing Girlbosses, and Complex Female Villains. He wrote a woman who refused to sell her virtue to save her family and then shamed her brother for suggesting it. He wrote Taming of the Shrew and it's opposite, All's Well that Ends Well, in which the wife hunts down and tames the husband. He wrote men who are good because they listen to, trust, and defend women. He wrote women of all kinds. He wrote women who drive the plot and women doomed by the narrative. He wrote women in love and women who pathetically follow a man who doesn't like them and women in hatred. He wrote sensible women and silly women and everything in between of all ages.

I wish modern authors could write women as well as he did.

[reallybadblackoutpoems]

animal farm (1945) - george orwell

"womp womp"

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[anneapocalypse]

So, just curious how many writers and creators will have to be forcibly outed by relentless harassment before we acknowledge that "This queer characters was written by a cishet person and that's why they're bad" is not good criticism.

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

(cw: noncon)

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic. Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though. When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you admitted you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening the damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better aff jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een oot.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze. He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway. You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting his knuckles. He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit. You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any embarrassment from building in your gut. Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ an adult grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s. Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed. It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer. You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand. The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind. You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John just inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.” John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly the weather was tonight and hadn’t practically jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.” Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb. You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle. It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved”. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“—Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh. “Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“…What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much. Your sole scuffs against debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before. As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now. You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

He was smiling at you again. It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward. You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles. They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost sneers in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle. It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true, low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh? That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble. 

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over. You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, left your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze—”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits. At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right? But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn’t see it, but this time your sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it. Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek“—almost made us lose out.” he grumbled “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”. You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce.

Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)