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pricegouge · 2 months ago

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Haul

Part Six MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

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

chapter cw: abuse, starvation, sensory deprivation, noncon mentioned in passing

This morning, however, you've barely managed to soap yourself up before Gaz is ducking in, whispering something in Ghost's ear which you can't make out over the steady drum of water. It's quick, whatever it is, and Simon nods once in understanding before Gaz shuffles back out, too rushed to spare you much beyond a parting glance. Your eyes find Simon's again, any hope of asking what that was about dying in your throat when you see the quiet intensity burning there, stronger even than what's usual for him. You hurry through the motions without needing to be told.

Simon's bad. Johnny's worse. Kyle is at least nice to you so long as you can keep your sniffling and whining at bay long enough to let him forget you don't want to be here, let alone beneath him. John continues to be taciturn at best. They take you through your days in shifts mostly, a rotation which reminds you of cogs on a wheel.

You don't notice the way you've come to think of them as one collective, impenetrable force until you catch their first mistake - too late for you to have done anything about it, but a mistake all the same.

It's not unusual for Simon to join you in the bathroom now, rubbing his cock as he watches you pee because he likes the way it visibly embarrasses you. Normally he leans heavily against the sink, tutting at you threateningly anytime you try to pull the curtain closed and running the hot water intermittently just to watch your nipples tighten and your skin erupt in goosebumps. It slows the process, makes your product coagulate enough that your showers often get drawn out into a long process. It's almost nice, insofar as it's a fairly reliable part of your day when you don't have to worry about much beyond intermittent douses of cold water. (Unless, of course, one of the others joins you, or Simon decides he's had enough of teasing himself, steps in after you to warm you up with heavy palms and stinging skin.)

After, as he follows you through the warehouse, you're yanked to a halt by his firm grip on your arm when your feet automatically turn toward the small kitchen area, your stomach already growling expectantly despite the lackluster meal no doubt waiting for you.

"Where do you think you're going?" Simon rumbles, deep enough you can feel it against the arm he has pinned to his chest.

"To… eat?" It's not a statement, the confusion in your eyes as you peer up at him making your request for guidance clear. Subservient works on him, you've found, even better when visibly affected. He's similar to Johnny in that - almost seems to like the intimation that you're just a little play thing for them, though Johnny prefers the reminders to come in bite shaped bruises on his forearms, or red handprints on his cheek. (You don't like doing it - not out of any feelings of remorse, of course, but because the retaliation from Johnny and the punishment from John is rarely ever worth it - but you've certainly noticed how much it endears you to him, in some perverse way.)

"Don't remember you earning breakfast."

You gawp a moment, eyes darting around the warehouse as if to check for an audience. It wouldn't be the first time they've taken you right in the middle of the big suite, but that doesn't make the prospect any more appealing. Besides, it's unlike Simon, who you've gathered prefers the close intimacy of the basement, or the bathroom. Anywhere he can set his back to a wall. So it's unexpected but you know better than to complain, your hands finding his belt buckle quickly, suppressing even more confusion when you slide your palm over his placket and find him soft.

"Fuckin' slag," Simon groans, his grip sliding down your arm to wrench your hand away. He carries the motion through, turning you away from him again before shoving into your back unceremoniously and sending you stumbling in the direction of John's office. (Empty, you note distractedly. Odd.)

"Have I done something?" you ask, stomach still growling despite the sudden turmoil of your morning. When Simon doesn't answer, you chance a glance over your shoulder and find him staring at your ass with the same hunger you were moments ago ready to impart on some cold packet oatmeal. "Simon, it's breakfast time."

"You eat when we say you eat," he reminds you. "Open the hatch."

The dusty rug that covers the trapdoor seems to return your frown. Your fingers itch, irritated, the sense memory of its filthy low pile already sullying your freshly cleaned cuticles. Maybe that's why you fight back, or maybe because the set schedule you've fallen into is the only sense of normalcy you've found in this terrible place and you're loath to give it up. "I'm hungry."

Simon's eyes haven't felt so heavy since that night in the bar. "I don't -."

"What's the problem?"

John's voice is hard to mistake ever, even less so when he's visibly angry. His fingers smooth his mustache, coarse palms scratching against his chops in the same movement. An oddly pensive habit you've never seen him make, here at odds with the agitated way he shifts his weight from foot to foot. You squint between the two large men, suddenly alert.

"Betty here wants breakfast before she goes back down." The term gives you pause, not having heard it in a while. Simon doesn't often talk to you directly.

A quiet whistle sound breaks the ensuing silence as John sucks a breath through his teeth. He looks red, pissed, brow low and heavy as his voice when he tells you to listen to Simon. But you're feeling a little brave today, evidently, anger mounting because you need to eat. They said they'd feed you and now it's time so why can't you just get some damn grub when it smells like they've already made it anyway -.

"I'm hungry."

The tension that follows is palpable, both men drawing slightly closer until you're wedged between them, a rock and a hard place. Neither relents an inch, gazes blank of anger now.

Just cold, cruel apathy.

"So you've said," John rumbles, his voice so poisonous you'd flinch back on reflex if not for Simon's looming presence behind you. "Yet I do not care. Keep acting like a brat and I'll let you starve to death," he reminds you.

As if to show what it thinks of that, your stomach chooses that moment to growl alarmingly loud. You would laugh about it under any normal circumstances, but the way the men continue to glare down at you has your eyes tearing up for another reason. It's a stupid thing to cry over but you've never handled change well. You think you've done a pretty good job of adapting so far, but the sudden reminder that they can upheave your entire life again any time they want settles ill in your stomach, makes a home there among the empty pangs. You just want some toast or something, can't understand why they won't give it to you when you've been so good for them, have done everything they've asked. Your whimpering is pathetic, you know, so if anything you expect to draw out Kyle from wherever he's hiding, maybe earn some sympathy from the only one among them who even bothers to pretend not to like your tears. It's why you're so surprised when Ghost's heavy hand lands on your shoulder, gives you a light shove toward the hatch.

"If you get downstairs now, maybe you'll still earn your dinner."

Earn your dinner. It rubs you wrong. John too, apparently. "No," he informs Simon flatly.

In the weeks since your abduction, you've prided yourself on your self preservation instincts, on your ability to bite back the kinds of quips and jokes that get the comedic relief killed off second or third in a horror movie. But in that moment, the only driving force at the wheel is your hunger and there's no staying your tongue this time. "Fine, then no sex." But your bravado flags before you can even finish speaking, John's eyes burning with fury in a face gone unnaturally stiff and drawn. When you continue, your voice is thin and reedy, the words much braver than how you feel. "That's the deal, isn't it? Sex for food?"

"Betty -."

"The deal was, you make yourself available and we'll keep you fed. But we don't need permission, and you don't need to eat." John's voice is as cold as his expression. He towers over you, so close that even your knees touch, his boot shoved between your bare feet. "How's that for a new deal?"

It's hard to answer for the way your throat feels like it's closing. A pathetic noise boils out of you, too thin to be mistaken for words. John's patience snaps and he hauls you impossibly closer, heavy palm gripping your chin to drag you up onto your toes. His thumb slots under your bad cheek, presses too harshly into your molars. Trying to alleviate the weight, you shuffle your stance and find the steel toe of his boots between your feet. He hardly seems to notice when you hike yourself up onto them, too occupied by shaking your head back and forth, his smirk at the way it makes your lips pout nothing more than a cold grimace. It's hard to balance there, both of your bellies getting in the way you. Your stance falters, panic bubbling in your belly when you lean away from John in a way you know he'll interpret as a slight. And then Simon's solid frame is behind you, bracing you between them. You'd sag in relief if you could, but John's grip remains steadfast, jerking you about as he mutters to himself something like 'No?' and 'You don't like that?'

Gaz's appearance in the door seems to startle all three of you. He takes a moment to look the scene over before nodding at John once, eyes seeming to convey something urgent. John huffs a breath and shoves you back toward Simon as he steps away. The larger man's hands hold you tight, fingers burning brands into the meat of your upper arms. John waves Gaz away without even looking at him before lowering himself to one knee with a grunt and rolling the carpet away. Dust clouds the room, dancing in the warm yellow sun spilling through the skinny window across the room. You'd think with how often the rug is moved, it would be somewhat clean by now but you suppose there's no end of dust and dirt getting tracked in. You've also never heard a vacuum run, but that's not very surprising. John stands as he opens the hatch. It would be one fluid motion if not for the way his knees crack or the way he grunts and holds his back when he straightens out. Briefly, you imagine kicking him right in his pained joints and then quickly hide your huff of laughter behind a pathetic sob. Neither man seems fooled, but neither seem to mind either, John's face much less apoplectic than it had been only moments before.

And then he motions down the stairs and Simon gives you no time to act on the order before pushing you down them.

Your knees hit first, blessedly. With the grip Simon still has on your one arm, the instinct to protect your head is delayed until you can wrench free. You tuck as best you can, momentum carrying you over until your shoulder takes the brunt of the next blow, legs ragdolling along after. The stairs are unfinished, the risers never put in. A tumble later and your hand slips past one, catching behind the tread. Your body continues past, yanking your arm until it feels like it will tear but then your heels find cold tile and you dig in as best you can, feet slipping across the slick surface a few times before your toes find grout and dig in, overgrown nails catching hard enough that when your weight slumps down and your toes curl under, yelp as one tears from its bed. Above you, John's mean laugh rumbles down the shaft like an earthquake, bouncing off the walls until it blends with the sounds of heavy boots following you. Simon looms above, blocking out the light when he ducks past the hanging bulb. You gulp, pushing against the tile until you can work your arm free but Simon figures it out first, crouching down to pull on your shoulder, yanking you to your feet once he's no longer at risk of pulling your arm out of socket.

Blood rushes to your head with the sudden change, vision tunneling until the shadows in the corners seem to creep out and touch you. It's hard doing as Simon wants when you feel like you're about to pass out and your feet keep sliding uselessly against the tile, but Simon doesn't seem to be in much of an asking mood anyway. He spins you roughly, one arm holding you up while the other drags your door open. You find it odd you can't hear it's creaking and then realize you can't hear anything with the way your heartbeat pounds in your ears. You're shoved unceremoniously through the door, poor abused knees colliding into the tile with enough force to make your jaw rattle. The door slams shut behind you, the rush of air catching on the flimsy material of your shirt. You whip around to see if Simon has followed and sigh in relief to find yourself alone -

Only to scream and groan in frustration when they take away your lights, palms slapping uselessly against the cold floor. Your fit fades as your hearing returns, violent but quick. After the burst of adrenaline, the aches in your body begin to make themselves known, a cycle you're becoming uncomfortably familiar with. You sniffle as you crawl towards your bed, fingers groping around ahead of you until you find the nearest leg. You'd been hoping for clean sheets today, the ones you have now still smelling unpleasantly like Soap. You're fairly certain you've pissed that possibility goodbye, however, so you settle in for a long day in the dark as you inventory your aches.

There's nothing too drastic, you don't think. Bruising under your knees and along your back, but you'd managed to protect your head well enough and the shoulder that had been caught was not the same shoulder you were still trying to heal from the crash so you were thankful for that. Even if John's temper didn't fade enough to allow Kyle to come look at you, you weren't too concerned about anything beyond a general stiffness.

But it's a small consolation when the hours come and go and you continue to go hungry.

It's useless to count time in the dark like this, you've learned. Not that you were being punished regularly, but it's the kind of thing that doesn't need to be recreated in a lab to know - in the pitch dark, with no noise, the only interval you have to gauge the passing of the hours are the cycles of nausea and hunger you fall through, but even those eventually peter out into a general fatigue. Sleep is a reprieve but it's confusing, your brain crawling out of its depths with the expectation of food and sunshine each time. When you ring to use the restroom, no one answers. You turn your next card over after you've been reduced to using the bucket four times, the normal amount of breaks you need in one day. After some deliberation, you pull the card back out and tear a notch in the corner - your personal indication that you're not certain of the interval.

You're even less certain when you hear a scratching at your door hours later. It's one of them, must be, but you weren't woken by a heavy tread on the stairs for once and there's no helping the slight flicker of hope which tries to ignite in your stomach, kindled by the cramps of your hunger pangs. Is it possible help has come? Is Jodie Foster about to come through that door and fail to perform a full sweep? Sinking to the floor, you crawl closer, suppressing winces of pain when your achy toe takes your weight. The scratching noises stay consistent, a quiet rhythm you can't quite discern the source of. As you draw nearer, a low hum begins to accompany it, shaped around the edges familiarly enough, patterned and lilting almost like -

"'Las' night as ah lay on my pillow.'"

Language. Singing? "Johnny?"

He's quiet, drawing you in closer just so you can make sense of the words what slip through the soundproof batting. "'Las' night as ah lay on my bed.'"

"Johnny, please, did you bring food? I'm starving."

"'Las' night as ah lay on my pillow, ah dreamt tha' my Bonnie was -.'"

"Soap!"

John's voice tears down the stairs with so much force it sets you scrambling, convinced the door's about to cave in on you. There's a shuffle of limbs and thunder of boots, a series of thuds telling you all you need to know about how John is handling this transgression. You hear a loud huff of breath, someone getting the wind knocked out of them, and then Johnny's whining drowns out the low hiss of John's voice as he berates the younger man, a duet somehow more sinister than Johnny's impromptu performance. There's another shuffle, you think maybe one of them falls, and then a loud crack of skin on skin has Johnny running up the stairs, his heaving breath disappearing with him.

Stillness follows, a stretch of silence that lingers so long you begin to wonder if John is even still out there. Your pulse continues to thunder, the only sound in the room. Logistically you know you'd be able to pick up any other noises if there were any because it's really not that loud but you're tired, and hungry, and confused. So you shuffle closer, callused skin scraping against the grit of the floor, and lay your ear flat against the batting, just as you had when trying to listen for Soap.

But John doesn't bother whispering when he speaks, voice loud and echoing in the shaft of the staircase. "I hear you begging my boys to help you cheat your punishment again, I'll have that clever little tongue out, understood?"

Defeated, you just slump further into the foam that pads the door, nodding along pathetically as tears soak into the foam. It suffices, whatever device he's been using to learn about your tally system and listen to your crying evidently good enough to pick up the movement. The stairs creak under his weight as he finally retreats, the dull thud of the trap door closing silencing everything after. You want to lay still and succumb to the hopelessness and the frustration after, but the feeling of John's eyes on you still is nearly physical, goosebumps erupting over your skin the more you think about it. You're not surprised, of course, but it's a suspicion no one ever wants confirmed.

After that your bed becomes a new type of sanctuary, the blankets your only real chance of hiding from your captors. John keeps you down there another whole day as far as you can tell, waking you up on the third day with warm oatmeal and a fresh sliced apple with cinnamon. He's back to being charming, a big, tight smile crinkling his eyes as he coos at you condescendingly about what a mess the last few days have been. He doesn't make you earn your underwear, says he's just happy to get you out of the dirty pair you have on.

Above ground, the sun hurts your eyes where it eeks into the corners of the warehouse. It's late morning from the looks of it, the day having already started. Simon's gone, probably out working. In his absence it's Kyle who escorts you about your morning schedule. He's nice enough to let you shower in peace, scrub the set in salt of days old sweat off on your own. Doesn't make it any less embarrassing, John apparently having decided you've lost your curtain privileges.

You're not sure what to expect after your wash seeing as John's already brought you breakfast. You're still hungry but you know better than to presume now and when Kyle sees you eyeing the kitchen hopefully he just shakes his head at you sympathetically.

"Too much too soon, luv. Don't want to make you sick."

God forbid.

Still, you're pleasantly surprised when he and Soap crowd you into the second office, the one they've converted into a living room of sorts. It's nothing to write home about, just a ratty, sunken couch and a TV that produces more static than quality picture, but it's a welcome change from your dark, damp room. And after two days of overwhelming loneliness, even their hands on you aren't as unbearable as they could be - especially not when they treat you so nice, Gaz's clever fingers wringing pleasure from you even as you struggle against Johnny's hold to fight it. John remains in his office, apparently uninterested in the sappy romance they put on, for which you're grateful. You don't want to anger him again but you're also not yet able to look him in the eye. Perhaps that's why your gaze wanders when Kyle finally marches you back long hours later, drifting disinterestedly over the racking as you note changes, pallets that have come and gone.

It sticks with you for some reason, the odd dance of products through their doors. You chalk it up to boredom, playing round after round of doomed solitaire with the remaining cards in your deck while you wind down the clock on your day. But after, when you've resurfaced for dinner, you reassess the pallets from your perch on John's lap critically, coaching your expression into one of neutrality when you realize the orange wrap that clings to one of them doesn't match any other skids in the warehouse. It sits innocuously under a pendant light, highlighter color unmarred by dirt and grime. It's new, and it wasn't wrapped by them.

You have to bury yourself in blankets later when you mull it over, scared your face will betray the small kernel of hope you feel when John checks in on you. It's hard not to get too excited when you know very well one of the boys themselves could have brought the skid in from another warehouse, but the more you think of it, the more it makes sense that they sometimes get deliveries from other drivers. You're willing to bet it's the whole reason they were rushing you to your room the other day, but even if you're wrong about that, it's almost a guarantee it will happen one day. You try to picture your knight in shining armor, yet another frumpy driver just trying to make it to his next stop. It doesn't instill much confidence, but you're desperate enough to take what you can get. You'd even suffer another night in a trailer if it meant a daring escape.

The thought of it would make you laugh if you weren't scared John was listening. This whole time you'd been thinking their occupation made their hobby that much easier for them, importing cargo built into every inch of their business model. You could kick yourself for never realizing the inverse of that before now, how easily you could slip out if only you could bide your time, build a plan.

Shipping and export, just more freight to be moved along.

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#haul #and a massive thank you to threeamfanfiction for proofreading for me i am TERRIBLE about editing my own stuff lmao

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