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littlebluespoon · 9 days

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Retirement Party

Price has retired from Military life, and he's not handling the change well. But on the one year anniversary of him hanging it up, his boys bring him something special to help keep him busy. You.

Chapter One - The Perfect Gift

Contains: No Y/N, Kidnapping, Stalking, Drugging, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Threats (open-ended), I guess this might count as human trafficking?, Dubcon everything because Reader is terrified (non-sexual), plus-sized reader, fem/afab reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real.

~3.2k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

"I told ye, she's perfect," Soap said, eyes on the window across the street. They could see you puttering around your living room, wearing a pretty flower print dress as you tidied up. "Good with bairns too, met her when I was pickin' up the niece and nephew from school. She was workin' for some rich family, an' they let her go because the wife found a pair of her knickers in her husband's briefcase." He snickered. He'd been the one to put them there, although, in his opinion, he’d been pushing the bounds for a long while anyway. Sure he’d essentially cast you adrift, jobless and with no one looking out for you, but, well, they were looking after you now, weren’t they? So it wasn’t all that bad.

"Good job, pup," Ghost said fondly, ruffling Johnny's hair. "Captain's gonna love 'er."

"How do you lads want to play it?" Gaz asked. "Could go in tonight. Won’t take much to knock her out, pack up her things, take her to the cabin. Get her nice and situated for when Price gets back."

"No point in waitin', is there?" Ghost asked. "Nice she's on the ground floor. Makes takin' 'er things easier. I'll go round 'n' check the windows in a bit. Should wait till after midnight. Don't want to be spotted by the neighbours."

"No' much risk o' tha'," Soap said. "Knocked over a bunch of bins last I was here and the cunts didna even turn on a light. Just the bonnie thing worryin’ while the rest of ‘em sleep sound."

Gaz lit a cigarette, nodding thoughtfully. "Small apartment too. Is there much to move?"

Soap shook his head. "Nah, no' much. Sweet girl lives simply. I told ye, she's perfect for the captain. He'll be able to spoil the fuck out of her, once she's broken in, aye?"

"Know 'e'll like that. Man needs a wife to dote on. ‘e’s been goin’ a bit crazy, all alone. An' 'e can train'er up nice."

"Think he might share?" Gaz asked wistfully, exhaling a stream of thin smoke as he sighed. "Nice soft girl like that-- Plenty to go around."

Ghost laughed. "Thought we'd 'ave trouble gettin' Johnny to keep 'is 'ands to 'imself, and you're the one droolin'."

"Scuse me for having eyes, mate. Just think she looks sweet."

"We'll get to see first 'and soon.” Ghost clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on lads. Let's get ready."

You wake up on the hard metal floor of a moving vehicle, your pounding head cradled in someone's hands. That's what you notice first, and the thumbs rubbing circles against your neck soothingly.

It has the opposite effect. Your eyes fly open.

“Hi, bonnie,” a somewhat familiar face grins down at you, blue eyes smiling, but too intense, glittering in the low light that filters in from the windows at the front of the truck. “How’s yer head?”

You grimace, trying to make sense of what’s going on around you. The back of the van seems to be filled with boxes. “Aren’t you Finn and Rory’s uncle?”

“Aw, ye remember me? Knew ye were a sweetheart.”

You try to sit up, but Johnny puts a strong hand on your shoulder and keeps you where you are. Your head feels too heavy to try and fight him, your muscles weak. “What’s going on?” you ask. “What— Is this a kidnapping?”

“Tha’s an ugly word, bonnie. We’re doin’ ye a favour, really. Settin’ ye up with someone respectable. Captain’ll take good care of ye.” He pats your cheek. “Whyna get back to sleep? Still a ways to go, aye?”

Maybe it’s just a bad, weird dream. You do feel foggy, like you’re not fully attached to your body, and keeping your eyes open is a struggle. You’ll wake up back in your own bed, and have a funny story to tell if you ever bump into Johnny again. He’s definitely too nice to be a kidnapper, right? Like, people don’t really do that sort of thing. It has to be a dream.

“Okay,” you mumble, letting your eyes close again.

As you suspected, you wake up again in bed. The headache’s receded some, and there’s warm sunlight streaming in through the windows. You bury your face into the pillows, and then bolt upright. The pillow smells weird, like sweet tobacco and spice, and you don’t get morning sun in your bedroom. The window faces a brick wall across a narrow alley.

The room you’re in now is not your room. It’s sparsely furnished, just a dresser under the window and the bed you’re tucked into, and two doors, one that’s clearly a closet, and one that must lead out into the rest of the… house? Judging by the sound of birdsong outside, you’re out of the city.

You pad to the window and look out. There’s a van in the driveway, and three men carrying things in. One of them looks up and spots you in the window, waving cheerfully.

Not a dream. Fear grips you, ice sliding down your spine, shards settling in your stomach, needling and uncomfortable. Your sinuses prickle like you’re about to cry, but no tears come. You’re too dehydrated to summon them. It’s hard to tell how long you’ve been out— It’s fully daylight outside, but you have no idea what time. A second look around the room finds a digital clock sitting on the nightstand, 3:05 glaring back at you in red.

There’s a knock on the door, and it pushes open. The man who walks in is handsome, smiling at you so beautifully that your automatic response is to try and smile back, although you feel that it’s flimsy, unsure. There’s no chance that this man is here to help you, but you at least hope he’s not here to hurt you either.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks. His voice is as pleasant as his face is, smooth and cheerful, although it makes you wary about him on principle. “You hungry?”

You shake your head. It’s not true, but you can’t trust that there wouldn’t be drugs in anything they give you.

“Well, come on downstairs, hm? Get some water at least. Maybe a tea?”

Your stomach churns. “I might be sick,” you manage to squeak out. He quickly ushers you out into the hall and into a bathroom. You don’t make it to the toilet, but you do manage to make it to the sink. If you had a little more fire in you, you might have tried to vomit bile onto the pretty man’s shoes, but it’s hard to shake the instinct to be good, not to make any trouble, to hope that they’ll just let you go. You’re not even sure what they want. You have no family to ransom, you don’t have any money to speak of, you’re just a fat little ex-nanny still paying off an English Literature degree from a second-rate college.

You turn on the sink to wash away the sick, and rinse your mouth out. Your hands start shaking when you realize your toothbrush is sitting in the holder next to the sink, like it belongs there. Your makeup bag is sitting on the counter too, and when you look down, you realize you’re standing on your own bathmat, taken from your home and arranged here, as if effects from your own house are supposed to make you feel comfortable. You look at your reflection in the mirror, and then at the man still standing in the doorway, his brown eyes all concern, as if he wasn’t party to a fucking nightmare.

You straighten up, gripping the counter to steady yourself. “What the hell is this?” you ask, trying to inject some authority into your quaking voice. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“I’m Gaz. Nice to meet you. Johnny had lots of nice things to say about you.”

So that hadn’t been a dream either. You look around the room desperately, looking for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon, but Gaz seems to know exactly what you’re doing, and he steps into your space quickly to grab your hands.

“None of that. Come on. You’ll feel better after a tea, yeah? Then you can get ready to meet the captain.”

He leads you downstairs. Questions spin around your head, but you’re not sure if it’s worth asking. Gaz only bothered to respond to one of the three you’ve asked so far, and it wasn’t the one that you were most interested in an answer to. So you stay quiet instead, taking in the layout of the big room. A front door and a back door, and windows that look out onto a forest on one side of the property, and more forest on the other side, beyond a large cleared space with a neat garden and a few fruit trees. There’s a second building that you can just see the corner of from the kitchen window, more likely a garage than a neighbour.

Gaz backs you up against the counter and leans down slightly, his hands gripping your thighs. You panic, the touch surprising you, and slap him across the face. The sharp sound makes you freeze, like it wasn’t you that had done it. He takes advantage of your surprise to shove you up onto the counter and grab both your hands with one of his, all the friendliness draining our of his eyes in an instant as he points a scolding finger at you. You feel like you’ve done something naughty that you’re not fully aware of the implications of yet, a badly trained dog or a child. “I’m going to let that one slide, because I understand that this is a big change for you. But you’re not going to like what happens if you try that again, understood?”

You nod quickly, your own eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry,” you say, the instinct for appeasement rearing it’s skittish little head.

And then the smile returns, as pretty as before, storm clouds blowing away as though they’d never been there to begin with. “It’s alright, doll. Just don’t do it again. And definitely don’t try that attitude on with the captain.” He taps the pointing finger against your nose playfully, and lets your hands drop back into your lap.

The rules seem simple enough. Be good and sweet, and get friendly faces in return, to a degree. No matter how cooperative you are, you doubt they’re going to let you go home. Fighting back means consequences, and you’re not sure how far those consequences will extend. If you’re too much trouble, it’s not a stretch to imagine that they’ll just kill you outright and try again with a meeker woman. You don’t yet know if death would be the more preferable outcome.

You pull your sweater down over your thighs. The black zip-up hoodie isn’t yours (the word Riley is stitched onto the front of it), but it’s big, and even though it smells faintly of cigarettes, it affords you at least a little modesty and comfort, more than the tank top and the sleep-shorts you’re wearing underneath do. Riley must be the third man. Was he the captain? Or was there a fourth one somewhere?

Johnny comes through the door carrying your suitcases, and he grins widely when he sees you, the charming, boyish one that you’d thought was handsome before. It’s only unnerving now. “Didja have a good sleep, bonnie?”

“You drugged me,” you accuse.

“Weel, of course. You were no’ goan ta come all peaceable, and LT wouldna be patient if ye were cryin’ the whole way here.” He trots upstairs, and you can hear him drop the bags with a thump, before he’s clattering back down the steps and leaning against the counter next to you. “How’d’ye like yer new home, bonnie? S’a nice place, aye? Better than tha’ little shoebox back in the city.”

“I like my apartment,” you protest.

“Psh, ye’d say tha’. Puttin’ on a brave face since yer such a good girl. But it wasna verra safe, was it? No’ a single neighbour paid us any mind while we were loadin’ up yer things. No’ a good place for a single girl, aye?” He reaches out and puts a big hand on your knee, squeezing lightly. “Now ye’ll be taken care of, like ye should be.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of.”

“Nonsense. Ye’ll be glad, once ye get used to things. Already looks real homey in here, don’t ye think?” He gestures at the living room.

You twist to look, and your stomach sinks. Your throw pillows are on the couch, one of the afghans you crocheted hanging over the back of it. You recognize the titles of your books on the shelves. These men were nothing if not thorough, surgically removing your entire life and transplanting it to this house in the woods, with it’s wood panel walls and big, overstuffed leather couches.

He continues blithely, like he’s not delivering some of the most horrifying news you’ve ever heard. “Most of your furniture’s in the garage, ye can sort tha’ out with Price, aye? But we brought all yer clothes and decorations and whatnot in. Figure ye should wear tha’ pretty black sundress, an’ those long stockin’s with the clippy belt, ye ken the one? Cap’ll like those.”

They’d been through all your things. If you had anything left to throw up, you might’ve again. Gaz sets a glass of water on the counter next to you. “How d’you take your tea, doll?”

“Milk, two sugars,” Johnny answers for you. “Our sweet lass has a sweet tooth, aye?”

“How do you know that?” You can hear the quiver in your voice, and it doesn’t slip by either of them.

“Come oan, hen, ye ken I didna jus’ pick ye off the street. Did my research. Wouldna pick just anyone for the captain.”

“When he said he’d found the perfect girl, we didn’t believe him at first,” Gaz says, leaning against the counter on the other side of the kitchen while the tea steeps. “But Ghost and I knew he was right, soon as we saw you.” He nods at the glass. “Drink your water. You haven’t had anything since last night.”

“Is it drugged?” you ask flatly.

“No, want ye awake for when Price gets here. Yer a real cute thing asleep, but we want him ta hear yer pretty voice and see that smile, aye?�� Johnny reaches past you and picks up the glass of water, taking a big swig to demonstrate it’s harmlessness.

You take a careful sip when he hands it back to you, and then another, resisting the urge to just gulp the whole thing down. The door opens again, and the biggest man you’ve seen in your life walks in, wearing a black t-shirt and a mask with the jaw of a skull printed on it, pulled up over the lower half of his face. He looks at you dispassionately, and then at Gaz and Johnny. “What the ‘ell have you two muppets been sayin’ to the poor thing?” he asks, his voice rumbling like an avalanche. “She looks like she’s gonna faint.”

“Figure she’s just peaky,” Gaz says defensively. “I’m making her tea.”

The big guy swats Johnny’s hand away from your knee impatiently, and cages you in against the counter, one huge arm on either side of you. “How’re you feelin’ bird? Be honest.”

“Terrified,” you admit.

He chuckles. “Sensible, considerin’. But you don’t need to worry, olright? No one’s gonna hurt you, so long as you’re good. And you want to be good, don’t you, bird?”

You nod. You’d thought Gaz and Johnny were big, but this one’s huge, broad and tall and even scarier. It’s clear why they started off introducing themselves to you in the order they did. If this man had been the first thing you’d seen after waking up you probably would have gone into hysterics.

“Use your words, pet.”

“I want to be good,” you say obediently, because you don’t see any other options, at least for the moment.

“Good girl,” he says, and there’s the slightest hint of a smile in his dark eyes.

Somehow, this is the most comforting thing that you’ve experienced all day. You won’t be hurt if you’re good, and you are being good.

He pushes back from the counter slightly, giving you more space, takes the mug of tea from Gaz, and hands it off to you. “Small sips,” he instructs. “And maybe a biscuit, if you think you can keep it down.”

“Are you the captain?” you ask nervously, gripping the mug with two hands.

“Hm? No. ‘e’s still about an hour out. I’m Simon. Ghost to these two.” He fishes an open package of biscuits out of the cupboard and sets them next to you. “Once you finish your tea, we’ll get you ready. Want to make a good first impression, right bird?”

“Not really,” you admit. “I’d like to go home.”

He laughs, at least finding your honesty amusing. “That won’t be ‘appenin’. If Price dun’t want you, I’ll keep you myself. But I’ll tell you right now, you’ll like Price better. If you’re good for him, he’ll be real good to you, understood?”

You bite your tongue. It won’t do you any good to point out that a man that would accept a person as a gift is probably not capable of being good to anyone. Good is subjective, and the three men in front of you are lunatics. Their captain probably has the slightest bit stronger a grasp on his sanity, or a consistent moral code, if not a particularly righteous one. So you just keep your mouth shut, and drink your tea, and eat two chocolate digestives while Gaz and Johnny start collecting things to make dinner.

As soon as you set your empty mug to the side Ghost pops you down from the counter and ushers you upstairs with a big hand placed a little too low on your back. He tells you what to wear (down to the lingerie), but blessedly doesn’t insist on watching you get dressed. He does sit on the edge of the tub and watch you put on makeup, however, requesting red lipstick and winged eyeliner. Your hands are still a little shaky, but you manage to do as he asks. His eyes smile at you just a little when you’re obedient. You feel pathetic for not making a fuss, but you’re not sure what you can possibly do, except something stupid that will make them angry enough to hurt you.

He helps you into a pair of strappy red heels that had been languishing in the back of your closet before they dug everything out, and straightens the seam of your stockings, running his big hands up your calves. It’s like you’re a doll, dressed just how he wants, something to look pretty and say less than nothing, a gift for some other man you’ve never met to keep on a shelf.

Or worse, to play with.

You hear Johnny and Gaz greet someone downstairs, their voices loud and excited, and your heart skips nervously.

Ghost rises to his feet, smiling so big you can see it even with the mask. “Wait right here, pet,” he says firmly, leaving you sitting on the edge of the bed while he goes off to greet his captain. “Want to introduce you proper.”

So you sit, and you wait, shaking and nervous, for what feels like eternity, until you hear Simon’s surprisingly light footfalls on the stairs again. He offers you a hand, and hoists you over his shoulder as soon as you’re on your feet, carrying you down into the living room.

“We all pitched in,” Gaz says, as casually as if he meant throwing in five dollars for a card. “But she was Soap’s idea.”

“Picked ‘er out special, Cap,” Johnny says. “She’s perfect for ye.”

“She?” an unfamiliar voice asks. “Don’t tell me you got me a dog.”

“Better than that, skipper.” Ghost laughs as he circles around the couch, and drops you carefully into the man’s lap, stepping into line with the other two. “We got you a wife.”

I've been low-key thinking about this concept since I read ohbo-ohno's Don't Leave Me Locked in Your Heart a while back (If you haven't read and you like a good dark fic, you should click that link, you may enjoy it). I think getting someone a person as a gift, or being given as a gift, rather, is a fun fucked up fantasy to explore. I'm not entirely sure where I'll take this but I promise to put in content warnings. Let me know if I miss something, I don't want anyone to be surprised by what they find!

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

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littlebluespoon · 9 days

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"Why can't the freaks on AO3 just go and make a site for all the gross stuff and leave AO3 alone."

Because AO3 is that site. Because AO3 was that site long before you decided AO3 was better than the sites you bullied us off of before, and I can promise you if someone somehow comes up with a fanfic site you like better specifically for the 'gross stuff' you'll try to bully us off that too so you can benefit from it.

AO3's specific core purpose is to preserve fanfiction, yes, but it was also instigated as a host site for the fanfiction that kept getting yeeted off other platforms like Wattpad. Its designed to preserve all fanfiction, not just the fanfiction you, personally, think is 'allowed' to be written.

AO3 is the site for all the gross stuff the freaks make. We've been there just as long as you. We've been funding it just as long as you have. AO3 has specifically said you have a place here. The timeline was literally:

Wattpad/FF.net/LiveJournal purge fanfics > AO3 is born > The people who's fics got purged moved over to AO3 > AO3 gains popularity as the best functioning site > The people who pushed for the fics to be purged off Wattpad move to AO3 > The same people try to push for AO3 to purge fics.

AO3's source coding is open-access. You go make a polished, strict, rigid site where nothing 'icky' is allowed. You go make a site where you can control what is hosted. We already have our space.

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littlebluespoon · 17 days

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the space in between- part x

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9

"maybe don't stop by anymore, mr. price."

the sentence rings in john's ears, replays over and over again, making his stomach drop and curdle every time it loops. shit. shit shit shit fuck. he's really fucked this up, hasn't he? he'd had something wonderful and precious in his hands, and the moment he'd gotten nervous he'd crushed it to death in his grip. he has no one to blame but himself, of course. he should have kept it together, refused to believe those fucking pigs when they told him she'd given him up. of course she didn't, but he'd ignored the blatant truth right in front of him and panicked instead. he doesn't know what even came over him, normally getting pulled into the station is no big deal.

he blames the mole business, really. it's been eating away at him, the knowledge that someone has been feeding information to the cops and john's rivals, making him paranoid and less logical than normal. he assumes it's what made him suddenly distrust her, despite having already proven herself as trustworthy and reliable. clearly something in his subconscious mind panicked about how much he was letting his lamb in, trusting her and opening himself up to her. he's determined that if she ever speaks to him again, gives him another chance, he won't let that part of himself sabotage things again.

he checks his phone every few minutes, hoping for a text that he knows won't come, watching the air tag move through the city, back to the memory care center she frequents. she's been there a few times, regularly enough that he assumes there's a relative there. something about it makes his heart ache in his chest.

he's annoyed when she misses the meeting with kate, but he understands. he's her ex now, he assumes, a dangerous one who turned her life upside-down and didn't even have the wherewithal to ask if she was ok before treating her like a stool pidgeon. fucking stupid, of course she wasn't. he'd let his emotions get the best of him, and now he's lost his precious lamb. his sheep's clothing had slipped, and when she'd gotten a good glimpse of the wolf underneath, she rightfully fled.

"i don't think she's coming, john." says kate evenly. john doesn't say anything, just checks his phone again and nods to kyle to fetch the car.

"need something else from you, kate." john says as soon as the door closes behind gaz. kate just leans back in her chair and raises her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. "got a slam-dunk unlawful termination case from a rather large company. there's an email chain a mile long that proves it, could be big money."

"and where are these emails?" kate sounds skeptical, and it rubs john the wrong way. as if he'd waste her time.

"i'll get gaz to work on it, i've got the time stamps and email addresses here," john taps his temple. "shouldn't be too hard for a man like him to access those."

kate just smiles and shakes her head. "i see, we're going with another 'anonymous whistleblower' for this case?"

"we are." he stands and pulls on his coat, nodding kate's direction. "good to see you, as always."

"likewise, john. good luck with- all of that." she says, gesturing vaguely at the window. he knows what she means. good luck with your girl troubles. john just throws her an unamused look as he turns on his heel to leave, arms crossed in the elevator, hands roughly jammed into his pockets as he makes his way across the lobby in time to see the car pull up to the curb. he can feel the black cloud that's hanging over him, poisoning his mood. there's nothing to be done about it but to weather the storm, to wait for it to dissipate on it's own as he tries to make it through his day. he's barely settled into the backseat when the opposite door opens and a familiar face climbs in.

"welcome back, you look like shit." john says as simon slides into the backseat next to him without a word, eyes tired over the edge of his kn95.

"how would you know?" simon grouses at him before getting right to business. "john, shepherd fucked us. graves and his men turned, injured soap and tried to kill us both. i don't know what it is they're up to, but the endgame was clearly to take the family out of the picture."

john hums. "saw graves yesterday. was very keen to know if i'd heard from you."

"i'll fuckin' bet." ghost scoffs.

"we'll find him, take him out, and deal with shepherd. whatever this bullshit is, i will put an end to it." john assures him with a pat to the shoulder. "soap all right?"

"arm got grazed by a bullet. hurts like a bitch, but he'll be fine." ghost says, and john just nods. he's had his fair share of grazes, gunshots, stab wounds, and the like. he knows soap has, too, and it's a relief his injuries aren't more serious. something big is coming, and he's going to need all hands on deck to deal with the war the shadows and shepherd seem to be waging against him and the 141. the escalade rolls to a stop in front of john's building, and as he unbuckles his seatbelt, he turns to ghost.

"simon, one last thing- i need you to take care of something."

"better be a fast job, because i'm ready to pass the fuck out. been on the move for two solid days and i'm fighting jet lag." ghost says, clearly fighting off a yawn.

"it's quick, i promise. i just need you to perform a post-police custody interrogation. standard questions, nothing intensive." john says as casually as he can, trying to keep his calm facade in place.

"who on and where?" ghost asks, voice tinged with suspicion. usually john handles these himself, would never typically ask ghost to do it, especially since he just got back.

"my- er, well, that girl i'd been seeing." john says, embarrassment leaking out through the gaps in his words, and he hates the way simon cocks his head like a bird looking at something shiny and unknown.

"past tense?"

"past tense." the finality of those words hits john like a brick to the chest. it hurts, saying them out loud. ghost just sighs and rubs at the back of his head.

"too bad, i rather liked her for you. far more sensible than some of the other birds you've had." simon actually sounds like he means, it, too, which only makes the loss of her sting all the more.

"yes, thank you simon." john snaps, opening the door and sliding out. "let me know when you've finished."

"will-" ghost starts before john slams the door behind himself, unwilling to hear anything else he has to say at the moment. he doesn't look back as the car pulls away, doesn't make eye contact with anyone as he makes his way to the elevator and back to his penthouse. he's inspecting the new, temporary door building management has installed when his phone chimes. an email from gaz, about the cctv footage from near the construction site, some mom and pop bookstore that was worried about late night crime with a camera pointed to the street. john flips through the attachments, dark blurry stills with a timestamp that shows it was recorded the night he and the boys took care of some business, removing yet another competitor from the field. he can see frame after frame of a familiar, round body making it's way to the construction site, slipping into between panels of the fence, only to be followed by a large, dark shadow of a man. john squints at the images, enlarging them as much as he can before they become a mass of undecipherable pixels. he watches the large man slide in between the slats a few moments after his lamb, and the light catches him just right that he immediately recognizes the stupid pillowcase mask over the man's face- it's 'the king', some low-level goon for hire who takes himself far, far too seriously. should be easy enough work, locating him and getting the information they need. he's scrolling through the rest of the message, absorbing the details of what kyle's found- bank transactions between 'the king' and shadow company, unencrypted communications telling him to keep an eye out around the construction site around that time, and a very interesting report back about a soft woman being escorted through the site by none other than john price himself. possible leverage, the message says, and john's just starting to see red when his thoughts are interrupted by the ping of a text message from gaz.

>>get my email?

>>looking it over now. thorough work as always, kyle.

>>got the king down at the docks, if you're interested in a little chat

>>very interested. i'll be downstairs shortly.

he's back in the car in less than fifteen minutes, and on his way to the docks when john's phone pings again- a message from simon, and it's an audio file. two quick taps to his phone, and the sudden sound of his lamb's voice makes him wince. he ignores the look on kyle's face in the rearview, expression full of barely concealed pity.

"time to go?" her voice sounds so small, so quiet. she's not afraid, brave thing. it just sounds like she's resigned to whatever fate she thinks is ahead of her. it's hard to breathe, hearing her like this. he feels himself fall even more in love with her as he listens to her answer ghost's questions, hearing her talk about keeping her mouth shut and not believing the police's lies. it makes his heart clench and his eyes water, thinking about how perfect she is. smart and capable, soft and sweet. she's so much more than a man like him deserves, he knows it, but not deserving her and not desiring her are two different things entirely. he knows he should be focused on letting go, of distancing himself and detaching from her so she can move on with her life like she clearly wants to... but he can't. instead, his traitorous heart holds onto every single word she says, cherishing them, holding them close as proof that she loves him. loved him, actually. lord knows he's probably fucked it up beyond repair now. the echo of her last words to him bubbles up and makes his guts churn.

"is it fixable? this thing between you and him?" ghost asks, and it makes john's heart stop and face wrinkle. nosy bastard, that's definitely not a standard post-lockup question.

"also not your business." she snaps at ghost, and john's heart flutters a little. on one hand, he wants to know the answer to simon's question, but on the other- he's so proud of her, telling him to piss off and mind his own. any other time he'd be ecstatic at her discretion, but he's dying to know if he has even the remotest shot of getting her back, if an apology would be wasted or not.

"is, a little bit. need to know how long my boss is gonna be in this right foul mood." ghost says, and john rolls his eyes. he hasn't been that bad, surely. a little short at most.

"he'll be fine." she replies, and, oof, that tone in her voice hurts to hear. poor girl sounds wretched, he can hear the bitterness and heartbreak dripping off of those three syllables, and it twists him up inside knowing he's the cause of it.

"how are you?"

"fucking miserable. and how're you?" she replies, and john gets so caught up in her answer that he doesn't hear what ghost says in return, barely registers that the voice clip is done. she's admitted to being miserable, surely she wouldn't be if she wanted to part from him? maybe there's a part of her that wants to forgive him, wants to be his again? it's not a lot, but it's just enough hope to kick john into action. step one is making sure his lamb is safe, step two is getting her back. he'll figure the how to those questions later, right now he's got a so-called 'king' to talk to.

the car pulls to a stop outside of a grey, worn-down, metal paneled warehouse by the docks. gaz trails behind john as he slips in through he heavy steel door and takes in the sight in front of him- soap, a crisp white bandage around his bicep, backhanding a very large man who's tied very securely to a chair, his feet in large plastic buckets. the air is thick with the acrid ammonia smell of setting concrete, and the smack of skin on skin echoes off the bare metal walls, as does 'the king's' grunt of pain.

"stop wastin' my time, ye've got until the cement cures properly t' tell me what graves is up to. just another twenty hours t'go." soap taunts, nudging the bucket with his toe. "and that shit burns, doesnae? donnae ye want out?"

"yes, yes, please! it hurts so much! i'm burning!" grovels the large man, syllables thick with a german accent and tears of pain unshed.

"then talk." john interjects, patting soap's shoulder in lieu of a greeting. 'the king' looks up at him wearily, and john already knows the internal conflict taking place in his mind. graves is formidable, no doubt about it- he has the ability to make 'the king's' life a living hell, if he doesn't outright kill him... but so can john. truly, he's caught between a rock and a hard place. john would pity him if he wasn't so fucking angry.

"all i was told was to keep track of the woman, to report back to graves about what she does and who she keeps company with!" the king says, wincing as he tries adjusting his foot. the concrete must be seeping through his clothes by now, he'll be nonstop screaming about the burning soon enough if they don't kill him quick.

"and how did you do that, eh? i would've seen you milling about, big fucker that you are." john asks, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head. the king purses his lips, clearly unsure if he should speak, his eyes darting between john, the floor, and the door. soap saunters behind the big man, leaning in close to whisper in his ear.

"i ken graves has ye on a tight leash, that ye dinnae want t'piss him off. i'm tellin' ye right now, price is a bigger, more present threat t'ye. so which is more dangerous, the man who left ye to die at our hands, fuckin' about somewhere else, or the man standin' in front of ye?"

the large man swallows hard, closes his watering eyes, and takes a deep, shaking breath through his nose. he's clearly preparing for death, which is bad news. anytime these idiots make peace with their god and accept the end, they clam up entirely. john knows through years of experience that the only way to make them talk is to give them a sliver of hope, something that makes them think they'll be able to walk away if they give john what he's after. he leans in, hand on the big man's shoulder.

"i tell you what- you tell me what i want to know, and i'll cut your ties myself, put vinegar on your legs to stop the burning, and tell graves i killed you. that should be all you need to pick up, leave town, and never bother me again." john says, his voice low. "this is my bird we're talkin' about, and i'll do anything it takes to keep her safe, even if it means lettin' the likes of you go in order to get information."

"you'll get me out of these buckets? cut me loose?" the king asks through grit teeth, clearly skeptical.

"i will." john says, maintaining eye contact, watching as the big man bites his lip, gears clearly turning in his head.

"i don't know too much, just was told to watch the girl, like i said. graves has me talk to police, tell them to check the construction site for a body, tell them she did it. i think he is under the impression that she is your weakness, that he can use her to take you out. got me out of these buckets, please, my legs, they-" the king says.

"figured as much, but what i'm really interested in is how you tracked my girl." john says, tightening his grip on the austrian's shoulder, ignoring his begging. he can see soap make pointed eye contact with gaz over his shoulder and chooses to ignore it.

"the airtag! everyone saw you give her the airtag in the cafe! i don't know how, but he's been using that. i've just been following her around using the coordinates he sends me." he says, squirming under john's grip.

"so, what, his plan is to grab the girl, use her to get to price, kill us all? and then what?" gaz asks from over price's shoulder.

"i don't know. all i know is shadow company wants 141 gone. they don't tell me anything except what to do, really. it's all i know, i- please, cut me loose, the concrete burns, it feels like i'm on fire!" 'the king' says, face pained as sweat and tears pour down his face, shifting his legs as much as the layers upon layers of duct tape holding him against the legs of the chair will allow.

john nods to soap, who pulls a thick plastic bag from his pocket and pulls it over the giant's head, keeping it tight across the behemoth's nose and mouth. panicked grunts reverberate from the metal walls, lasting far, far too long in price's opinion. 'the king' can't move, can't fight it off, all he can do is try to rock back and forth as his face slowly turns blue.

"now, soap, promised i'd cut him free, didn't i?" john says as he unsheathes his knife, planting the heel of one hand on his forehead, tipping the king's head back before slashing at his throat. the warm, thick spray of blood coats him, seeps into the fibers of his button up shirt and jacket, ruining them beyond repair. he'll have to bleach them the second he gets home. ah, well. 'the king' gurgles, eyes wide and bloodshot, his face a mottled purple, open-mouthed mask of terror and sadness pressed against thick plastic. it's gruesome sight, even to someone as well acquainted with death as john is.

"jesus." kyle mutters from behind him, as john wipes his knife clean on the corner of his jacket before tucking it away.

"i'll clean up here, i'd imagine yer goin' out t'get yer girl." soap says, somehow managing that lopsided grin despite the stench of blood and concrete commingling in the windowless warehouse.

"too right. and, ah, welcome home, soap." soap just beams at him, flashing a bigger, toothier smile.

"good to be back. let's show these bastards whose town this is, aye?" soap asks, and john just smirks and claps him on the shoulder in response. he checks his phone again, just in time to watch his lamb's tag disappear from the map. oh, shit, someone or something's destroyed it, and it makes john's heart race a little in terror. last known location was the memory care center she frequents, it'll be simple enough to swing by, less simple to convince her to go with him if she's still there. time is of the essence, though, if graves is using that thing to track her. he figures he'll just plan his little speech to in the car as he races to her rescue.

"soap, dump him in the bay when the concrete sets. kyle, you're with me. we'll swing by mine to clean up, head across town, grab my girl, meet back at the safe house to plan next steps." he holds out his hand. "i'm driving, i need you digging up some emails for me while we're on the way."

"emails?" kyle asks, reaching into his pockets to fish out the keys.

"side project, but it's important." john explains without explaining.

gaz just exhales a little laugh as he gives john the keys, and the two of them leave soap to clean up, just like he does best. price is almost annoyed at how simple this plan of overthrowing him is. for someone as formidable as graves is, he'd expected something slightly more complex than 'kill everyone, take over, profit'. it's insulting, really, that phil ever thought john and his men would be so easy to dispose of. it doesn't matter, really. the hunt for graves and his shadows is officially on, and john is determined that phil is about to learn a very important lesson about underestimating john fucking price the hard way.

#I’d scream but then my family might commit me 😅#early please darling marry me so I can have 24/7 access to the worms

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littlebluespoon · 28 days

Text

the space in between- part ix

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8

thoughts crash against each other like waves in the ocean as you sit in the stark white interrogation room in silence. it was shock enough, having the front door explode open and armed police filing in with guns raised, but the real shock was when you were led out of the penthouse in handcuffs. mercifully, there wasn't a gaggle of press waiting outside like you'd expected, but you still felt everyone's eyes on you as you were shoved into the back of the squad car, all of them clearly trying to visually assess your guilt. all you could do was choke back your tears, bite your tongue, and hang in there. they can only hold you for so long before they have to charge you or let you go, and you're more than willing to wait out that clock in complete silence as you try to parse out what the fuck is happening to you.

you sit in the plain white room, hands in your lap, throwing the occasional glimpse up towards the camera recording you and the obvious two-way mirror. you barely register the questions the cops ask you, but based on their line of inquiry, you can put the pieces together: they found a body buried at the construction site, with one bullet hole in him. he's been dead for a while, almost two months, and they got a tipoff that it was you that did pulled the trigger. they keep saying that 'footage shows' it's you, but you know that's a lie. you do your best to keep it together and not cry from pure nerves, but it's hard. the way you see it, this was john. it must be. buttering you up and keeping you close just to pin the death at the construction site on the naive witness who stumbled upon it. goddammit, you should have listened to your gut instincts instead of letting your loneliness take charge and make bad decisions for you. of course he didn't want you, and you feel foolish for ever having believed he might have.

the two officers asking you questions are the same ones you recognize from over a month ago, the pair that was tasked with following you around and standing outside of your apartment building. the younger one is just as impatient as ever, getting visibly frustrated with your complete and total silence, blurting out shit you know isn't true.

"we have footage of you, you know. if you just tell us in your own words what happened, we can get the sentence reduced. you're only fucking yourself by staying quiet." he grits out as he tap tap tap's the table to expel his anxious energy. the older cop just watches you silently, taking down notes every now and again. it's hard to read his handwriting, especially upside down and backwards, but you can clearly make out the word UNCOOPERATIVE, which is underlined twice. it almost makes you smile. almost. fuck these guys, if the only joy you get out of today is just messing with them and making their lives harder by being entirely nonverbal, then that's exactly what you're gonna do. if wasting their time is the only happiness you're going to find today, you're going to lean into it. you think about those lawyers you've seen on tiktok, espousing the virtues of shutting the fuck up when cops come asking questions, and wonder if they'd be proud of you. probably, right?

you allow yourself to flit in and out of disassociation, getting caught up in thoughts about john. he fooled you, he really did. you'd just gotten to a point where you'd believed in him, where you thought maybe things could be really good between the two of you, and now you feel just as stupid and foolish as ever. your worst fears are coming true. john set you up, and now everyone is going to blame you for being naive enough to trust him. you're never dating again, as soon as they're forced to let you go, you're moving out of the city and changing your name and possibly joining a convent. is there such thing as a non-religious convent? you're keen to find out.

"he gave you up, you know. john price is the one who told us it was you. so if you know anything that can connect him to this, you may as well give him up and save yourself." the younger cop says, and it brings all of your swirling thoughts to a standstill. you look at his face for the first time since arriving, and- oh. he's lying. it's not even hard to spot, he's just so, so bad at this. you don't even hold back the little smile on your face as it starts to take over, and it makes him even angrier. john didn't turn you in. he's probably in another room just like this one, being told the same lies you're being fed. it doesn't change anything, the relationship is still over as far as you're concerned, but it feels a little better not to have been betrayed.

a blonde woman in a grey suit barges into the room, standing in the doorway with a smug air of authority that's almost as bad as the police.

"miss, my name kate laswell, i'm your attorney, and i am advising you not to say anything. gentlemen, unless she is being charged i demand my client be set free." she says, not looking at you at all, but mad dogging the shit out of the two cops. the younger one starts to sputter, only to be rendered silent as his partner unlocks your handcuffs and nods to your lawyer. when you ms. laswell out of the room, the second the door shuts behind you you can hear the muffled sounds of the younger cop having an absolute freakout. you don't even try to hold back your laugh as you listen to him shriek about justice and being so close to cracking you. dream on, kid.

the lawyer leads you to her car, explaining that she's been instructed to take you to her office. you maintain your silence the whole car ride back to ms. laswell's building, and follow her silently through the parking garage into the high rise, taking up the role of her quiet shadow on the elevator all the way up to the thirtieth floor. you don't know why you're even surprised to see john and gaz waiting in her office. john stands as soon as he sees you walk in the door, but doesn't make any move to come near you or say anything. he just watches, stone-faced as you pointedly ignore him and take a seat in front of ms. laswell's desk. she drops her bag and files onto her desk with a sigh before dropping into her seat. she glances at her watch and scowls.

"while i'm glad they didn't insist on holding both of you for the full 48 hours, it's six in the damn morning and i have a teenager to take to school. so here's the plan-" she leans forward, planting her forearms on her desk. "we're all meeting back here in six hours to go over next steps and figure shit out. get some rest, stay out of trouble, and don't talk to anyone." she says, tugging the elastic out of her hair and shaking her hair loose with her fingers.

"gaz, pull the car around." john says to kyle, tone icy, his focus still entirely on you.

"can i go home, then?" you ask quietly, directing your question towards the attorney, who blinks up at you from her phone.

"of course." she says easily.

"no." says price at the same time, his tone hard as he stalks up to your seat and looms over you. you try not to shrink in your chair, to give him the satisfaction of intimidating you. you're not sure where you stand with him right now. even if he didn't set you up, he still got you pulled into a police station overnight and questioned for hours. you're not really in the mood to feed his ego at all.

"john," ms. laswell says in a warning tone.

"kate." he grits back to her, his attention still solely on you. he leans in, hands planted on the arm rests of your seat, completely boxing you in. all you want to do is kick him in the balls and run. fuck this man and everything he's put you through. you won't let him do it to you again.

"i didn't say anything to anyone, if that's what you're worried about." you say quietly, fighting off a wobble in your voice. this isn't your john staring you down right now. it's john fucking price, a mob boss with interests to protect.

"we'll get to the bottom of this at the meeting, john. you're tired, get some rest." kate says pointedly over his shoulder. price's face does something complicated before he grabs your arm and pulls hard, urging you to your feet.

"we'll see you at noon." price says over his shoulder to kate, who watches the two of you like a hawk as you're essentially yanked out of her office and into the elevator, his grip on you terrifyingly firm and unrelenting. it isn't until you're on the sidewalk out front, in view of other people that you pull yourself away, flagging down a cab. even if you were in the mood to forgive him for all of this before, the way he's reacted has shut the door on any forgiveness you might've contemplating showing him. fuck him, treating you like a snitch or something, you don't deserve that. not after all the bullshit tests you got put through. you watch gaz and price share a look through the windshield before price leans into your space.

"i don't know what it is you think you're doing-" he starts to growl into your ear before you find the nerve to cut him off.

"i'm going home to sleep a little before my appointment with a lawyer." you say, not looking at him at all as a cab pulls up to the curb. price puts his hand on the door to prevent you from opening it.

"i can take you home." he says, his voice a little softer. too little too late, honestly. all of your worst fears about being with him have come true, and he's been a terrifying asshole about all of it.

"i don't want you to. in fact- maybe don't stop by anymore, mr. price." you say, flinging the cab door open and sliding inside, slamming it shut with a finality that you can feel in your chest. it's over. you're both done now. all of the attention and flirtations you'd enjoyed from him are gone forever. your bed will be cold when you roll over in the middle of the night, and you've made peace with that. you don't watch price as the cab pulls away, can't bring yourself to look at him as you go, but as soon as you get a few blocks away, you allow yourself a good cry all the way back to your apartment.

you skip the meeting with ms. laswell. odds are price was originally planning on paying for her to defend you, and now that you're not together anymore, well. you doubt your unemployed ass could afford someone of her caliber. instead you opt to have lunch with your old man, waving halfhearted hellos to the staff as you make your way down to his room with a backpack full of burrito fixings. you probably can't go back to dos vaqueros taqueria again, but it doesn't mean you've stopped jonesing for another good burrito. your dad is in his living room, still in his robe and slippers, watching 'casino'. damn, you'd nearly forgotten how handsome de niro was in the nineties.

"hey, you want lunch?" you call over to the couch, unpacking your backpack onto the kitchen table.

"lunch?" the old man always perks up when food gets mentioned.

"yeah. you hungry?"

"hungry?" he echos.

"yeah, you want to eat?"

"i want to eat."

"ok, great." you say with a smile, pulling the plastic plates from his cabinets.

"my daughter is coming today." he says, and tears come out of nowhere, falling down your face. shit, fuck. normally you can handle your dad forgetting you, but with everything else going on, it's just the cherry on top of a really horrible sundae.

"oh yeah?" you ask, voice wobbly and intentionally keeping your back to him, unprepared to play the role of an affable stranger just yet.

"yeah! she's a nice girl. takes after her mother, thank god. do you know my daughter?" he asks.

"i do, yeah. we're good friends." you tell him with a watery smile as you pull yourself as well as some burritos together.

"oh, good. what are you doing?" he squints over at you, his attention on your hands as you pile meat and beans onto a soft tortilla.

"i'm making lunch, would you like some?" you say, re-entering the loop of questions. your conversations with dad are so cyclical anymore, it almost feels like chatting with a customer service bot who barely understands you.

"lunch?" dad echos.

"yeah. would you like to eat?" you ask.

"i could eat."

it takes all your strength not to cry. watching that brief flash of near lucidity, only to watch it fade away again, hurts. you can't let him see you upset. you dad's a fairly empathetic guy, it doesn't matter if he doesn't understand why you're upset- seeing you upset will upset him. even after you leave, he won't remember seeing you, but he'll remember he's upset and won't know why. you can't poison his day like that, so you buck it up and crack a joke.

"hey, you wanna hear a joke?" you ask.

"a joke?" your dad isn't even looking at your face anymore, just gazing off above your head, towards the door.

"yeah. why do mermaids wear seashells on their boobs?"

"why do mermaids wear seashells on their boobs?" dad's already smiling, despite not hearing the punchline yet. the man loves a joke, good or bad, doesn't matter.

"because 'b' shells and 'd' shells don't fit!" you say with a big smile, and damn near jump out of your skin when you hear a deep, rumbling laugh behind you.

"that's a good one, i'm goin' to have to remember that." ghost says from where he's leaning in the doorway. fear takes over, and you feel your hands shake.

"what are- how did you find me?" you ask as your dad continues to wheeze out a laugh over 'd' shells.

"your tag." he says simply. fuck. fuck fuck fucking fuckity fuck. you'd forgotten about that entirely. you fish the air tag out of your wallet and hold it out, waiting for ghost to take it. instead, he grabs your wrist and makes to drag you out the door.

"wait! no, please! let me finish lunch with my dad, and i'll go with you. he's not a witness, he won't even know you're here 10 minutes after you leave. please. please let me have this." you beg, voice shaking. if you're going to die, you at least want this. to have one last meal with him, to make sure he gets his lunch alright. to do one more thing for him in your quest to repay him for being such a good father. ghost's gaze flicks over to your old man, who you can hear over your shoulder is eating a dry tortilla, completely plain, simply because it was in front of him. ghost lets go and nods, keeping guard at the door with his arms crossed over his chest. you walk back to the table on shaky legs, where your dad is standing behind his chair, eating torn up bits of tortilla.

"you're lucky i brought the entire pack with me and not just a few, old man. you menace." you grouse jokingly at him, and he just laughs like an unrepentant child that's been caught sneaking cookies. you can hear ghost chuckle at the doorway.

"we got lucky, really." you tell the masked menace at the door. "he's not mean or paranoid or anything. still knows us about half the time. grateful for that, not everyone's so lucky. i know i'd be a total bitch if it were my brain that was going."

"how long's he been sick?" the way ghost asks isn't purely from politeness. you can't help but wonder if he's got a loved one with a rotten brain as well.

"five years? maybe six? he's only been here six months. he likes to wander, and mom's knees are bad. she couldn't keep up with him anymore, and i couldn't move back because there's no work out there, so now he's got people watching out for him full-time here. but hey, at least i see him more now that he's local." you turn back to your dad. "nice place you've got here, old man."

"thank you, my wife is a very good decorator. i think she's in the back bedroom..." he always perks up when he talks about your mom, but he's fading away again fast.

"she went out to lunch with her friends, that's why i stopped in." you lie sweetly, trying to ignore the burn of stomach acid rising in your throat. lying to him sucks, every single time, no matter how innocent the fib.

"she went to lunch with her friends?" there he goes, echoing. gone again.

"yeah, she'll be back soon."

"soon?"

"i promise. why don't you take a seat?" you ask him.

"ok." your dad says before he takes another bite of his burrito. he does not sit down. you shrug at ghost.

"you missed your meetin' with laswell." ghost says from his post at the door.

"i don't think i can afford to take up her time." you say honestly.

"oh, you can't. but price is payin'-"

"i can afford it even less, then." you don't know where this boldness comes from, cutting him off and talking to him like a peer. something's broken in your brain, you think. oh, god, you really are your father's daughter.

"wot you mean?" ghost squints at you and tilts his head.

"i can't afford to owe mr. price any favors. or anything, really." you say simply. "want a burrito? i think we have plenty of stuff to make another, if someone will stop eating the plain tortillas."

your dad just laughs as you scold him, unrepentantly stuffing another torn-off chunk of plain tortilla into his mouth.

"had my fill of mexican lately, thanks." ghost says, still staring you down. "so, what, you're just gonna go up against the cops without a lawyer?"

"look- they can legally only hold me so long without charges. they can't press charges against me because there's no evidence that i've done anything wrong. so as long as i just sit there, shut the fuck up, and bide my time, all i have to do is wait out a clock." you shrug before finishing your burrito. it's filling, but it still pales in comparison to the one price introduced you to. maybe dos vaqueros delivers?

ghost watches you in silence as you finish up, packing away your leftovers and pulling out a book of far side comics. it's a hail mary, but surely some old, familiar, one-panel comics are simple enough to hold dad's attention? it seems to work, the old man immediately settling onto the couch and chuckling to himself as he slowly flips through the pages. you hike your backpack up onto your shoulder and turn towards ghost, who's messing with his phone.

"time to go?" you ask quietly, so as not to get your dad's attention. you're not sure what ghost is here for, whether it's to drag you back to price or to kill you, but you don't want dad to try to follow.

"no. sit down, we're doing this here." ghost says decisively, pushing at your shoulders and herding you back towards the little kitchen table. you sit back at your spot automatically, and ghost sits opposite of you, placing his phone on the table, face-down.

"what did you tell the police?" he asks, dark gaze boring a hole right through you.

"nothing." you say honestly.

"nothing at all? not even your name?" it sounds like he doesn't believe you, which makes you nervous.

"they already knew it. plus they got my wallet when they patted me down." you point out.

"uh huh. what'd they tell you?"

"said they found a body at that construction site. that there was a gunshot wound. said they had footage of me. said mr. price turned me in." you shrug. "pretty much just that, over and over. for hours."

"you believe them?" ghost asks.

"about finding a body? yeah. everything else, though? fuck no."

"then what's this i'm hearin' about you havin' a tiff with the old man?"

"not your business." you say flatly.

ghost chuckles at that, rapping his fingers on the table as he pauses. "is it fixable? this thing between you and him?"

"also not your business." you snap, flinching internally at taking up that tone with a man this big and dangerous.

"is, a little bit. need to know how long my boss is gonna be in this right foul mood." ghost crosses his arms and you roll your eyes.

"he'll be fine." you say, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of your voice.

"how are you?" the question comes so quickly and naturally that it makes you stumble. the pivot from interrogation to check-in is jarring, to say the least. you just sigh and opt for honesty.

"fucking miserable. and how're you?"

"jet lagged to hell." he grabs his phone, taps it a few times, and pockets it as he stands up. "i'm going home to sleep it off."

"ok, uh, bye." you say as you watch him leave. he pauses at the front door.

"you'dve been perfect for him if you weren't so bloody skittish, you know." ghost says.

"i'm not skittish, i just have a perfectly healthy aversion to chaos and danger." you fire back, and ghost just throws his head back and laughs before closing the door behind himself.

"who was that, sweetpea?" your dad calls from behind you, and the familiar nickname wrenches at your heart, causing a sad smile to spread across your face.

"nobody, dad. he's nobody. you like your book?" you ask, but the old man isn't distracted that easily.

"he seems like a weirdo. maybe stay away from him." your dad says with a decisive nod, returning his attention to the comics in his lap, chuckling at cow tools and nerds in glasses.

"roger that, old man." you mumble to yourself as you pull your backpack back on. an idea strikes you as you head towards the door, and before you leave, you flush price's air tag down the toilet.

good riddance.

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littlebluespoon · 1 month

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Sorry for being such a slow writer, it's because I [remembers that self-deprecating jokes are harmful to my mental health and make everyone else uncomfortable] was attacked by dark spirits and washed up on the shore of a mysterious island with no recollection of who I was

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littlebluespoon · 1 month

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Look I will write it but urgh. NSFW abo nonsense below.

Alpha Soap who kidnaps beta reader to some abandoned warehouse because she's "in heat". She keeps crying that she's not an omega, he keeps saying he can smell her slick and growling at her to stop hiding. Makes her try to make a nest then makes condescending comments about how bad it is. Fucks her with no lube or prep because she's built for it so doesn't need any. Knots her through her screeching, coos at her he knows how good it must feel. Makes her try to purr. Doesn't matter that his bark doesn't work how it would on an omega because she's so terrified she'll follow his orders regardless. Sinks his teeth into her neck to add her to his pack.

For the best he says, she's so insatiable his little slut omega that he needs his pack or he'll never be able to fully satisfy her. Isn't she lucky his pack are willing to take on such a terrible brat of an omega? So kind of them to bring all sorts of plugs so even when a knot isn't in her, she's still kept nice and full of their cum. It'll settle her they say. That's what omegas need after all, they need to always be covered in their alphas scents, full of their cum and attentive to their every need. Sometimes they'll bring another omega in and fuck him through heat as a demonstration. But they'd hate for their cum to be wasted on an omega who isn't theirs, so she'd better crawl over and clean out his ass properly.

So she'll be a good little girl and stay chained in her nest in this warehouse while they train her to be a proper omega. If she'd just give in and stop fighting then they promise they'll take her home and they won't need to punish her so much. Doesn't that sound nice? They'd even give her a bath. I mean they'll need to make sure to rub their cum right back into her skin after, but after weeks in this warehouse doesn't a bath sound nice?

By the end of the month she is their perfect little omega. Begs for knots so nicely, always wants their clothes to put in the big soft nest they've set up for her at home, never wears underwear under their oversized shirts and is willing and eager to take them whenever they ask. Of course they're not setting her up to fail just so they can punish her again, but it's only nature that when she denies her omega instincts they need to get her back on track even when she pleads and says she didn't mean it. It's for her own good <3

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littlebluespoon · 1 month

Text

thought up a little scenario at work, enjoy!

cw: kidnapping

eight months ago, you'd escaped hell on earth. three weeks into being held captive in a dingy basement, you'd managed to use the safety pin you'd had in your pocket to blindly pick the lock on your chains and slip away into the night. you hadn't bothered with police, just run back home to startled room mates, hurriedly packed a duffel bag, and made yourself disappear.

it's been easy enough to find under the table work as you crash on stranger's couches and bounce from women's shelter to women's shelter, paranoia keeping you moving forward, never looking back. it's almost like self-imposed witness protection, the way you refuse to contact your family or friends, refusing to look at the posters and the one billboard with your face on it, the word MISSING screaming at you in bold red letters, begging you to go home.

you can't. you know you can't. the monster in the skull mask promised he'd never let you go, that he'd always come for you, that he'd destroy anyone who tried to stand in his way. going to the police would only get someone killed. they're too inept to keep you safe, and the police station would be the first place the ghost, as he called himself, would go looking for you.

it's a nice day today, sunny skies and a slight breeze and enough cash in your pocket to splurge on a motel room for the night. for the first time in months, you feel relaxed. calm. happy. you get a bottle of the cheapest wine the store carries, and fill up the bathtub with the hottest water you can stand to sit in. you hiss between your teeth as you lower yourself into the bath, reaching for the bottle of wine perched on the ledge. you luxuriate, drinking straight from the bottle as you soak. it's been a good few days, easy work that paid better than you'd expected and nice weather. fuck, it feels like you've finally caught a fucking break.

you drain the tub when your fingers get pruney, drying yourself with the all too small, scratchy, thin towel this motel provides. it's not great, but you'll probably steal it anyways. the breeze from outside through the open windows makes the curtains dance a bit, and something about a warm breeze touching your wet skin makes you feel alive. free. unburdened in ways you haven't experienced in months. maybe you're on the other side of this thing. maybe the ghost has forgotten you. maybe you can start building a life again.

the urge to celebrate overtakes you, and you slip your discolored, stolen flip flops on with a sundress you pinched from a ymca lost and found, ecstatic that it was in your size. you saunter out the door and onto the street, taking a leisurely stroll back to the supermarket, hoping to find some ice cream or something on sale to treat yourself with. you look at this town with fresh eyes now. this might be a good place to stay. the locals have all been kind, and it's not a big enough place that you'd feel as lost and anonymous as you did back in your old life. the storefronts seem cheerier, the flowers brighter, the birdsongs sweeter and more melodic. it's a great fucking day for no reason at all, the best you've had in ages.

the little grocery store is quiet, teenage stock boys laughing over shared jokes in the canned food aisle, cashier flipping through a magazine, manager greeting you with a smile before going back to whatever he's doing with the form on his clipboard.

you're in the frozen foods and desserts section when your little burner cell phone chimes. you don't think much of it, you'd only gotten it so potential jobs could get ahold of you. nobody wants to hire the nameless wanderer who doesn't even have a damn phone, after all. you pick it up on the second ring, and as soon as you hear the voice on the other end of the line you're flooded with love, grief, joy, and fear all at once. it's your mother's voice, and she sounds terrified.

"sweet pea? are you there?" her voice is shaking, and you feel your knees give out from underneath you as you crumple to the ground.

"mom?" you sound like a child, afraid and seeking comfort from a nightmare in the middle of the night. please, god, let this just be a nightmare.

you can hear her shriek and it makes you gasp, silent, terrified tears rolling down your cheek. in your periphery, you can see the two stock boys spot you crumpled and crying on the floor with wide, terrified eyes. they look to each other, unsure what to do, and take off.

"why, 'ello, love. been missin' you. you miss me?" a sob erupts from your chest as you listen to that sinister mancunian coo into your ear. "there, there, love. why don't you just come 'ome? your mum's been missin' you somethin' awful. i 'ave too."

"no, no, i- put my mother back on the phone. put her back on right now!" your voice cracks with emotions and you can see the manager, escorted by the stock boys, slowly approach from down the aisle, body language not unlike someone assessing how agreeable an injured animal is.

"you think you're in charge 'ere? cute. now quit faffin' about, before i lose my temper. you've seen what 'appens what i do that. think your mum would survive it?" he taunts, and another loud, wet sob crawls out of your throat. you can barely see the panicking store manager, his wide brown eyes uncertain as he crouches down near you with his hands splayed, palms out in a gesture that shows he means no harm.

"don't hurt her, please don't hurt her, she didn't do anything wrong. stop this, just stop this!" you beg the ghost, as you look at the manager, his eyes going wide as he realizes the sort of situation you're in.

"took me on a wild goose chase, wasted months of my bloody time lookin' f'you. should break 'er fuckin' neck just f'makin' a troublesome little bitch like you." he spits out.

"it's not her fault, please, please," you're crying too hard now, you're bordering on incoherence as this poor middle-aged man hovers nearby, clearly out of his depth but still wanting to help somehow. you impulsively reach out and hold his hand, trying to ground yourself by concentrating on how warm his palms are, the feeling of the warm metal of his wedding ring, the crooked finger that looks like it was broken and didn't set well ages ago. he purses his lips and nods, and you can see his eyes growing a little watery as he stays squatting down next to you, giving you as much support as he can simply by being nearby and not being a threat. you hope his life is happy, that his spouse loves him, that his days are contented and easy. you hope he and his loved ones never go through this.

"been stayin' with your mum for a bit. not the same as 'avin' you around, but she's nice enough. two of us been sharin' your old bed, lookin' at photo albums together. loved those pictures of you in the wizard of oz, no two front teeth and still the star of the show." he taunts.

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!" you scream, causing the manager and stock boys to jump at the sudden outburst.

"gonna ignore that, i can tell you're 'avin' a stressful day. tell you what, you've got three days to get your arse back 'ome. you do that and everythin' will be fine." the ghost says, and you can hear your mother weeping in the background. you can't reply anymore, words fail you as you just sob on the cold tile of the grocery store, dreams of discounted ben & jerrys completely abandoned.

"come 'ome, dorothy. click those pretty red shoes and come back where you belong." he says before the line goes dead, leaving you terrified, upset, and humiliated on the floor, a small crowd gathering around to witness your ruin.

and it had been such a nice day, too.

#screams silently into the void cause it’s 1am #wtf early now I gotta go daydream about this all night

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