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pricegouge · 3 months ago

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Haul

Part Five MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: noncon oral. unsafe sex

You keep track of your passing dark periods - the closest approximation you have to a night time - in cards taken out of your deck, carefully collecting in the second drawer. The cards pass in relatively undisturbed silence and while one would expect such a display of mercy to appease you, it only manages to twist your stomach into tighter knots.

Without the blessing of exhaustion, sleep is hard to come by in the basement. It's more than the odd hum of the venting that runs through the corner, or the creaking of the beams overhead. More even than the condensation that collects, cold and clammy, on the walls around you and makes your joints ache. You think mostly it's the way your circadian rhythm has been disrupted, reduced now to the on and off hours of the dim, incandescent bulb. You learned on your second night there that they control it from above somehow, subject you to darkness or light whenever they wish. As far as you can tell, they're mostly keeping a schedule, but you're not too stupid to know a threat when you see one. They can plunge you into days of darkness any time they wish. It gives the darkness that enshrouds you now an edge, the possibility that they may never turn the light back on lingering every time you open your eyes to try and find a more comfortable position, only to find it makes no difference. They could Cask of Amontillado you down here and you likely wouldn't even realize for a full day.

There's a schedule now - a wake up call when the sun is still low in the sky followed closely by your bland breakfast, odd hours spent alone until one of them, usually Simon, retrieves you for a restroom break around noon. You don't get lunch, but Johnny sneaks you a little serving of applesauce on the second day and it's good despite having to pay for it with a kiss. He still makes you sick to look at, though he seems oblivious to your plight. Simon, on the other hand, barely looks at you. Stoic, menacing. You briefly wonder if he feels guilty and try to break past his defenses by joking with him as he escorts you to and from your room, or asking him for advice like he'd seemed amenable to giving that first night. You give up when he just continues to stare right past you.

True to his word, Gaz had told the boys your mouth was off limits until further notice while they'd all gathered around their little table for dinner that first evening. You'd tried not to watch their reactions too closely, wanting to feign indifference just to bother them, but there was no ignoring Simon's blase nod of acceptance, or Johny's annoyed huff. Especially when John expanded on Kyle's rules unexpectedly, settling his hands on your shoulders as he leaned over you to inform them all you'd be off limits entirely for a week while you 'settled in.'

At the time, it had been hard to keep your relief in check, not wanting to seem too eager lest John rescind his offer just to be cruel. But when Johnny forms a habit of sneaking into your room at night you wonder what good that offer was at all anyway, if John even has as much control over these men as he thinks he does.

The first time it happened had you sitting up almost excitedly after immeasurable hours of darkness when the door creaked open and a small circle of artificial light spilled into your room. A flashlight, you'd noted, your fear that they'd plunge you into darkness forever placated for a few more hours at least. Deep down, you knew there would be no help on the other side of that door, but it was a hard thing to get past, the human inclination for hope and survival. But then a thick brogue asking if you were awake doused you in fear like a bucket of cold water. You hadn't had much time with Soap since he nearly flayed your skin off with the hose for which you'd been extremely grateful, but it seemed your luck was coming to an end on that front. Perhaps on every front, all told.

He's not supposed to be there, but he only ever wants to hold you close and fend off the cold so you let him, happy when he's gone in the morning before even John can come knocking. Feverishly warm and pleasantly solid, with a thick pelt that rubs almost pleasantly under your good cheek when you lean into him, he'd make for a good bed fellow in different conditions. If it were anyone but him, the man you saw drag your friend's corpse around with a crowbar. But it's not, and you find no comfort in the man's arms, often laying awake well into the early hours of the morning.

But if you can set your cards by Soap's visit, it's John's daily appointments that you look forward to most, despite yourself. His arrival brings the light and the little traditions that make you feel human, like dressing properly and bathing and eating. Still, he's worse than Johnny, somehow, in that he actually expects you to indulge him, whereas Johnny is simply content to let you cry about your position. It's odd, but you get the feeling that John at least makes an attempt to please you, most days. While the boys moped about your being off limits, John took no small measure of delight in making you earn your panties every morning - though the ways he makes you earn them take you quite by surprise. Like Gaz, the captain's a man of his word, at least.

Captain John Price, as you've come to know him, deals in secrets just as much as sexual favors.

The first time he ducked through the door, wielding your prize in his pocket with a cocksure grin, he found you standing awkwardly by the desk, having taken a borderline defensive position with the stool blocking you from the door the second you heard someone descending the stairs. John just kept grinning as he took you in, eyes too knowing and yet completely unconcerned by the dubious weapon you've potentially found yourself.

You thought you'd known what he wanted, which was why you were so shocked when he'd stopped you from stripping for him with a firm but gentle hand on your good shoulder. "No need for all that, doll," he'd rumbled, "just come sit with me, let's talk."

Nearly a full week in and you've only ever talked with him, though the quality of the secrets he wants from you are ratcheting up to a level you're not sure you can deliver on and you're terrified to know what you'll have to give him once he grows bored of your secrets.

It had started off easily enough. He'd wanted to know about your first crush, your first job, if your parents were divorced. Your first kiss was a funny story, and you'd even managed to share a laugh about it when you told him how the boy had kissed your chin, both of you too embarrassed to try again for quite awhile. John had gone so far as to share his own experience, laughing about what a little fool he'd been with a smile that bares too many teeth, sets you on edge. You're not stupid. You know what he's doing, trying to humanize himself, get your guard down. It isn't working, but when he leans in close and listens with rapt attention as you describe your first love, doesn't laugh as you recount the more awkward stages of middle school, you worry it might, if you don't get out of here soon.

He eases you into harder questions so slowly it takes you a while to notice. And perhaps they aren't harder anyway - after all, how much more invasive is the question of how you'd lost your virginity as compared to your first kiss really, when both questions were asked by your kidnapper? Still, you take notice when he gets to your friends, what Ash's last name was, how close you were with your family. You try lying, hoping if they think your family is looking for you they will turn you free to avoid the headache. But they aren't, and John doesn't, and you see the disappointment in his eyes when he clocks your lie.

It's Gaz who ices your ass, after John belts it.

You sniffle the whole while, unable to resist clinging to him when he props himself up next to you. Kyle's been nice ever since you've learned how to be sweet to him, and it's hard to resist the comfort when he gives it freely, harder still to remember he's not one of them when he whispers to you about how best to please the captain, or how to get Soap to listen to you.

Delirious in the dark of night, you sometimes lay awake and wonder if he's your ticket out, if you can appeal to his humanity enough that he will take pity and leave your door open one day. Better yet, ferret you away in the cot of his truck and steal you across the border. You dream of drowning him in the Gulf and wake up to Soap's hands on you, coarse as sand.

***

John's happy this morning, heavy boots nearly buoyant on the stairs. It's strange how quickly one becomes attuned to the people who hold your fate in their hands. When one misstep could mean your life, you learn to read the quality of their treads in less than a mile. Only six cards in, John only ever descending that short staircase once a day, you think you've learned his in twenty yards.

The lights always come on just before he enters, from which you've inferred the switch must be just outside your door, tantalizingly close. Today is no different, though there's a marked pause after the light comes on and before John enters. You count the seconds in heart beats, your ass still throbbing with his latest displeasure. Resolutely, you decide you'll do anything to keep him happy today.

When he does duck through the door, John's gaze scans the room expectantly, eyes crinkling tightly when he finds you still laid up in bed.

Sometimes he calls you lazy if he finds you there - as if you could do anything else, with the light still out - but other times he likes tucking in next to you, smelling the pillow where you know Johnny's scent must linger. Sometimes he asks if Johnny behaved himself; mostly, he doesn't care. Today he sits confidently on the edge of the bed, moving with that air of owning everything around him unique to men like him. When he sits, legs sprawled wide and boots heavy against the tiles, you're suddenly acutely aware of his office directly above, the medals that decorate it.

"Good morning," he drawls, and you resist the urge to flinch when his hand comes up to ghost fingers across your cheek. It's been healing well with Kyle's continued care, the swelling gone down enough it barely ever affects your vision anymore. Doesn't mean you like when they touch it and you take too long to respond.

"I said, good morning."

"Good morning," you stutter. John cocks an eyebrow at you, expectant. "Sir."

"That's better," he grins, cocky, adding to the almost boyish aura about him this morning. He lets you look him over a moment, weathering your wary stare with little more than an implacable smile, eyes just slightly too tight to be genuine. You briefly wonder if you could manage to smother him with a pillow and then decide you'd best wait until your arm is better to try any risky, highly physical escape attempts.

"Well? You gonna come sit with me?"

When his tone drops you scramble across the bed, cursing yourself. You should have known, as it's how he likes to spend most mornings. So much for keeping him pleased.

John waits until you settle in next to him before flashing that warm, affected grin at you again. His palm is heavy when he slides it over your thigh, fingers digging into the meat above your knee with bruising strength. He rocks your leg back and forth a moment, face contemplative. When he speaks, his voice is a low rumble you haven't heard since before he'd declared you off limits. "Want you to earn your panties properly today. Can you do that, doll?"

Shit. "What would you… like?" you ask warily, back ramrod straight as you become acutely aware of everywhere he touches you: heavy hand on your knee, the long line of his thigh crowding yours, his pec against your scapula where his shoulder tucks in behind your own, allowing him to lean in close, voice deep and lethal against your ear.

"Don't wanna have to tell you what to do every minute, that's for fucking sure."

You don't want to touch him, but you want him inside you even less, and the thought of him cradling your sensitive face as he fucks your mouth makes your vision blur even to think about, so you bite your lip and grab his knee right back, fingers sliding up the seam of his cargos in the closest approximation of seduction you can manage. Your eyes are on his, seeking approval, breath shuddering out when you get it in the form of his sly grin returning.

John leans back on his free hand, his belt buckle appearing from under his small gut as he does so. You want to cut right to the chase and undo it, but when your fingers find the brass, his own ensnare yours, spreading your palm flat against his growing hardness and making you squeeze him there.

"Take your time about it, doll," he warns, "said I wanted you to earn them, not pay for them."

It's an odd distinction, but you know what he means. John is like Kyle in some ways. There's a reason he's spent so many days just talking to you. It's… good. At least better than Soap, who openly laughs at you when you cry and beg him to leave you alone. You suppose you'd prefer they want your desire than your unwillingness, if given the choice.

So you smile at him sheepishly, though it tastes like bile on your lips; and you take your time learning the shape of him even though rubbing your hands across his cargos feels like nails on a chalkboard. John doesn't notice, or maybe doesn't mind - at least not enough to stop you, his own hand moving up to your wrist to anchor himself and keep you in place - and so you continue until his head tilts back and you deem it acceptable to try his belt again. He lets you this time, a deep sigh tightening his tummy when you get his fly unzipped and his cock swells up behind it. He seems big, and the instinct to keep working him through the fabric of his briefs is less rooted in a desire to please him properly than it is a disinterest in finding out if you're right.

You do not need to be thinking about how he's going to tear you open with that thing one day soon right this moment.

It's hard to work him through the open placket of his pants but you manage, wedging your hand down the front until you can cup his balls. His flesh is hot even insulated by the fabric of his underwear and you take care to warm your fingers there because you know he'll be displeased if you touch him with your frozen skin. You're watching your own movements, nervous and unsure, so you don't realize he's tilted his face towards yours until your fingers wrap tentatively around the head of him and he tilts your mouth to his, licks across your lips with a hot stripe. It's gross, the strong scent of old tobacco the first thing you've been able to catch even the barest whiff of in days. You open your mouth to him anyway, bite back a grunt of disgust when he licks into your mouth, no preamble.

So much for taking your time.

Emboldened, you start to stroke him properly over his briefs, hopeful that you may be able to make this grown man cum in his pants like an overeager boy because you're desperate to not touch him directly. But John seems to finally have run out of patience, swatting your hand away briefly to hook his waistband under his balls and give himself a few strokes. He makes you watch with a heavy palm, rolls his wrist with a sense of showmanship you know without asking is meant to teach you how he likes it. You file it away between decelerating while hydroplaning and skin to skin contact working best for hypothermia: What To Do in an Emergency. How to get out alive.

"On your knees for me, doll."

The order takes you by surprise, makes you tense. You stare up at him with wide, scared eyes even as his palm pushes you to the floor. "But Kyle said -?"

"Know what Gaz said," he snarls, yanking you into position between his thick thighs. "Didn't ask for your fucking mouth, did I? Said, get on your knees."

You do not take a moment to steel yourself, too scared of what he'll do if you hesitate again. Your knees find the floor with a sharp clap, the tile cold even through your flannel pants. You can feel each grout line running a grid over your skin and you sink into it despite knowing it will hurt in just a matter of minutes. Anything to distract from the image before you.

Even with his pants wide open and his briefs rendered useless, John somehow manages to look totally composed. His face is a mask of tight control, the bare skin of his forearms where his sleeves have been rolled up flexing with his movements, even and tempered. In another light - maybe sunshine, or nice, homey lamp - you would find him confident. Handsome, even. Here, the command with which he holds himself only highlights how far you are from being done and the flip of your tummy is decidedly unpleasant.

"Touch me," John grunts, but his own hand is still wrapped around his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your fingers find the cuff of his pants instead, squeezing his ankle through the material of his boots and earning yourself a nod. One hand continues up, finds the bare skin of his shin and holds tight. His legs spread impossibly wider, however, when the other reemerges, the better to skirt up his leg and grope his thigh. Take measure of the dense muscle there.

You force yourself to watch when his pace quickens because you want him to cum sooner and because you know you'll want him to cum sooner in the future, too. He's uncut, something you're not overly familiar with. You sit outside yourself, watch him as if you're attending some depraved sex ed class as he strokes the foreskin over his glans, sometimes letting it swallow the tip of his thumb along with it. He leaks like a faucet, more so the faster he strokes. Thin and nearly clear - you bet it sours, tastes like his tongue. The veins of his hand bulge with his grip and you briefly wonder if you'll ever be able to satisfy him, or if he'll have to hold your hand every time just to get the pressure right. For now, you press your hands into tense muscles and let your palm wander to the crease of his hip, dig your thumb against the ticklish crest because you see how it makes the cords of his neck flex.

"Open wide, doll. Let me see that tongue."

There's no quip about doctor's orders this time, just blind obedience, eager to be done with it. Your eyes cross as you watch John's cock warily, his fingers bumping against your chin on each stroke when he shifts closer. Voice mangled and strained, he tells you to keep your eyes on him and you glance up, find his face contorted as if in pain as he grunts and groans his way through his climax, dark eyes nearly burning a hole through you.

You were wrong, it tastes worse than his spit.

"Swallow."

It makes you gag but you do anyway because John's palm clamps over your mouth when he sees you struggling, his fingers threatening to squeeze over your cheek. You're coughing and hacking when he pulls away, but you show him your tongue without being asked because he likes when you're clever, and you like when he's nice.

"Such a good dolly," John murmurs, fingers tracing your brow as if in apology. You accept it with as much gratitude as you do the panties he dangles in front of you, leaning into his touch ever so slightly as you catch your breath. Vision too blurred by the tears that gather on your lash line, dropping onto the dark lace in your hand, you don't see the way he smiles down at you, nor do you follow his movements when he levers himself off the bed. You hear his belt clicking as he redresses himself, the scuff of his boots across tile. You don't realize he isn't headed toward the door until you hear your desk drawer sliding open and you whip around to see him, wiping your tears away with an impatient brush of your hand, ignoring the flare of pain it brings.

John takes a single card from the deck at random, chuckles as he shows you the seven of diamonds before throwing it back into the other drawer without a word.

You don't need to count the pile to know what day it is.

As he slips out the door, John tells you to expect Ghost momentarily. Normally, you'd prefer the large man's company over most of them, if only because his apathy was better than Soap's - or John's - outright cruelty, but today marks the end of your allotted adjustment period, and the fact you don't know what to expect from the large man who perhaps still had your bra hanging from his rearview made your stomach churn. The fear of it, the growing threat, even distracts you enough that you don't dwell on how John knew about your little tally system.

A/N: kind of a small one this week but i won't have a chance to write again for a few weeks i'm thinking so i wanted to get this little transitory part out, at least. sorry if it's not up to standard!

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#dark fic #dead dove fic #141 x you #141 x reader #haul #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #Kyle garrick x you #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish x you #john price x reader #john price x you #poly 141 #💷🔪

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