Haneybunny - ୨♡୧

houndtooth [1]

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Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: below the cut - 2.2k words

you're the pampered wife of a russian warlord. ghost hunts you down and finds a use for you.

Hello loves, a brief intermission from me (quick I promise) - I thought it would be fun to cross-post my Ao3 fic Houndtooth on tumblr. It is still in progress!

Needless to say, this fic comes with some content warnings: implied SA (not by Ghost), drug addiction, waterboarding, and heavy physical violence.

Reader insert goes by her alias, Mia, a name she invented to protect herself in her previous profession.

​If I cannot be feared, I must be loved.

There’s something special about you. 

Something sickly. 

Your body, your lips, your eyes. Bait like dripping entrails in a loose twine net; dragging bloody along the wooded, overgrown path of your life, and luring ravenous carnivores to your trail around every bend. 

It’s something you’ve grown accustomed to, expectant of – that lecherous scrutiny, from any man you have ever met, or ever might. Used to the huffing snouts that suck in the vapour of your beguiling skin, tonguing it like they might ever get to take a bite. 

Offering mouthfuls of yourself is the only way you have been able to keep them at bay. Appeasing when necessary. Rebuffing only when you can be certain that your extermination will not be the consequence. 

Sometimes they gnaw at you anyway. Sometimes their canines sink rapaciously into your soft flesh, popping through your skin like it’s the velvety hide of a peach. They drink the sweet pink syrup until you’re bled dry, careful to spit out the cyanide core once they've finished. 

Until that poisonous pit, coated in the stringy viscera that those teeth had missed, was all that was left of you. 

So, when your husband found you, dressed as the hound-bait character you played along the redlight strip, you were allured by the promise that he might plant you again. Maybe, with his exorbitant riches and clandestine occupation, he might water you and fertilise your soil, he might let your pit sprout into a sapling. Maybe, your branches might blossom again. 

When he expatriated you to Russia, his snow-blown motherland, you imagined yourself a Tsarina; jejunely clinging to his arm like you might fly away with him, carried to an undefiled paradise as though he were your archangel and you his rapture. 

That was the last time you loved him. 

One step off that jet, the first leap with your exuberant paw; there was no paradise, no utopia waiting for you. Landing hard on icy cement, your husband was quick to stifle your lament. Offered you oxycodone like pebbles of dogfood in the palm of his hand, swearing you an unending supply – his remuneration for your services, whose nature you were not yet privy to. 

But those opioids were your wage. 

They were your shackles, too. 

Even if you managed to outrun your paralysing addiction to them, it didn’t take you long to be tackled and smothered by your intemperate dependence on your husband himself. 

On his status, on his money, on his reputation. 

Without, you would have been long used and discarded, tossed hollow and floppy like freshly flayed doeskin; exsanguinated by the very men he colludes with, the very creatures that slither into your home, that sit at your table and speak puzzles in their Cyrillic tongues. 

The very beasts who your husband endeavours to entertain and indulge with your presence at his side – a glittering trophy, or a ripe fruit, juicy and plump. He holds you in greedy hands and brandishes the shine of your skin, he polishes you with a firm palm on your ass, he boasts his possession of you with a hot tongue on your cheek. 

The prize they can never win, that’s what you are. The meal they can never devour. Only his teeth have the privilege of gorging on your supple flesh. 

With your English passport long stolen from you, you are left with no option but to be grateful for that fact – that your husband does not whore you out to his compatriots, does not sell your body for some other man to graze on or to pick at, like you used to do yourself. 

That is one of the few reprieves he offers you. 

Protection. 

Maybe, if you had never met him, you would have eventually crawled out of the chasm that your previous life had sunk to. If you had never met him, you might have found a way to break free from your dependence on those poppies. If you had never met him, you might have found worth for yourself beyond the coins hungry men would offer you in exchange for a taste of you. 

But any hope you may have had in those days is a distant, futile memory. A bittersweet daydream you sometimes venture to. 

Frozen in your sordid reality, you’ve no option but to indulge him. 

To oblige him, whatever he wants from you, you play the role he carved out just for you to fill. You massage his neck after a long day. You listen to his broken English as he does his best to explain what had happened at work, in as little detail as possible, in an effort to shield you from the truth of his profession. You swallow his cock when he asks you to. You pretend to let him satiate you all the same, a professional actor you are – you sing those moans for him, when he licks you, when he fucks you, when he pledges to impregnate you. 

He doesn’t know you’ve got a copper coil in your womb. You tell him there’s something wrong with his come, he doesn’t believe you. He sends you a doctor, and with his money, you pay them to lie. 

That’s the other perquisite, one you can’t belittle. 

His money. 

His mountains, mountains, mountains of money. 

None of it tangible, no real cash, no paper stacks tucked away in places any brave burglars might be able to find it. All of it digital, little numbers, binary code hidden behind so many layers of encryption it’s a wonder it can be counted at all. 

But there’s never a need to count it. All you know is that it is unending. 

He lets you spend it how you like, and there’s no amount of expenditure that could ever put a dent in his wealth large enough for him to notice. 

Still, the prince, he imprisons you in his castle. You can throw invisible money at whatever your bored and inebriated heart might desire, any priceless art, any extortionate car, any lavish designer shoes – and it means nothing. It fills no void. There’s nobody to show it off to. 

It appeased you, at first, after your stint of homelessness, then your weeks living in a dim red brothel, until he found you. When he offered you such a nauseating amount of money as payment for your salacious dance, that you felt your knees buckle beneath you at the sight of it. When he took you shopping and bought new lingerie to decorate you with, when he carted you giddy to his private jet. 

All too good to be true. 

And it was. 

Too late now, anyway. This is the hand you’ve been dealt; you play your cards as best you can. Close to your chest. Who knows when you’ll fold. 

You lean over the marble vanity, the harsh, downward lighting of the gaudy ensuite carves out the divots and lumps of your face that are typically imperceptible. 

You used to think you were beautiful. That’s what everyone told you. 

But watching your husband’s cold semen trickle down your décolletage, saturating and staining the invaluable lace and silk chiffon of your rosy babydoll, drying flaky on your skin – you can only see lipstick on a pig. An ugly little creature, destined for the slaughter. Your belly waiting to be made into crackling, your ass into bacon. It won’t be long now. 

You sense that you are beginning to overstay your welcome. What had once been pliancy had now turned stiff and sharp. Any sweetness you once felt for the man who swept you off your feet has since coagulated into bitter milk, too lumpy to swallow, so instead, you spit. 

The contempt inside your husband has been bubbling, fermenting. You can see it, and feel it, and taste it. He made it known to you especially tonight, fucking you with the brutality of a rabid animal, clutching and clawing, tugging and throwing, biting and beating. Painting you with his come to humiliate you, to degrade you, to remind you what you are, and always will be. He got some of it in your eye. 

There’s a bruise on your collarbone. It’s not the first he’s given you. It won’t be the last. 

You wipe away the crusting fluid with an opulent towel, dampened with warm water; lush white cotton turning creamy and black as it cleans away the come and mascara. You use it to dab clean your negligee. It’s your favourite one.  

Clink.

Your ears perk. 

Clash. 

Frozen on your feet, your head darts to face the door to the ensuite - heavy and ornate, it sits ajar. Last you checked, your husband was asleep, snoring like a fucking engine. The silence that follows the peculiar noise is what unsettles you most. 

Maybe it was him reaching for the pills on his nightstand, or readjusting the eiderdown duvet he sleeps under. But you’d expect a grunt, at least, some huffs of complaint as he was forced to do something for himself for once. 

Instead, quiet. 

You know that your husband keeps guns around the estate. Both figuratively, in the forms of armed and well-paid sentries that roam the grounds and stand guard by the doors. And, literally. A pistol in the kitchen, a shotgun in his cupboard, an assault rifle under the coffee table. 

And, you remember, a Beretta under the sink. 

With quivering and cautious fingers, you reach for the brass handle of the drawer. 

“Милый?” Sweetie?

You utter it softly, hesitantly, sweetly. He once told you your accent sounds native when you pamper him with pet names. English is your first language, Russian now your second. He doesn’t know how much of it you can understand. More than he believes. 

But there is no answer from him. Not a word, nor a groan, nor a snore. 

“Все ли в порядке?” Is everything alright?

Your careful fingertips dive into the drawer, momentarily peeking down to find the black metal. A pant of relief jumps from your throat when your fingers find it, that cold handle; you take it in the palm of your hand, it moulds to your grip like it was made for you. 

He showed you once how to load it. 

You remember. 

You clutch the slide with a harsh grip, tugging it back, click-snap. 

The safety is off. You’re not that stupid. 

“Дорогой?” Sweetheart?

Calls turn to pleas. 

You know vaguely the line of work in which your husband is a kingpin. You know it most likely involves bloodshed. 

And, so, you guess it involves fucking people over. That it incites vengeance. That it creates martyrs. 

Normally, the guards help you sleep, their thudding boots and murmuring chatter keeping the retribution at bay. 

Why is it so quiet? 

Thud.

Creak.

Now you resent yourself for calling for him. You’ve made your position obvious. You’ve handed yourself on a platter. 

Perhaps you can sneak to the hallway. 

Or, perhaps you can simply check to see if it’s your husband, skulking around your bedroom and choosing to silently ignore you out of spite. 

So on your bare toes, you glide along the glossy tiled floor, pit pat, pit pat. Feline fingers clutch the edge of the door. You gently draw it open, ever so slowly, the golden hinges moaning quietly at their awakening. 

You hold your weapon by your side. You keep your finger off the trigger. God knows what you’d do if you shot your husband by accident. You might be better off just turning the gun on yourself, in that case, rather than be left to the dogs. You know what their teeth would do to you. 

The bedroom is dark. 

The silvery glow of the moon is the only source of light, bar the dim orange now emerging from the open ensuite door. Your kittenish shadow stretches out before you onto the velvety carpeted floor, your shape carved out even through the sheer fabric of your negligée. 

“Не двигайся, черт возьми.” Don’t fucking move.

Your breath lodges in your throat, wedged in your trachea like you had swallowed a jagged rock. 

Not your husband. 

No, that voice is far too deep, too grumbling, too threatening. 

So who? 

“Кто ты, черт возьми?” Who the fuck are you?

You hiss it, a growl, though only the kind a snarling little chihuahua might spit out when touched by an overbearing hand. 

Hidden from the moonlight, the figure prowls through the shadow. Towering, imperious, that silhouette renders you frigid - you swallow as much oxygen as your stiff diaphragm will allow you. Not much. 

Four red beads of light stretch in a line where his eyes should be, reminiscent of a hunting spider; high enough off the ground that it might be crawling up the walls, hanging from its silk, ready to ensnare you. No, that’s just how tall the beast is as it stalks you. 

The glint of the moon reflects off the glistening barrel of his gun. Gun feels like an understatement. It’s immense, black. Machine more fitting. Pointed at you. Coaxing. Warning. He gives it a shake. 

“Брось этот крошечный пистолет, шлюха.” Drop that little gun of yours, slut.

The more he talks, the more you doubt. His accent is weak. Not a Russian. 

“Чего ты хочешь, мудак? Деньги?” What do you want, asshole? Money?

He scoffs. Arrogant. Scornful. 

“I don’t want your fuckin’ blood money, you evil little bitch.” 

English. 

Explains the accent. 

But, you’re left with more questions. One, what the fuck? 

“Drop the gun. Or I might get your blood on that pretty dress.” 

You hesitate. He pounces. 

“Сейчас!” Now!

Slide - The Ultimate Decision - MYG

Pairing: Producer!Yoongi X Lyricist!Reader 

Theme: Angst, smut, unplanned pregnancy. Fwb to ?

Word count: 2.2k+

Summary: 

"I can't feel my legs Hop right on the ledge, jump right off the edge"

Alternatively, 

Worst decisions are always driven by anger and alcohol; but sometimes those are also driven by Love.

Warnings: so much angst, reader's inner turmoil, unplanned pregnancy, yoongi is making things worse, Hoseok is the doctor but he is not to be shipped with the reader here, he is a catalyst though, pining, so much pining.

Listened to Slide by Chase Atlantics

Minors do not interact!!

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Patreon (for early access)

A/N: The next chapter from the present timeline.

Taglist requests are closed for now

Read the next chapter

You fumble with your phone, scrolling down numbers after numbers but can’t find a single contact you can call at a time like this. 

The pregnancy testing kit lies on your left hand as if it has been tattooed on your skin. For some reason, you don’t feel dread creeping up through the path of your neck. 

Should you cry? Should you call Yoongi and curse him to your heart’s content? Should you ask him to take the responsibility when he is about to start living his old happy life again? 

Probably you should. 

But the thing is… you can’t bring yourself to do any of those. 

You don’t even know what you should feel or what you need to feel at a moment like this. 

You don’t even have any idea of what’s going to be your next move. 

Will you keep the baby? Or will you choose to abort it? 

But before everything, you should consult with someone, who is wiser than you. 

Your fingers hover above your mother’s contact ID, even though you know your calls are going to go unnoticed, unanswered, ignored as if you never came out of her womb. 

And things will turn even uglier if she answers your call and you manage to tell her what you have done to yourself, more or less willingly. 

So you let your phone fall limp on your lap. 

How funny - you have absolutely no one to confide in. no family, no friends, no one. 

As soon as the realization hits, your eyes start turning blurry. 

Tear drops escape one by one, dampening your cheeks, throat, collarbones. You caress your stomach. 

“What do I do now?” the mumble comes out choked. And then you are thinking of him again. 

How he cried in his sleep the first time you brought him here with you. How he repeated his actions again during his last visit here. 

Both of the time you stood on the sidelines, the center of his universe has always been Gyuri. 

In the end, though, you have been the one affected - with blooming warmth in your chest and in turn a presence of life in your womb. 

As you think of Yoongi, your mind runs back to the man who had helped you in picking him up from the streets. 

You still remember, his card said he was an obgyn. 

Your tears cease. 

Yes. As much as you need a friend or family right now, you need an expert too. 

Standing abruptly from your bed, you run toward the other side of it, reaching out for the night stand, where you had kept the man’s card more than a year ago. 

You don’t have to struggle much to find out the card, it’s there as if it has been waiting to be found all these times. 

Holding the card in your hand, opens the flood gate of fresh memory of that night, of Yoongi’s dirty face, vomit all over his clothes and him holding you tightly in his sleep. 

That was the first and last time. 

He never held you for a second time, unless you were having sex. 

Pushing down the depressing thoughts, you grab your phone and with swift fingers dial the number of the man - Jung Hoseok. 

The clock reads 9 pm on a Wednesday night. And you pray, this is not past his business hours, he has no such mentions in the card as well. 

The universe seems to grant your prayer this time, probably out of sheer pity, as the man accepts the call on the fourth ring. 

“Hello, It’s Dr. Jung Hoseok, how can I help you?” The man speaks with a professional tone that sets you on an unexplainable ease. 

“Hi, uh, I am sorry to call you like this but I had managed to get my hands on your card and I think I need your help. I, um, I’m pregnant. And I think I need an appointment.” your hands start sweating now when you realize all of it is real. You are pregnant with the baby of a man who doesn’t love you. 

Pathetic. 

“How many weeks are you?” the man asks with the same professional pronunciation. 

“I don’t know. I just found out a few minutes ago. This is my first time and I don’t know what to do.” you speak honestly. 

These are the same words you want to confess to a friend, to your mother as well and most importantly to Yoongi. But talking to a stranger, about how helpless you are, is much less nerve-wracking. 

“You are not a teenager, are you?” he speaks, suspicion laced in his voice. 

A sudden chuckle leaves your throat, “I’m twenty seven.” 

The other side of the line only hums and then after a beat he says, “we usually don’t accept appointments made via phone calls but I can guide you on how to book one. If that’s okay with you?” 

“Anything is okay with me.” 

And you are not lying. At this hour, alone in your apartment, robbed off options, in the lack of a confidant - any assistance is okay with you. 

Any assistance is fine if that means you will be able to figure out what you are going to do with a baby in your womb, gifted by the man whom you let destroy yourself for the sake of love. 

The appointment is due at 3 in the afternoon and right now the clock is at 1:26. 

The hospital is an hour's drive away, hence, if you leave now, you will still have a 30 minutes on your hand. 

But the problem is that you didn’t inform anyone formally about this secretive appointment. Applying an official leave would raise questions about the nature and reason of the appointment and you don’t want that. 

You want to protect this truth with every drop of blood your body owns. 

So, you decide to quickly drop by Namjoon's office and tell him you need the rest of the day off for some emergency. 

For a matter you know Namjoon is not privy enough to inquire about the so-called emergency. 

Much to your dismay, your plans shatter like a porcelain vase as soon as you open the door of Namjoon’s office. Because one, there is no Namjoon, two, there is Min Yoongi. 

Yoongi’s expression mimics yours as he takes you in, standing there, staring at him as if he didn’t fuck you raw and left you with consequences just a month ago. 

But then again… a month of radio silence, a month of stolen glances, a month of no skin contact, a month of no Min Yoongi was more painful than you’d dare to admit. 

Your heart thumps inside your chest as you realize, you are standing in front of the man whose baby is currently in your womb. 

You are carrying a baby! And that’s Min Yoongi’s! Screams your mind at the loudest possible volume. 

But still, by some miraculous strength, you manage to smile at him.

A casual, nonchalant smile as you are used to. 

Except this time, Yoongi doesn’t smile back. 

He looks at you with eyes so deep that you fear you will succumb to them yet again if you stay here for a moment longer. 

“Where’s Namjoon?” you get straight to the point, without wasting your time in any greeting. 

“Y/N. Wait.” but you have always been weak to the way Yoongi calls your name. This time, you are hearing it after what feels like an eternity. 

“He went out to escort a guest.” Yoongi says, flatly, his tone devoid of any emotions. It’s tough to believe he cried in your arms a month ago.

“Oh. Then can you please let him know that I have an emergency and I have left for the day? Thank you.” you don’t wait for his reply as you start turning your heels to run away already. 

His voice works like glue and stops you in your tracks. You are now unable to move. A cold, calloused palm comes in contact with your upper arm, forcing you to face the man. 

When you face him, you see his face and expression has softened. The stoic expression is now gone and you are afraid of what to make out of it. 

This is not pity, is it? 

“How are you? It’s been so long- I wanted to see you but-” 

“But there is no reason to do so, right?” you finish his sentence for him, “I am fine, Yoongi. How are you? How’s Gyuri?” 

“All good.” he ignores the mention of the woman, "What's the emergency? Are you alright?” He places the back of his palm on your forehead, checking your body temperature. 

Your eyes fill to the brim. You need to leave right now or you will start crying. 

“I- I’m fine.” you lie, removing his hand from your skin, “it’s just something personal.” 

Yoongi frowns at that “oh. You can tell me. If you need any he-” 

“I can take care of it myself, Yoongi. You have a life to lead, you have better days ahead now, why would you even care about me? I was just a fleeting chapter anyway. Please- please don’t act like our time together meant anything to you. Please, I beg.” try as you might, you couldn’t contain it anymore. 

Just like you, Yoongi, too, is taken aback with your outburst. Though his eyes are kind, if you dare to add, then those might as well be in pain. 

But his next words only break you further, “wasn’t it a given? A silent agreement that our time together wouldn’t mean much to any of us?” 

Is he challenging you? Trying to elicit a further reaction? Is it a knife to dig more in your fresh wounds? 

If yes, then you will do everything to disappoint him. 

You nod, “Yeah. You are right. Forget I have said anything. Bye.” 

Yoongi opens his mouth to say something but you are faster than his words. Before he manages to say a word, you are out of the door and shutting it on his face. 

He is cruel. 

He has always been. 

But you still love him. 

You have always had. 

The fact that Yoongi can be a little heartless has never been a shock to you. 

Nevertheless, it didn’t harm you any less when he let those careless words out of his mouth. Then again, you can not even blame him because you had been the one to place your heart in his hands and asked him to play with it. 

In the end, it’s your fault. 

And you are already paying the price in more ways than one. 

“Miss Y/N?” a nurse calls your name, pulling you out of your miserable thoughts, “you can go in now.” 

With a bow and a forced smile you leave the waiting area and enter the OPD room. 

A man is sitting at the desk, with his scrubs and white coat on, the nameplate on the table says he is the one who helped you out that night. He is Jung Hoseok. 

You failed to look at his face that night, being too busy with tending Yoongi. But now that you are looking at him, he seems to be the embodiment of everything that’s positive, light, bright - much unlike you (or Yoongi for that matter). 

His eyes light up as he takes you in, with a big smile he says, “oh? You are Miss Y/N? I remember you clearly. Please take the seat.” 

You wonder how it's even possible to recall you after seeing you once, that too a year ago, “You do?” 

“Yes. I still remember that night and your friend.” He mentions Yoongi.

If he sees the man’s mention dims you even further then he doesn’t say anything but he chooses to change the topic right away, “have you filled the form?” 

“Yes.” you hand him the piece of paper. 

He goes through it all at once, probably having everything memorized, but his eyes get stuck at one point. And you have an idea what it can be. 

“As I can see, you have not added anyone as your closest contact?” he says with a careful tone.

“Yes.” you reply briefly. 

“You need to add one person at least, maybe a friend, or a family, or the father of the baby.” he suggests. 

“I- No one knows about this just yet. I don’t have any immediate friend or family who could help me out.” your hands are now shaking. 

“Sorry to pry, but what about the father of the baby?” Jung Hoseok leans a little further on the table, as if trying to measure your facial expressions. 

“He is unaware of the situation.” 

“Are you sure you want the baby?” he voices in the softest possible tone anyone has ever used against you. 

“Yes. I want to keep the baby.” and that’s it. If the baby is one last proof of what Yoongi had with you for no less than a year, if the baby is a proof that Yoongi had once held you, cried in your arms, dipped inside you to forget his own complications, then you want to keep it. 

And this will be your ultimate decision no matter what anyone else says. 

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houndtooth [4]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 2.9k words

Riley.  

You rehearse your hunter’s name like gospel. Rolling it around in your mouth like hard candy. Tonguing at it, knocking the sugary rock against your teeth, letting your swelling saliva dissolve it layer by layer in the hopes you might find something in its centre.  

Lieutenant Riley.  

A soldier.  

A man beholden to the laws of his nation. A man with a moral compass. Right?  

Perhaps it is foolish to assume any man would cling to his compunctions in a world so distinct from the civility he hails from. In a world where he holds the power to order his subordinates to turn a blind eye to his urges. Where his comrades are too terrified to question him, lest they be next on his menu.  

You’ve been made a witness to what power does to a man. Many times. Too many. 

Like liquor, their inhibitions slough off from them once they get a taste. Once they have their fill of it. Lays bare exactly what they have dreamed to do, for as long as they have had the capacity to hunger for it.  

Your hunter’s mask is thick and potently obscuring. You have no read on him, no pre-emptive classification under which you can categorise him.  

But you have spent the short flight doing what you can to identify your abductors.  

Your hunter. The Scotsman. The Sergeant. The Captain.  

Somehow, Riley had been the only name uttered for the duration of the journey. So you give them their titles to distinguish them. Each voice a character, you imagine their faces in the black void of your obscured vision. 

Few words have been spoken by the time the aircraft lands, as the deafening thunder of the rotator blades slowly quietens into a rhythmic hum. You hear a clunky metal drumming as the door of the helicopter is rolled open, frigid air once again flooding into the cabin and forcing you to shrivel.  

Whatever happens next must have been pre-discussed, pre-rehearsed. Their communication has largely halted – you hear the shuffles of them unbuckling, standing, clambering around and out of the aircraft, speaking no words to one another.  

It leaves you blind. More than you are already.  

You consider where they might be escorting your husband. Away from you, so it seems. 

The thuds of boots on steel approach you. You yelp as a firm hand grabs you by the arm, a stern grip around your bicep, though over the thick wool of the blanket that cloaks you. He gestures for you to stand with a demanding tug, though you stay obstinately seated.  

“Either you walk, or I carry ye.”  

The Scotsman.  

Doesn’t seem like your hunter is particularly possessive of his catch, despite the designation you’ve given him.  

Perhaps this one will be more legible. More susceptible. You only wish he had spoken more, offered a glimpse at his hand – so you could know what part to play for him. Which mask to don.  

“Где мы?” Where are we?  

Probably for the best that you let them believe you can’t speak English for as long as possible. Never know what they could let slip believing you mightn’t understand it.  

Though you obey, standing as he yanks you by the arm forcefully enough to pull you upright even if you had resisted.  

“As if I’d tell you that, lass,” he sneers, as though speaking to himself, throaty voice rich with condescension.  

So you follow, obedient, stumbling over your feet as you’re led across what feels like a thin layer of snow atop cement, observing the faded lightshow through your hood as you attempt to determine where he might be taking you.  

You listen carefully to the echoes of your combined footsteps, as you move through a door, down a hallway, turn a corner, then another.  

Until you are suddenly made to stop with a sharp tug.  

Follows the shuffle of a fist in a pocket. The jingle of keys. The crackle of a key in a lock. The turn of a doorknob. The creak of hinges.  

“In.”  

He barks at you, shoving you impatiently into whatever room he has brought you to, you trip over your feet before you steady yourself.  

The heavy door shuts behind you. The click of the lock follows.  

Within, the air is dense, lukewarm, sticky. Reeks of bleach and pinesol. It only barely disguises the lingering stench of rotting meat.  

Fuck. 

Your fleeting hope that you had been left alone in the cell was cast side by the heavy breathing of your escort, the thunder of his boots as he approaches you from behind. His hasty fingers hook over the thick blanket at the back of your neck, yanking it from you with selfish ease despite how desperately your claws hook to keep it.  

His breathy chuckle follows your exposure. Teasing and hoggish.  

You weave your fingers between themselves, wrists aching under the ligatures of your plastic cuffs, pulled so tight that they plug the vessels that might send warm blood to the tips of your fingers.  

“Un-fuckin’-real.”  

He murmurs it lowly, to himself, amidst the busy shuffle marching around you – then follows the clamber of objects on a surface, the shrill snap of a pistol’s slide being pulled back, the clank of it being dumped on a counter.  

Your thawing lungs draw in a slow and shuddering breath, gathering the nerve to speak once again. Maybe he’ll take pity. Maybe he’ll feel shame, if you remind him that you’re alive and aware, not a blinded mannequin.  

“Что ты делаешь?” What are you doing? 

A snicker.  

No answer.  

You listen to the shriek of what sounds like a piece of furniture being dragged carelessly over the vinyl floor.  

Hands grab at you, a manipulative jerk by the shoulders, manhandled as you’re pulled down into what you realise is a chair – steel, sharply cold on the bare skin of your thighs.  

You hear him lower beside you. His warm breathing on your knee. A sharp inhale is sucked into your chest and held there.  

The jingle of a chain. The cold of metal around your ankle. The zip of a cuff being closed.  

Fuck. 

Though, despite your terror, a repugnant relief rinses you. You’re not being bent over a table. Not yet, at least.  

You feel his fingers at your neck. Loosening the tie of your hood. You shrink as it’s then abruptly torn from the top of your head, instantly blinded by the viciously bright glare of the overhead fluorescents. You tuck your head into your shoulder on instinct to shield your eyes from their onslaught.  

A satisfied grunt from the Scotsman. You peek, eventually, as your vision readjusts to the brightness; to see him lean back in a chair opposite you. Perhaps a foot lies between your knees.  

Far younger than his grumbling voice had made him seem. A short and dishevelled mohawk runs along the ridge of his skull, a dense stubble coats his jaw. He unzips the white-and-grey camouflage jacket he wears, revealing a black fleece underneath, he arrogantly adjusts himself in his seat as if seeking comfort.  

“Christ,” he mumbles, piercing grey eyes observing, analysing you. “Gaz was right, weren’t he?” 

Glancing around the room, you hastily take the moment to absorb your enclosure. Off-white walls. Linoleum flooring, speckled teal. A table to your right. A drain in the floor between your feet.  

Fuck. 

You seal your lips shut. Running your tongue along the back of your teeth. Waiting for him to play his hand.  

His sharp stare is invasive, needles in your skin as it shamelessly follows the curves of your body, lingers on your breasts as if you can’t feel the attention he gives them.  

“Mia.”  

Enunciated with vitriol, excessive emphasis on each vowel as though evaluating the way your alias feels as it travels along his tongue. Seems like their research on you wasn’t as in depth as you would have expected, for what you assume to be a military operation.  

They don’t have your birth name. Which, you hope, must mean they know very little else.  

“Mia Zakhaev. That’s a hell of a surname to have in a place like this, eh?”  

You swallow. Stay silent.  

“You do realise that, right? Y’know what that name means?”  

Stay silent.  

“’Course you do.”  

Silent.  

“Because you know it’s his fault you’re here, don’t you.”  

It seems he has no real questions for you. Or, at least, is choosing to waste time by badgering you with empty interrogation.  

“Чего ты хочешь от меня?” What do you want from me? 

Your question only serves to amuse him. Tugs a smirk in the corner of his mouth.  

“Did he make you wear that, huh?”  

As you’d guessed. Just wants to heckle you, wants to provoke you.  

“He’s got good taste, I’ll g’him that.” 

You return to your initial strategy. Silence.  

“But you don’t, clearly. You married him.”  

“Do you know where he gets his money from, Mia?”  

“Do you?”  

“Did he ever tell you about it?”  

“Huh?”  

“What he does? What he’s done?”  

“You’d think he’d clue you in, if he loved you, eh?”  

“Do you think he loves you, Mia?”  

“Hm?” 

“Doesn’t seem like it.”  

“Not enough to protect you from all this, eh?”

You sweat. You shake. His barrage is sorely effective, however juvenile. He pokes at the right wounds. The unhealed ones.

“Конечно, он любит меня.” Of course he loves me. 

He chuckles. Clearly doesn’t believe you.  

Do you even believe it? 

Your heart skips a beat as the door to the room blasts open, the metallic cry of its rusting hinges makes you jump. Your glare shoots above your interrogator to whoever stands in the doorframe. 

He lumbers into the room.  

Calmly shuts the door behind him.  

Your hunter.  

You wonder if he can see how you shrivel in his presence. How your eyes widen at the sight of his painted skull, beady brown eyes glaring down at you through its holes, painted black. If he can hear your heartrate doubling. Your breaths quickening.  

“She’s quiet,” the Scotsman remarks. 

“Not for long,” the hunter gloats. Takes a second to examine you. “Should’ve cuffed both her ankles.”  

Scotsman scoffs. “Yeah?”  

“Mh,” he grunts. “She’ll present herself like a cat in heat if it means she might get her way.”  

You feel your lips curl in revulsion, your brows furrow into a deep scowl as you glare up from underneath them.  

“Wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”  

Disgusting asshole. That’s probably exactly what he wants. The bile of disdain rises quickly in your throat. You can’t keep it in.  

“Fuck you.”  

The growl crawls through your teeth, rolling from your tongue before you had the sense to swallow it. 

Surprise plasters itself in the expression of the Scotsman. “Ah – she speaks English.”   

Riley crosses his arms.  

“’Course she does.” 

Soap had the sense to leave the room without Ghost having to order him to.  

He has an unspoken claim on your torment. Your fate has been marked as his to decide.  

His team are cognisant of his particular hatred for puppet masters, so he calls them – the pigs in their mansions, the orchestrators of war, the profiteers of indiscriminate suffering. The breed of extortionate creatures that needn’t get their hoofs dirty, when they can tug at the strings of those under their heel.  

The same creatures that exploited his strength in those underground fighting rings. That tossed money at him when he bloodied his knuckles, when he won his brawls, when he butchered his opponents. That withheld his lifeline when he lost. That punished him viciously when he failed.  

His team mightn’t understand his inclination towards you, particularly over your husband – the real warlord. He could hardly endeavour to explain it if they ever were to ask.   

But, you, you were the fucking posterchild of that very species.  

Infuriated him even more than the operative puppeteers, the perpetrators of those crimes, like your snivelling husband. No, you were just a spectator.  

And spectate you do, little rabbit, as Johnny steps past and around him, rapping his shoulder in what could just as likely be either warning or encouragement. He locks the door on his way out.  

Look how much you wilt in the light.  

You had been so confident in the shadows. Flitting about in the darkness as if you might escape him there. As if it weren’t his domain.  

Now, you look small. Shaky. Shuddering on your chair with your blue hands bound together, elbows at your side, holding your knees closed as if it might keep him out.  

You wince as he edges closer, the dull thud of his boot on the linoleum reverberating in the hollow room.  

Look at you.  

Those doe-eyes beseeching him like it might weaken his resolve. Like it might dampen the flame of his contempt.  

As he encroaches he spots that resilience, still. The glimmer of it reflects in your stare, by turn frightened and daring. It’s as if you’re challenging him.  

“What do you want?” Your voice is hoarse. Cadence is severe. You try so hard to be fearless.  

“That depends.”  

Your expression doesn’t shift from its tearful stone; though you swallow, it betrays you. “On what.”  

“On what you can tell me.”  

He watches you shuffle in your seat, your thighs sticking to the cold steel beneath them, you suck your teeth. “What do you want to know.”  

For a moment he considers his first question. How much he wants to toy with you.  

“Where’s the factory.” He asks gruffly, stepping forward, taking hold of the seat opposite by its back and jerking it towards you. Closing the distance.   

“What?” You query, clearly panicked, eyes cautiously following him.

“You heard me.”  

Your defiant scowl falters. “I – I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  

He shifts forward, resting his elbows on his knees, glare burrowing. “Bullshit.”  

“I don’t – I don’t know what that is.”  

He licks his teeth, impatience burgeoning, swelling in his stomach like nausea.

“D’you know what this room is for?”  

He closes in. Looms above you. Stands so close to you that your shoulder brushes his hip. Finds himself grinning as your worried eyes shoot to the drain between your pedicured feet.  

His hand jumps to your neck, takes a sudden hold of your jaw like he owns your head. Tilts it back on the hinge of your spine so that you are made to look up at him. He feels the thunder of your racing pulse under his thumb. 

“I can guess.” Just a whimper. Not so brave now, are you? 

“Can you?”  

He feels your throat swell under his grip as you suck down a wavering breath. “Tort... interrogation.”  

He nods. “Clever girl.”  

Your eyes flit between his, glittering like gemstones under the bars of the fluorescent lights above him. You are a pretty thing, Christ, he can’t deny himself that.  

You blink eagerly at him. “You don’t need to hurt me.”  

“Don’t I?”  

“No,” you breathe, shaking your head as much as he allows it to. “I’ll – I’ll tell you what I know. But if you want, intel, on my husband’s work – I – he – he never told me anything about it. I don’t know anything.” 

He draws in an ireful breath, slow, ragged. “That’s a real shame, Mia.”  

“But–” You hesitate, your pulse quickens under his thumb. His gaze betrays him, landing on your lips as they part so slightly, your wet tongue catching a glint of the glowing lights above. “…I know what else you want.” 

You provocative little cunt.  

He knew you’d play this card. He had done his best to prepare himself, to fortify himself against it; and yet, it fails him. You’re too fucking good at it. Did you make your lips pinker on purpose?  

Though, perhaps, he has himself to blame. Inflated your ego by stealing glances at the body you’ve decorated with that fucking lace.  

His jaw clenches inadvertently, grinding his teeth as though imagining your throat between his canines. His silence only fuels you. He chastises himself. Fuck.  

“I can – we can help each other.”  

He hesitates before releasing you. The temptation to tighten his fingers is a strong one. His grip lowers to your throat inadvertently, your gullet rolls under his hand as you swallow. 

But he forces himself to let go, dropping your head like it’s heavy.   

“That’s not going to work on me.” He grumbles. 

And as though he had deflated you, the fawning mask of sycophantic servitude you had donned to beguile him slips abruptly from your face. Leaves your countenance dour, detached, defeated, as you break your gaze from him and stare daggers into the empty chair across from you. 

“Then I’ve got nothing to offer you.”  

Gone is the sweet coquetry in your tone. Instead you speak monotonously, oozing spite.  

Ghost sniffs frustratedly as he steps away from you, returning to his chair, he takes a casual seat.  

“That how you got your husband, eh?” He goads, voice dripping with derision. “Offer up your cunt for his wallet?”  

He watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek. Tearful eyes red and vengeful. He’s right, isn’t he? 

“Huh,” he contemplates aloud, cocky in his correct assessment. “So you’re not an oligarch, are you? You’re a fuckin’ hooker.”  

He leans forward once again, propped up by his elbows on his knees, he interlocks his fingers as he glowers at you, hoping to hook your eyes on his.  

“Tricked him into marrying you, eh? Sold yourself to him?” 

You meet his eye, finally, though he finds himself doubting whether he had hooked yours, or you his. There’s a sincerity in your stare, a pain that tugs at your lips, like he had jabbed at an open wound.  

“You’re a soldier,” you murmur, a croak.  

“I am.”  

Your lour is cold.  

“Then we’ve both sold our bodies, Riley.” You seethe. “Only in different ways.”