#john top
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
[Johnlock] When Sherlock loses his soul
A johnlock short story, I use Chinese into English.
Watch Sherlock get jealous. (^_^)
*
"You said Sherlock... Lost your soul?" John's surprised expression was enough to dislocate his jaw as he stared wide-eyed at the detective next to Mycroft. The man was staring at him with his usual dark blue pupils, and the tip of his nose was turning red from the cold.
"Sherlock, it's a cold day and you're very underdressed." He stroked the man's cheek like soft ice, and my God,Mycroft let his brother stand in the snow like that! He's gonna get sick!
"No, we have to go home and change. Sherlock, you're coming with me." As he spoke, the detective left Mycroft's side, unzipped John's coat as fast as he could, and got inside himself.
Sherlock also rubs his numb face against Watson's chest before Mycroft's surprise, and the detective then wraps his hands around the doctor's waist, placing his entire weight on top of John.
I like it.
Sherlock thought to himself.
“Sherlock………” John patted the snow off Sherlock's head with his hand, "What's in your lost soul?" ?" "He murmured.
*
Things got weird about a month ago.
Whenever John starts making tea,Sherlock pops up on time, saying, "John, a cup of coffee, please." And then it's "John, coffee." Today,Sherlock wraps his arm around John and then blows into his ear, "John..." (It's a move that makes John, who insists he's heterosexual, shudder.)
Well, if it weren't for Sherlock's damn pretty face,John would never help him do so many things every day. Sherlock would even ask John to help him put some hot water in the bathtub. If you asked him why, he would only come to you, then look at himself with a little puzzlingly clear eyes like a lake Put your hand around your body.
John's strange behavior based on Sherlock summarizes the following:
1. Sherlock will get into John's bed after he gets out of the shower, and then lean into his arms until he falls asleep. (Where is the detective who doesn't need sleep?)
2. Instead of posing in the thinking position with his hands folded, he would lie in John's lap on his days off and listen to the radio. It makes John always wonder... Because Sherlock's pretty eyes are always looking at him...)
3. Sherlock is hostile to the women John dates. (Why on earth?)
He immediately called Mycroft, and after the British government said, "He has lost his soul," John's stomach began to churn.
Sherlock who gets sleepy easily, Sherlock who loves physical contact with himself, and Sherlock………… who needs his own help It's all because he's lost his soul. It's not something he wants to do, it's just something Sherlock does when he loses his soul.
*
The man brings the soulless Sherlock back to 211B. He is exceptionally obedient today, not giving John trouble, but also extremely clingy,Sherlock's fingers tightly grasp John's arm, he follows the man like a ghost, their shadows almost merge.
“John…… Don't you think that's strange?" His pupils quivered slightly. "I'm no different from normal. That's the most abnormal thing." He lifted the curls from his forehead and put his hand back on John's arm.
John looked down at his red arm and said, "If you think it's normal to sleep next to me at night... Well, I think you're..." He tries to wrestle Sherlock away, which causes the detective to use even more strength to hold John down.
"I don't know what you're talking about, didn't I sleep next to you?" Wouldn't the old you have walked me? I just see you're not holding me, I'll... Pull your arm like this, because your face... You..." Hesitantly, he let go and took a step back, somewhat hurt, "John, you don't want to hold my hand..."
"No... Sherlock, we're just... Hey, we didn't sleep together before, and you weren't in my ear... Blooooow... What..." John will remember these scenes, his ears will start burning, he will see Sherlock's pale face take on an incredible expression, and then that beautiful face will come back close to him.
“John……… Why don't you tell me why? I like you, I like holding hands, I like you touching my face, I like you taking off my..."
"No, no, no... ! Sherlock!” John took the detective by the hand, and then he wrapped Sherlock around his waist to keep the coat firmly attached to him. (Lest he actually take off his coat, Mrs. Hudson would faint if she came in.)
Sherlock has John completely pinned down on the sofa. He leans over him like a cat sniffing his owner's body. After a few moments of thought, he says, "I totally get it."
The detective gets up and looks out the window. The snow almost turns the field of view completely white. Maybe the old Sherlock is a stuffy person, he never shows his love to his John, so John will date someone else,John will... No holding hands... I don't sleep together...
"Didn't he say that?" Sherlock confirms it again.
"Who? What did you say?" "John wondered.
"The whole soul of me that you say, he didn't say he liked you?"
"What... ? You..."
"John, I don't like it when you go out with someone else."
"Oh, my God,Sherlock, I..." His heart began to shake violently from the detective's whisper, and John's inner world was covered with a rain, followed by a gust of wind, and the noise of those thunderstorms made him even smaller.
"I hate it when you dress up for other people, don't you know that? Did I really never mention it once before? While you were trying to meet someone with a new haircut, I was at home... Can't do anything... I don't know what you did with someone... John……”
"Sherlock, I swear you never told me that!" When the surgeon finally decided to embrace the man, he saw his familiar eyes begin to blush slightly, and as he watched the frown of grievance unfurl again,John took a deep breath and said, "Please look at me."
Sherlock staggered John's eyes because of those "uncertain factors", he pushed the man's arms, "No John, I think I know the answer today, you don't like me, the old Sherlock and you don't like today."
He began to adjust his collar. The deep black fabric made him look like a sad prince, but perhaps the prince's knight did not care about him... Oh my God... The knight will go to rescue the princess, whether it is the princess of his own country or the neighboring country... Sherlock gives a self-deprecating smile. What's he looking forward to? John will marry a girl he loves, they may have a baby, maybe get a dog...
As Sherlock sprints out of the door, John pulls him back in from behind once more, and they both fall to the ground. Sherlock is straddling the man's belly. He grabs John's blue sweater and pulls him up, and he pulls him into Sherlock's eyes, which are tinged with golden fury. They seem to never go away.
"God, I've upset you..." John supports the ground with his left hand and caresses Sherlock's earlobe with his right. "I didn't know you... Because you are so charming, your bravery, your intelligence, your beautiful eyes... I never thought you'd treat me, especially me, Sherlock, I..."
John swallowed, and the words he never said, "Because you're too good, so I just push myself... I want to keep my distance from you." He stood up and helped the detective to his feet. "But Sherlock, now you say that... Just because you have no soul, and when you recover, you'll regret what you said. I don't want to..."
"I..." Sherlock's face showed an expression of anxiety and pain, "My self-esteem makes me unable to pray that you only like me a person, before I change back, I hope you can listen to me... As soon as today is over, you'll be seeing someone else, and I can't do anything about it."
Sherlock almost smiles wryly at the floor beneath his feet. "It's just that the first day we met, I... I like you. You think all this is because you saved me? Nooooo. No, when Mike asked us to meet, I... I'm attracted to you..."
He stared up at John to make sure he was listening. "But I pretend not to care about your personal life, I pretend not to care about everything, John, but I damn well care about you, because of you, I'm no longer dependent on cocaine or anything... You know... I just can't say it..."
In response to him is the warm embrace of the military doctor, he like to get a precious treasure to Sherlock into his arms, his collar began to wet, Sherlock about three times in his chest, but new tears again from the corner of his eyes, the man with the cuff for him to wipe tears, "God... I can't believe I'm sorry I made you so sad..." He kissed the detective on the forehead. "I love you, Sherlock, and I'll never regret what I said."
He bent his head and kissed the back of the detective's hand with his lips so earnestly as if he were signing some kind of contract, "I love you." 'he repeated.
*
About two weeks later, John knew Sherlock's spirit was back, and it showed:
1. Sherlock stopped saying sweet things every day.
2. Sherlock's face burned horribly when John kissed him.
3. He said he needed 100 cases of 10 to make him forget the shame of his confession.
END
#johnlock#johnlocked#bbc sherlock#sherlock holmes#john watson#sherlock#john x sherlock#sherlock bottom#john top
10 notes
·
View notes
Note
what sort of music does simon listen to- and what are the others’ opinions on it when they inevitably discover it?

They probably wouldn’t share a playlist
Plus Roach:

#I bet soap likes local rap like any late 90s boy#hearing ghosts music taste would be like#‘what’s this Simon ? a soundtrack to your annual knitting club meeting? top 10 beats to sleep to?#and ghost gets offended like ‘at least it’s actual music not just some Scottish lad speaking really fast’#nd nobody wants to drive with roach and his hype white girl music#call of duty#ghost babygirl#simon ghost riley#john soap mactavish#gary roach sanderson#ghostsoap#soapghost#ghostsoaproach#cod ghost#cod soap#cod roach#call of duty modern warfare#cod mw2
12K notes
·
View notes
Text



Constantine honest to god thought a child had just been struck by lightning and died by his side
#I WANTED TO DRAW MY TOP THREE DC BOYS INTERACTING SOMEHOW#dont ask me why bruce is standing in the rain waiting for the bus. Something happened. Jason took the batmobile I dont know#anyways neither of them remembered to bring an umbrella. billy to the rescue#DC#my art#shazam#billy batson#batman#bruce wayne#constantine#john constantine#fanart
23K notes
·
View notes
Text
fanfic writers NEVER contemplate or apologise for your fic being over 3-5k words long, we readers LOVE longer fics!! anyways have a good day/night 🙂↕️



#writer appreciation#for fanfic writers#x reader#jj maybank x reader#jake seresin x reader#bradley bradshaw x reader#top gun x reader#rafe cameron x reader#twd x reader#jeon jungkook x reader#park jimin x reader#kim taehyung x reader#kim namjoon x reader#min yoongi x reader#jung hoseok x reader#natasha trace x reader#josh washington x reader#sarah cameron x reader#john b routledge x reader#pope heyward x reader#rick grimes x reader#daryl dixon x reader#carl grimes x reader#carl gallagher x reader#steve rogers x reader#bucky barnes x reader#peter parker x reader#frank castle x reader#chloe price x reader#warren graham x reader
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
What's the opposite of a secret baby trope? Aggressively telling the man about the pregnancy?
You bursting into the farmhouse on the 141 ranch and having to stop yourself from swinging on one John Mactavish, opting instead to shove five positive pregnancy tests under his nose and ask him what the hell he's going to do about this? Only to be met with a marriage license he'd signed months ago?
#cod x reader#x reader#x oc#cod x oc#john soap mactavish#john mactavish x reader#johnny mactavish#soap mactavish#soap mactavish x reader#soap mw2#soap cod#soap x reader#oc: moon#cowboy au#“where is the scotish bastard” screamed at the the top of your lungs as you kick in the screen door
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
cw: f slur (i blame @rodolfoparras)
thinking about a homophobic misogynist man who just can’t get off like how he used to before he met you. no matter how times he fists his cock, is balls deep into some random women; none of it mattered. it was never enough, he was never satisfied. but when he thinks about his last “session” with you… he’s throbbing and rock hard within seconds (aww is that pre cum on the tip?) he tries to brush it off as nothing more than a little meeting between guys, he’s not a fag and he’ll never will be. his actions speak other wise but he’s way too narcissistic and delusional to see his contradiction.
he’s in too deep in his fantasy to hear himself whining and moaning like a bitch as he fucks into the tight hole of his hand. his eyes brimmed with tears as he recalled you holding his legs against his chest as your fat cock drilled into his sore hole, your pelvis slapping lewdly against his ass. he called you every insult in the book, but you didn’t care. in fact, his bitching made you pound into him harder.
he spat on his pointer and middle finger and slid a shaky hand down to his hole. it twitched and clenched around nothing, he felt so empty. he forces his two fingers inside him to the knuckle, if there was a heaven, he just saw it. as the fantasy continued, he only got more desperate. he bucked into his fist like a mutt in heat as his fingers thrust in and out of his tight heat. his pillows are drowning in drool at this point.
you call him your pretty princess, whose pussy was made to take your dick. your digits wrapped themselves around his throat, his adam’s apple bopping under your palm. taking in as much air as he could before you took it with the thunderous pace of your hips.
he never wished for a third arm more in his life. before long, he let out a pathetic, little, tiny sigh of “daddy” as he came all over his hand and belly. he lays on his soaked sheets absolutely exhausted. his first good nut in ages. he thinks about you again, and remembers he has a huge cucumber in his fridge he was about to blend into his work out smoothie.
his cock is leaking pre instantly.
#꒰ 💦 ꒱ ⎯ ame thirsting#sub character#sub!character#dom reader#dom male reader#dom!reader#bottom character#top male reader#top reader#top!reader#cod x reader#cod x male reader#johnny mactavish#johnny mctavish x reader#john soap mactavish#aot x reader#snk x reader#jjk x reader#jjk x male reader#call of duty#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty modern warfare 2#call of duty x reader#cod#sub male character#bottom male character#sub cod#sub call of duty
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
Thinking about the most homophobic misogynistic dude bro talking shit, maybe it’s in the lock room with the rest of his friends, making a whole spectacle out of the two dudes he saw kissing or holding hands
Cw: forced feminization, 18+, top male reader, dom male reader
But you notice the way he shifts from one leg to another, eyes wandering over to your own almost as if fearing you’ll say something you shouldn’t -like how he’d showed up to your dorm last night, sober for once and with his hard on showing through his sweatpants, moments before you had him bouncing on your cock.
Despite having been the one to initiate things, he’d been reluctant to let you know he was enjoying it, with his teeth digging into his bottom lip to the point where blood was trickling down his throat, desperately trying to suppress any sort of noise from escaping his mouth. Hell he refused to move his hips on his own even though he’d been the one to tell you to hurry the fuck up and fuck his pretty little hole (five words you had coaxed forced out of the other man) You had to fuck him back onto your cock, nails digging into the plush skin and working him up and down your dick.
Not that you minded much especially not when he’d ever so often let out wails and whines and you could feel his walls clenching down on your cock and you didn’t waste a second asking if his pretty pussy likes that or if the pretty princess is feeling good. He’d only respond by telling you to shut the fuck up, even spat in your face once but hell that didn’t stop him from riding your dick till he finally reached his orgasm.
#top male reader#this is just a stream of thoughts I edited I’m sorry for the run on sentence and grammar mistakes#dom male reader#sub male character#bottom male character#top reader#dom reader#x reader#x male reader#john price x reader#john price x male reader#soap x reader#soap x male reader#gaz x reader#gaz x male reader#ghost x reader#ghost x male reader#Senshi x reader#senshi x male reader#laios x reader#laios x male reader#toji x reader#toji x male reader#GOJO x reader#GOJO x male reader#geto x reader#geto x male reader
4K notes
·
View notes
Text

surely this is how it went
#i drew this on top of the meme#on my phone#in picsart#it took me like an hour and a half#ofmd#ofmd spoilers#our flag means death#wee john feeney#izzy hands#my art :)
11K notes
·
View notes
Text
first post kinda nervous
#red dead redemption 2#john marston#arthur morgan#rdr2#rdr2 fanart#red dead fandom#artists on tumblr#fanart#rdr2 arthur#rdr2 john#idk how to use this app#top right corner is a lis2 reference
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
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 don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably forgotten 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 a 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 off jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een out.” 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 as far as 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 anxiety 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 carefully 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’ a 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 noisily 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 simply 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 it was for this time of year, and hadn't just 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 some 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.”
Then 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? That it?”
“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 and spit out '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?" His words still swollen with caustic amusement, "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 clearly 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. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”
More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you.
“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.)
#mine#gonna pin whatever my most recent thing is to the top of my blog i think#i tried to leave it kind of ambiguous if Price was gonna share you#egregious use of italics and emm dashes#i am continuing my sacred tradition of writing the reader as a fat dumbass#cod#call of duty#fat reader#plus size reader#chubby reader#captain john price#dark john price#dark john price x reader#john price x reader#john price x you#dark john price x you#ghost x reader#ghost x you#author is fat#cw: noncon
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
nothing, and i mean NOTHING, compares to joining a new fandom and reading through all the ____ x reader tags. it’s akin to opening gifts on christmas or recieving a package in the mail. actually, scratch that; it’s th equivalent of ascending to the heavens
#adri yaps#fanfic#fandom#criminal minds x reader#red dead redemption 2 x reader#dc comics#dick grayson x reader#jason todd x reader#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x reader#top gun x reader#jake hangman seresin x reader#bradley bradshaw x reader#arthur morgan x reader#john marston x reader#dutch van der linde x reader
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
An illustration for a novel:《The Youtuber Who Raised The Fire Dragon Cub》(ao3)

6 notes
·
View notes
Text

many thoughts abt @mizushibart ’s metalhead/skater ghostsoap au
#call of duty#cod mwii#cod fanart#simon ghost riley#john soap mactavish#ghostsoap#soapghost#ghoap#call of duty modern warfare#modern warefare ii#simon riley#johnny soap mactavish#ghost x soap#soap x ghost#digital art#art#artists on tumblr#fanart#cerberulix art tag#theres so many tags for them my god#the au designs r just top tier
4K notes
·
View notes
Text


so you guys know that one meme right
#yes hard dom top John is fun but have you considered shy sweet service top John#because I am Considering It.#anyways this one goes out to queen ily queen#jarthur#arthur lester#john doe#malevolent#doodles#my art#art
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
i am of the firm belief grandma Rosiepuff was a smoke show in her younger years Bruce had to get his heart throb genes SOMEWHERE
#im so sorry guys#me x branchs grandma cause i accidentally made the top left troll look like me in the album#bruce is traumatized#unfollow me rn#rosiepuff trolls#grandma rosiepuff#bruce trolls#john dory trolls#trolls#trolls band together#my art#sorry#bruce got the charm jd got the love of horses#because too much rizz killed my grandma ok
4K notes
·
View notes
Text
Why are they like this
#the beatles#art#paul mccartney#john lennon#george harrison#ringo starr#literally..#bonnieura#beatles fanart#1k#wooo#top
2K notes
·
View notes