Houndtooth [1]

houndtooth [1]

[masterlist]

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!

houndtooth [7]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.9k words

The air of your cell is thick and savoury like soup. You choke on it, every breath, drowning in it – filling your lungs with its foul warmth and barely slaking your battered body’s need for oxygen.  

The sore minutes following your husband’s execution had blurred into incomprehensible smoke. Fleeting. Suffocating. Obfuscating.  

You are lost. Uncertain whether or not you are grieving. And if you’re not, whether you should be. 

His words were each a bullet, each meticulously calculated to injure you where it would hurt you most. Almost perfectly crafted to ensure your captors lose any semblance of pity or reverence they held for you – so that they might lose whatever restraint they’ve been attempting to maintain. So that they may do to you whatever they have been itching to do. Their exploitation justified. Because you’re just a whore.  

But in your desperation to comfort your own distraught mind, you argue with yourself. Your own devil’s advocate. 

Perhaps it was a game. Could have been a bluff. 

He must have loved you, right? After years of serving him, of acting your part, of loving him the way he wanted you to.  

He had to have loved you. You had always dreamed someone would. 

No matter the case, the outcome is the same. There’s no way back. Whatever nightmare you’re stuck in will only, only, get worse. Regardless of which pack of wolves you are left to, your fate remains inescapable. You’ll be used. Consumed. Digested. Shit back out.  

The Captain had ferried you to a new cell – the one you now sat in, atop a makeshift bed with a squealing steel frame. He had carried you like a child, an arm under your knees and an arm under your neck, he let your head fall on his chest despite your fading effort to stay skittish and defensive. His charity disingenuous. White knight he is. 

But you’re weak. Exhausted. Delirious.  

You sit in dead silence, knees tucked up tightly to your chin, body only partially dry after your water torture.  

The Captain stands in front of you. Hands magisterially on his hips, he pouts under his beard. Wrestling with how best to interact with you, like you’re an animal in an exhibit. Careful not to scare you off, but frightened you’d bite if he gets too close.  

“There were no bullets in the gun, by the way,” he says gruffly, voice hoarse like he’s gargling gravel. “I wasn’t going to kill you. It was a… a bluff.”  

You say nothing. Give him nothing. You glower at him from under your brow, hoping he leaves so you can finally lie down and cry like a hurt little girl.  

“Can I get you something? Water?”  

You say nothing.  

“Look. We’re – we’re not going to hurt you. But I need you to answer some questions, alright?” He insists. “We need to know about who your husband worked with. I’m guessing he must have called them his colleagues, eh?” 

Give him nothing.  

“Do you know a Vladimir? Makarov?”  

That name, you know. You know it well. You know it like an apple knows teeth. Like a deer knows an arrow. Like a carcass knows a knife.  

Less so a colleague and more a rival. Two lions fighting for the same throne. Vladimir hated your husband so viciously it wouldn’t surprise you if he had orchestrated this entire series of events just to be rid of him.  

But the enmity between he and your husband isn’t what strikes icy shards of terror through your chest. Isn’t what churns your stomach and pushes dark bile up your throat. 

You swallow. 

“Mh. Looks like you do know him,” he grunts, crossing his arms over his broad chest, rocking on his boots. “Can you tell me about him?” 

He persists in his questioning, despite your sealed lips. You know that talking might help you. That spilling your vague knowledge like water from a faucet might ingratiate you. Might earn your freedom.  

But what freedom awaits you?  

If these soldiers cast you back to your blood-soaked estate, or your petit trianon – as a traitor of your husband, a scorned widow – you will simply be bait. Raw meat to lure bears. Honey to lure wasps. There is nowhere you could possibly hide to evade them, no scheme to outsmart them.  

You’d be better off dead.  

“When was the last time you saw him?”  

“Did he come to your estate a lot? Did he travel with your husband?”  

“Have you ever spoken to him?” 

“Does he know you?” 

“Could he help you?”  

“Where is he?”  

He leans forward, props himself up with his palms on his knees. His blue eyes are piercing, discerning. “Do you know where he is?” He insists, “Mia. I’m trying to help you.”  

You say nothing. 

He is quick to grow frustrated, grunting like a bear and standing upright, he rubs his temples in exasperation as if you’ve given him a headache.  

“You don’t want to talk to me. Okay.”  

Give him nothing.  

“Who will you talk to? Anyone?” He presses, tapping his boot in impatience. “Do you want to talk to the Lieutenant?”  

You say nothing – but some shift in your expression must have said something for you. You’re not sure if it was the widening of your eyes, the softening of your brows, the loosening of your shoulders – but he spotted it. And nodded slowly. Knowingly.  

“Alright, love. I’ll go get him. Then you’ll talk to him, eh?”  

“Simon,” came the gruff bark of Price’s familiar voice. Irate.  

Ghost sat on a bench in the empty mess hall, under a flickering fluorescent bar. Bouncing his knee, leaning his elbows on the table in front of him, he pinches a cheap Russian cigarette and holds it between his teeth.  

Tastes like shit. Does the job.  

“What,” he grunts, swivelling on the bench so that he faces out towards the approaching Captain. “Did she kick y’in the head, too?”  

Price only frowns, confused and plainly irritated, he comes to a stop before him and crosses his arms. “No,” he puzzles. “She kicked you, eh? That’ll learn you.”  

Leaning back indolently, Ghost tugs the base of his balaclava back over his mouth, tucking it under his jaw. Squishes the butt into the plastic surface of the table behind him.  “Not me.”  

“Mh,” the Captain acquiesces. “She does seem to like you.”  

Ghost only scoffs, not quite a laugh, but carries the same disbelieving amusement. “Right,” he chuffs, “for killing her husband?”  

“Possibly,” Price shrugs derisively, “beats me.”  

“Has she said anything?”  

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Like talking to a brick wall,” the Captain complains. “A pretty little brick wall.”  

Ghost rolls his eyes, turning his head to look at the open door to the hall. He rubs his brow vexedly with his thumb. And you chide me, you hypocritical prick.  

“She’ll talk to you,” Price insists.  

“Why the fuck would she talk to me?” Ghost retorts. “I waterboarded her.”  

“I asked her.” 

“What, and she requested me?”  

Price tilts his head, a lazy shrug. “Not in so many words.”  

“Right. So you’re full of shit.”  

“Jesus, Simon. Don’t make me order you,” Price sneers, “No clue why she’s interested in you, but, you never know with women like that, eh?”  

His stomach churns at Price’s insinuation. Must have taken your cunt husband’s ramblings at face value. Rookie error for a captain.   

Ghost bounces his knee in annoyance. “Just let her sleep, for fuck’s sake. She’s probably delirious.” 

“Exactly,” Price nods. “She’ll be nice and compliant, eh? Open to persuasion.” 

He's right. Ghost is playing dumb. He’s very familiar with the game, so fluent in the art of exploitation that he could do it with his eyes closed. Beaten, defeated, worn down to a quivering mess is when you’ll be most susceptible to influence. The most pliable.  

Letting you sleep, allowing you to recover your strength as you cocoon yourself in your shell is a surefire way to ensure you never utter another word. He can’t let your fear bubble into spite, into anger, into vengeance. He must kick you when you’re down.  

But – he's tired. He’s already fucking sick of it. Sick of being confused by his own repulsion. Sick of his pathetic eyes raking over your body despite his efforts to restrain it. Sick of your eyes looking through him like you know him better than himself.  

“Too delirious to give us anything useful,” Ghost clarifies, through teeth.  

“I don’t give a shit about whatever vapid rumours she has about Zakhaev. It’s pretty clear she knows nothing about his enterprise.”  

“Then why the fuck do you want me to keep interrogating her?”  

“I don’t want you to interrogate her, Simon,” Price badgers, “I want you to convince her.”  

Ghost frowns, crosses his arms testily. 

“Convince her to what?”  

~

Ghost hears the squeaking of your shoddy bed as he brutishly unlocks and opens the door to your cell. 

You had been lying on your side, curled up like a foetus on the mattress – but the second you are disturbed, you sit yourself upright. Alert. Frightened. Skittish. Stare at him like a cornered cat. 

Looks like you’ve been crying. Eyes red and swollen, cheeks glistening with the afterglow of your tears. Your lips part just slightly as your weary eyes land on him, as though a rush of air just escaped your lungs. He shuts the door behind him, stands in the middle of your small cell with crossed arms. 

He mines his thoughts for words to say. Finds them turning to ash on his tongue. 

“Sorry about your husband,” he says, eventually, tone more facetious than he had intended. 

He sees the cinder flickering in those sparkling little eyes, your chest rises as you inhale in preparation for your retort. “How can you – how can you say sorry for killing–” 

“Not for killing him,” he clarifies with a grunt. “Sorry that you married him.” 

That leaves you quiet. You look sour, because he’s right. 

“Was he always like that?” He persists, feels the snake of spite rising to his throat, needlessly adding an air of mocking derision to his words. “Did–” 

“Why are you here,” you snap to cut him off. Your cadence needle sharp, so starkly at odds to the sweetness of your earlier pleading. Nothing left to beg for, he supposes. 

Ghost draws in an impatient breath. He doesn’t want to be here either. “Boss said you’d talk to me.” 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you grumble, voice wavering. Pouting at him. Cute. 

He sucks his teeth. “Right,” he scoffs. “Yet you’re talkin’ to me, aren’t you?” 

You fall quiet again, pulling your knees up to your chest, you clutch your bare feet with agitated fingers. “He’s nicer than you,” you mutter scornfully. 

“I bet,” he agrees dully. “But you won’t talk to him.” 

“Don’t trust him.” 

“Oh?” He queries cynically, “so you trust me?” 

You seem to think for a pointed moment before you speak. Wet stare lands on him, scans from boots to head, evaluating. 

“You do what you say you will,” you bitterly admit, and he can see it pains you to say so. 

Christ. 

You trust him? Or, rather, whatever tentative hopeful dependence that you are forced to rely on in a predicament as dire as yours. Still. He squirms at the thought that you’ve decided he’s the best you’ve got. You’ll be sorely disappointed. 

Won’t you? 

“Have you got more questions for me,” You ask flatly, breaking the off-putting silence. 

The defeat in your voice is like nails on a chalkboard. He’d rather you be hysterical, tearful and delirious, overwhelmed with grief but a still riddled with a desperation to survive. 

Instead you’re merely hushed and trembling. Perhaps you’re in shock. Perhaps you’ve got a plan. But, what he is most fearful of, is the likelihood you’ve given up. No desire to fight for whatever life might await you now that your husband is out of the picture. 

Detrimental to their entire operation, yes. They have no leverage to use against you if you have no interest in staying alive.  

More than that, though, he needs you to keep fighting him. To berate and antagonise and kick and scream. All of his adversaries would viciously resist him and that would justify Ghost’s brutality. When his blistering hatred for you was at its peak, not ten hours ago, he could justify hurting you as badly as he wanted to. 

Now what? 

How can he bring himself brutalise you when you look at him like that? Teary-eyed, shaking in either cold or panic - but giving him no resistance? No talk-back, no threats, no ploys to escape? 

How can he hurt you any further? 

He can tell you just want to sleep. Your lids are heavy and swollen despite how hard you try to keep your eyes open and vigilant. Poor thing. 

Ghost shakes his head, stepping towards a steel chair that sits propped against the wall. He lifts it with ease, twisting it in the air and putting it down in front of your bed – sits in it casually, leans back. Thighs spread and fingers interwoven in his lap, he bounces his knee as he chews on his response. 

“If you’ve got information we can use, sure.” 

You sigh deeply and slowly, picking at the cherry-red polish on your toenail with a ferocity that appears to him like self-flagellation. “I don’t know what information I have. Let alone whether it’s useful.” 

“’Alright,” he huffs, takes a minute to think of the question. “Said you’re from Nottingham, yeah? How’d you meet him?” 

A crease forms in your brow as your dubious eyes jump around his face, searching for an intention. You won’t find one. He doesn’t know what it was. 

“How is that useful information,” you seethe. 

He shrugs indifferently. “Need details.” 

You huff as though reluctant, looking at your feet. “I met him in Berlin.” 

He stays silent, and when your stare quickly jumps to him for approval, he gestures with his brutish hand to elaborate. Unsatisfactory answer. 

Your gaze returns to your toes. Focusing as you scrape the glossy red paint with your fingernails, leaving specks that look like dried blood on the dirty mattress. 

“I was a dancer. Um – he came into the club I danced in, with some other men. All in expensive suits. Rich men like that are cheap. Usually never spend a thing. Still want a piece.” 

A stripper. Not what Ghost would have guessed. But he can picture it, all the same. And he does. Pictures you spinning on a slippery pole, peeling off a lacy bra, slender little hands stroking over your buttery body as you present yourself to dogs like meat. 

He grounds himself with a clearing of his throat. “S’that right.” 

“Mhm,” you answer distastefully. “Was always the working boys that spoiled us. Wanted to spend what little money they had just to please. Just because they could. Men in suits, they want what they pay for. And they pay next to nothing because that’s what we’re worth to them.” 

“And Zakhaev…?” 

You draw in a slow breath. “Victor was different.” 

That’s it? C’mon, love. His silence an insistence to continue. And you do. 

“I dunno,” you sniff, he sees your eyes swell red. “I guess he saw something valuable in me.” 

He chastises himself for his interest. Why the fuck does he care how a whore comes across a man like Zakhaev? Billionaire wants a trophy wife, so he buys one. It should be no surprise at all. 

“So he bought you, eh?” Ghost asks harshly, and your wet and angry stare shoots daggers at him in response. 

But you relent. Maybe he’s right. Your gaze returns to your toes and wipe your nose with the back of your hand. 

“He gave me fifty-thousand euros for a private dance.” 

Fucking hell. 

Can’t even fathom spending that much money on anything. But when he looks at you… if he had that kind of money, maybe he’d do the same. 

Nearly smacks himself at the thought. 

“Generous,” he says instead, disdain on his tongue. 

“He was sweet,” you continue, voice wavering as you visibly swallow the urge to cry. “He – he said he could save me. Would take me to his nice house and protect me. Said he’d treat me like a goddess.” 

Ghost snorts spitefully. “Did he?” 

You scowl at him. “Yes, he did.” 

A knife of guilt plunges through his sternum, a truly unfamiliar sting. 

Did you love him? 

He cannot fathom that you could have. Not after that repulsive tirade, so unbearable to hear he felt compelled to execute him just to make it stop. He thought he had done you a favour. Still mostly believes he has. 

“Didn’t sound like it,” Ghost remarks derisively. 

You chew your lip. “It’s your fault he snapped,” you murmur, under breath. Doesn’t sound like you believe what you’re saying. “He was – he was good to me.” 

He sniffs, licks his teeth. “You had bruises.” 

“Fucking ‘course I have bruises, you tortured me.” You hiss. 

Shakes his head. “Before,” he ripostes. “You had bruises on your collarbone. On your thighs. From him, eh?” 

You bite down on your tongue, he sees your eyes well. Must have prodded a sore spot. 

“What is this? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you he beat me so you feel better about murdering him?” 

That sparks his anger. 

“You think that would make me feel better?” He barks, “I feel fucking fantastic. Shooting that cunt is the best thing I’ve done all week.” 

“You’re sick,” you breathe. 

“I’m sick? Do you know what your fuckin’ husband did? Do you know what he was?” 

“He was a businessman,” you utter, unconvincingly. 

“He was a mass-fucking-murderer. He started a war. You wanna know what the body count for that is?” 

You fall quiet. Shivering and tearful. But you listen. 

“Your husband was busy building bombs. Chemical weapons. Busy selling explosives to fucking terrorist militias in the middle east. Paid for the bombings in London last year. I’m fuckin’ proud that I shot him, whether or not he beat you.” 

You’re ghostly. Blood drained completely from your apple cheeks. Your mouth opens to sip a trembling breath, and your tears begin their cascade. 

“I didn’t know,” you whimper. 

“’Course you didn’t,” he chides doubtfully. 

You heave in a whining sob, tears dripping off your chin as you plunge your face against your knees. Was that your last straw, little thing? 

“I didn’t,” you stutter, snivelling. “I – I knew he… he was an arms dealer. Just an arms dealer.” 

He’s nauseated at the sight of you sobbing so sorely. Finds himself wondering you look like when you smile. 

“He was a warlord.” 

You sob, dropping your knees open so you sit cross-legged, Ghost’s eyes shoot between your legs. Get a fucking grip. Watching you cry and still stealing his glances? Can’t help it. You cry too pretty. 

You move the focus of your self-mutilation from your toes to your fingernails, picking off the lacquer. You sniffle quietly for a minute, and he lets you. What else can he say to you? He’s not much interested in comforting you. 

But there’s an ache, sharp and yet nebulous. The acknowledgement that you didn’t know the extent of your husband’s evil. That he likely kept it hidden from you. Or you, hidden from it. That your torture was fruitless and extraneous. Cruelty for the sake of it. 

“What happens now,” you ask, near-whisper. 

Ghost leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees, lets his hands hang nonchalantly. “Still got one use for you.” 

Your stare lands on him carefully. You breathe as though preparing yourself, a tear lands in the corner of your parted lips. You uncross your legs, hanging them slowly off the edge of the bed, hands turn to fists on your knees. 

“I thought you weren’t interested,” you squeak. 

Ghost’s jaw clenches inadvertently, biting down on nothing. Knows what you’re implying. Do you think he’s here to rape you? Here to unwrap you, to tear off that tissue that barely conceals the prize? 

His glower is probably serving as evidence. Boring into you with a hunger beyond his control. Jesus. Control yourself. 

He could do it. Fulfil your suggestion, accept your offers. Play the role of the lecherous hound you believe him to be.

You’d let him. 

You’d lie face down on that bed for him. You’d let him hitch up your hips, presenting your soft pussy for him to take. You’d let him rake down those pathetic pink knickers. You’d let him spit on his fingers and push them into you, to prepare you for the incursion of his spiteful cock. He’d curl and drive them deep, he’d make sure your pussy releases a spate of its sweet liquor just for him.   

You’d probably whine sweetly – in pain, at first, as he penetrates you, as your cunt stretches to fit him. But those muffled whimpers into the mattress would evolve into cries of shameful rapture, poignantly humiliated by how good it feels when he fucks you. He’d fuck you slowly. Deeply. He’d make sure the blunt head of his cock rams into that aching spot that makes you squeal. 

He’d coat his thumb in your syrup, he’d press the pad of it against your puckered hole. He’d listen to your cloying noises as he pushes it, popping past your tight, clenching entrance, easing it in until he’s knuckle deep. He’d feel his cock rutting in and out of you, through the thin fleshy wall between your holes. He’d feel it cinch so tightly around his thumb, pulsing in rhythm with the abashing orgasm that he fucks out of you. He’d threaten to pump you full of his come, and when you only mewl wetly in response, no dispute, fucked drunk; he’d oblige you. 

He’d let you think he’s finished. He’d give you a moment to breathe, as he pulls out of you, as his hot come drips from you, coating your thighs. Your pussy would look too pretty drenched in a concoction of your fluids and his, twitching still in the aftershock. 

So he’d flip you, hoist up your soft body by the hips as he sucks your cunt into his mouth. He’d eat another orgasm out of you, voracious and messy, he’d swallow it, and continue; just to feel you writhe in dispute of the overstimulation, just to listen to the squeals of contest that squeak from your wet throat. 

He’d leave you choking, panting for air, as he allows you to recover. He’d let you sleep, and he’d know that you’d dream of him. 

You fucking animal. 

Pulled back to reality by a shivering sigh from your chest - he’s repulsed by himself. Reels in self-loathing as his cock jolts behind his trousers, swelling in anticipation of a crime he won’t commit. 

His peers have chastised him for being a beast. An uncaring monster. The kind of animal that would fuck you while you cry, that would take pride in making it hurt.  

They’re wrong. 

You simply look at him, pupils stretched wide and dark, glassy with worry. Your cunt might be pulsing in between the thighs you hold together so tightly, readying itself for him, preparing for the worst. 

No, little rabbit, he wouldn’t do that to you. Not unless you beg him for it. 

So he leans back in his seat, feigning disinterest, hoping you don’t notice the turgid heat that radiates from him. 

“Not that, sweetheart,” he sighs hoarsely. “We’ve got a more important use for you.” 

here's your tag bestie: @rafaelacallinybbay

Ok, question, fem! forced marriage au - how would Rafe react/feel if she brought up ANYTHING about separating, weather that’s flat out divorce or doing it in secret - happy to the public but living in diff spaces/diff lives/maybe even having affairs(?)

Tied bonds || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: don't mind me going off slightly in the beginning when its talking about the legality side of it, i was literally studying trusts and estates law a couple days ago lol

Warnings: angst galore!

Word count: 2,801

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The heavy oak doors of the estate’s study shut behind you with a quiet but resolute thud, isolating you from the rest of the world. The room, with its high ceilings and ornate furnishings, exudes both the security and suffocation of wealth. The scent of polished mahogany and aged leather permeates the air, a sensory reminder of the legacy you're bound to uphold and the responsibilities weighing on your shoulders.

The dim light from the tall windows casts long shadows across the room, making it feel as though the walls themselves are closing in, urging you to act before time runs out. You sit across from your lawyer at the broad mahogany desk. He’s a man in his 50s, with silver-threaded hair and sharp, calculating eyes. His demeanour exudes quiet authority, the kind of calm that comes from handling the complex finances of wealthy families like yours for decades.

A briefcase sits open beside him, documents meticulously laid out in front of you. These aren’t just numbers and figures on a page—they represent your children’s future, your security, and the small corner of independence you’re desperately trying to carve out for yourself. “Now, given the scale of your family’s assets,” your lawyer begins, his voice smooth and professional, “it’s prudent to separate certain accounts. Some in your name, some under irrevocable trusts for the children. This will not only shield them from potential claims but also provide financial protection in the event of....unforeseen circumstances—marital or otherwise.”

You glance down at the papers, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. This was necessary, you remind yourself. You need some semblance of independence, some safeguard for your children. With Rafe’s unpredictable behaviour and the constant pressure from both families, you can’t afford to let everything slip from your control. Your lawyer pulls out another document, sliding it across the desk.

“We’re talking about setting up separate trusts for each of your children. These funds will be distributed to them upon reaching a certain age—18 or 21, depending on your preference. In the meantime, control of the trust can be vested in you alone, ensuring that no one else has access to or influence over these assets, including your husband.”

“And what about Rafe’s side of the family?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended. “Would they have any legal claim?” The lawyer shakes his head firmly. “No. Not if everything is properly structured. The trusts would be irrevocable, meaning no one—not even your husband—could alter them once established. His family would have no legal right to interfere, regardless of any financial entanglements between the two of you.”

You take a breath, the enormity of it all settling in. This is exactly what you wanted—an impenetrable safeguard. A plan that ensures your children’s future remains under your control, untouched by the unpredictable tides of Rafe’s influence or the demands of your family. “Thank you,” you respond softly, your fingers tracing the edge of the document, the weight of your decision pressing heavily on your chest. “I want everything arranged quietly,” you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of your decision.

“No one else needs to know about this… especially my husband.” The lawyer gives a small, understanding nod. “Discretion is key, as always.” You sign where indicated, feeling a mixture of relief and unease as you watch your name inked onto the page. This is the right thing to do, you remind yourself. For your children, for their future. Yet as you rise from the desk and collect your things, a sense of foreboding lingers.

The heavy oak doors creak open as you step out, and the estate feels impossibly vast around you. Despite the careful planning, you can’t shake the feeling that keeping this from Rafe will lead to complications far greater than you anticipate. With every step you take, the sinking feeling grows. You only hope Rafe doesn’t find out before you’re ready to tell him.

~

The moment you step through the front door of your home, the tension in the air is palpable. You pause, your coat still in hand, as your eyes land on Rafe. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, an almost relaxed posture, but the intensity in his gaze betrays any notion of calm. His sharp blue eyes follow your every move, calculating, probing.

"You have a nice little meeting today?" His voice is cold, deceptively casual. But you can hear the edge in it—the suspicion lurking beneath the surface. Your heart skips a beat, anxiety pooling in your chest. Of course, he knows. Rafe always knows. You hang your coat on the rack, avoiding his gaze, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. "I had a few things to take care of. Where are the children?"

You answer nonchalantly, hoping to steer the conversation away from any confrontation. "With Astoria, they wanted to play with their cousins," Rafe answers, his gaze sharp as he pushes off the doorframe, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you, his presence overwhelming as always. "Answer my question," His tone hardens, suspicion fully creeping into his voice now. "I know you met with your lawyer. What are you up to?"

Your pulse quickens as you hold Rafe’s gaze, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He’s already jumping to conclusions, constructing a narrative that fits his fears. You knew this confrontation was inevitable, but the reality of it still unsettles you, the tension in the room thick and suffocating. "It’s nothing that concerns you," you respond, keeping your tone as even as possible, despite the way your nerves fray under his scrutiny. "Just some family matters."

Rafe scoffs, the sound harsh and filled with disbelief. His jaw clenches as he steps even closer, his towering figure casting a shadow over you, blocking any hope of retreat. His presence is overbearing, the heat of his anger palpable in the air between you. "Family matters?" His voice is dripping with accusation, dark and biting. "Don’t play games with me. I heard enough to know this wasn’t just about your parents or your siblings."

His words cut deeper as his tone drops, low and dangerous. "You’re setting up trust funds. Inheritance management. Without telling me. What the hell are you planning?" His words slam into you, twisting your stomach in knots. His paranoia, the sharpness of his accusations, stings in a way you hadn’t fully prepared for. Of course, you knew he’d react like this, but hearing it out loud—his anger, his distrust—it’s worse than you imagined. You steady your breath, trying to keep your composure.

"It’s for the children, Rafe," you say, your voice soft but firm, though the tightness in your chest makes it difficult to breathe. "I want to make sure they’re taken care of, no matter what happens. That’s all this is." But even as you say it, you can see the suspicion lingering in his eyes, the doubt still gnawing at him, twisting this simple act of protection into something more sinister in his mind.

Rafe glares at you, his eyes dark and intense as they search your face for the slightest hint of deception. His presence feels overwhelming as he steps even closer, the space between you disappearing in an instant. Without breaking eye contact, his hand moves down deliberately, resting on the swell of your belly where your third child grows. His touch, firm and possessive, sends a chill through you.

"You don’t trust me with that?" His voice is low, almost a growl, laced with an edge of disbelief and wounded pride. "You think I wouldn’t look out for my own kids?" His words sting, but it's the subtle accusation in his tone that cuts deeper, as if he can’t comprehend why you would feel the need to act independently. Your frustration bubbles to the surface despite your best efforts to remain calm, your emotions swirling between anger and exhaustion.

"That’s not what this is about," you snap, your voice sharp as the tension between you flares. You're trying to hold it together, but the weight of his misunderstanding—of him always assuming the worst—pushes you to the brink. "I’m doing this to protect them. To protect us. You can’t control everything, Rafe." For a split second, something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe—but it vanishes quickly, replaced by his usual defensiveness. He steps closer, his voice lowering, cold and accusatory.

"You’re doing all of this behind my back," he growls. "And I’m supposed to believe it’s just for the kids? You don’t set up secret meetings with lawyers for something as simple as trust funds. It looks more like you’re preparing for something else. Like maybe you’re planning to escape this all." His breath is hot against your ear now, the venom in his words unmistakable. "Is that it? Are you getting ready to leave me?"

His accusation hits you hard, knocking the air from your lungs. The vulnerability behind it cuts deeper than you expected. It’s not just anger simmering in his voice—there’s fear too, buried beneath the suspicion, fear of losing control, of you slipping away. His jaw tightens, but his hand remains firmly pressed against the swell of your stomach, as if anchoring himself to you, to the life you’re carrying.

“And have our children without their father?” His voice is sharp, but there’s a flicker of something more beneath the surface—hurt, uncertainty. His eyes search yours, almost pleading. You blink, stunned by the weight of his question. “Rafe…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper, incredulity lacing your words as you try to make sense of what he’s implying. “I’m not leaving you.”

The tension in the room feels suffocating, as if the walls themselves are closing in. You take a breath, steadying yourself, as you step closer, your gaze softening despite the frustration swirling inside you. "This isn’t about that,” you say gently, trying to reach him through the haze of his suspicions. “But I need some control over my life, Rafe. Some protection.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you press on. “I’m not just here to be controlled or managed. I need to know that I’m not just a piece in this game.”

You can feel his breath against your skin, heavy with unspoken fears, and for a brief moment, the façade of his strength cracks. The fear of losing control, of losing you, is palpable, and it clings to the space between you like a storm cloud ready to burst. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, pacing in frustration. "Control. Protection," he mutters under his breath, his movements sharp and agitated. "You think I’m the threat here? You think I wouldn’t protect you? Protect our family?"

You shake your head, stepping back slightly, trying to maintain some distance from the intensity of his emotions. "I never said that," you say, your voice softer now, trying to calm him. "But this is something I need to do. For me. For them." For a long moment, the two of you stand there, locked in a silent standoff. His breathing is heavy, and the anger in his eyes slowly shifts into something else—something more conflicted. He turns away from you, pacing a few steps before running his hands through his hair again.

"This isn’t how marriages are supposed to work," Rafe mutters, more to himself than to you. The words cut deep, piercing through the fragile layer of calm you’ve been clinging to. It’s a painful reminder of what your marriage has become—what it’s always been. The expectations, the compromises, the strain. This life… it’s not what either of you envisioned. You feel the urge to retort, to let loose the frustrations that have built up over the years, but you bite your tongue. Now isn’t the time for that argument.

"I know," you whisper, though you’re not sure if he hears you. The admission feels hollow in the tense silence that follows, the weight of your reality pressing down on both of you. The room feels unbearably heavy, the air thick with unsaid words. Rafe exhales, his broad shoulders sagging ever so slightly, as though some of the fire inside him has been extinguished. He turns his back to you, the physical distance a reflection of the emotional chasm that has been growing between you both.

For a brief moment, you consider stepping closer, reaching out, bridging that gap—but the weight of your decision, of everything you’ve been trying to secure for yourself and the children, holds you back. It’s a boundary you can’t afford to cross right now. "You should’ve told me," he finally says, his voice quieter, but still taut with lingering tension. There’s hurt there, beneath the anger, beneath his instinct to control everything around him.

Your throat tightens at his words, the soft accusation lingering in the space between you. "I didn’t want this to turn into a fight," you admit, your own voice subdued, drained from the confrontation. The fatigue in your bones echoes in your tone. "I just needed to make sure everything was in place. For the kids, for their future." You pause, the weight of your decisions settling on your chest. "I wasn’t trying to hide it from you."

Rafe turns back to face you, his expression a mixture of frustration, hurt, and something more vulnerable—something he rarely lets show. "It feels like you were," he mutters, the edge of accusation still present, though softer now. His blue eyes search yours, looking for answers, reassurance, something to ease the fear behind his suspicion. You hold his gaze, trying to convey the truth behind your words. "I need to feel like I have some control, Rafe," you say gently, your voice steady but laced with an underlying sadness.

"Our lives… they’re not easy. And I know you want to protect us, but I need to protect them too. In my own way." Your heart beats heavily in your chest, each word an attempt to bridge the gap between you, a gap that seems to widen with every conflict. Rafe’s gaze lingers on you, the tension between you both crackling in the air. You take a tentative step forward, closing the physical distance between you, hoping it will ease the emotional one. Just as you stop inches from him, his expression softens slightly.

He reaches for your hand, his grip firm yet tender, and before you can say anything, he brings it up to his lips. The moment feels suspended in time as he presses a kiss to your knuckles, the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin. It’s a gesture so gentle, so unlike the earlier confrontation, that it catches you off guard. The vulnerability in his eyes flickers, almost as if he’s silently asking for forgiveness or offering an unspoken truce.

You feel your heart ache, the gesture disarming you in a way his words couldn’t. It’s as though this kiss is his way of telling you that, despite his anger, despite his suspicions, there’s something deeper binding you together—a love neither of you can deny, even in moments like this. “I’m not the enemy, Y/n,” he repeats softly, his voice rough but sincere, the earlier accusation tempered by this quiet moment.

His lips linger on your skin for just a second longer before he lowers your hand, though he doesn’t let go. You swallow hard, your chest tight with emotion, your voice a whisper as you respond. "I know you're not." The air between you feels different now—quieter, softer, though still tinged with the weight of everything unresolved. For that fleeting moment, it feels as though the two of you are in sync again, even if just barely.

Rafe’s hand remains wrapped around yours, and though the tension between you hasn’t fully dissipated, it’s no longer suffocating. The kiss to your knuckles feels like a promise, fragile but meaningful. As he finally lets go and turns away, you watch him disappear down the hallway, the memory of his lips on your skin lingering long after he's gone. The weight of your choices still presses down on you, but somehow, in that brief exchange, it feels a little lighter.

You know this isn’t over. Rafe’s suspicions won’t vanish overnight, and your need for autonomy remains unresolved. But for now, the confrontation is over. The weight of your decisions, the strain on your already fragile relationship, presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You did the right thing, you remind yourself. This is about protecting your children, about securing a future for them. For now, all you can do is hope that, in time, he’ll come to understand why you did this. Why you needed to.

Dark Moon | Chapter Two

Pairing | yandere!Jimin x Reader

Word Count | 3,7k

Warnings | +18, explicit language, kidnapping, yandere, mentions of prostitution, Jimin is really a bastard, harassments, threats with a gun, forced vaginal inspection, humiliation and teasing, light blood consumption, virgin girls are sold, forced separation

This fanfiction is yandere, if you don't like the genre, don't read and if you are not of age, don't read.

I don't want to hear any complaints in the comments, thank you.

This does not reflect my way of thinking or living at all, it is just a work of fiction, it is like watching a horror movie, many of us love horror movies, but we would never dream of what we see in those movies happening in reality as well.

Simply put, this story was written for entertainment purposes, it should not be seen as a reflection of my values, opinions or morals. I absolutely do not condone such acts.

⤷ Summary | She just wanted to escape her past, take charge of her life and break out of her steel cage, praying in God for a miracle that could change her life for good.

And her prayers were heard, but it was not the Divine that answered her.

That was certainly the devil in the guise of an angel, she thought as those corrupted and empty eyes searched her soul with extreme voracity.

He turned a sweet, false smile on her, before pushing her into the abyss.

➢ Author's Note | Hi, guys! The second chapter of Dark Moon has arrived, thank you for all the compliments and support ❤

Taglist: @katherine-kookie, @dragons-flare, @m00njinnie, @seokjins-luigi, @pjmsneverland, @jimincrystal

Taglist is open!

Chapter List - Previous - Next

When Y/N regained consciousness she felt her head spin and something go up her stomach, she was nauseous as well as very cold, even her leg did not seem to be in optimal condition. A white light filtered past her eyelashes, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut before groaning, trying, in vain, to move. She turned wearily on her side, realizing only then that she was lying on an icy floor. "The mare has awakened," said a voice with a deep cadence. The girl tried wearily to at least get on her knees, but failed to do so; her head was assailed by memories of a few hours ago, they were confused, but one thing she distinctly remembered. A face. A male face full of piercings, of cruel extraordinary beauty. "You better not move a step, you have a gun pointed at your head, baby doll," said another voice, higher and smoother. As her eyes adjusted to the light she focused on the gun in question, clutched in the gloved hand of the same man she remembered. His face was as beautiful as a god's, he had piercings on his lower lip, as well as on his eyebrow and all along the side line of his neck, stretching all the way under his leather coat. His dark hair, on the other hand, was combed so that his forehead was left uncovered, his amphibians also stood tall and menacing, just like the rest of him.

He held that gun with monstrous ease, his stoic expression telling her that he would not think twice about shooting her if he had to. She licked her lips, finding them dry and cracked, before she began to speak. "What do you want from me? I have nothing to interest you," she said in a scratchy voice, hugging her legs in a vain attempt to shield herself from his eyes. "You are quite wrong, dear," the other stepped forward, he was taller than the man with the piercings and his hair was silver, yet the hardness of his eyes was the same, "You have made a request and we are here to fulfill it." The young woman frowned, before the realization finally came. "Now you remember, right? You asked to work for us, in fact ... you both asked." The young woman widened her eyes and immediately remembered her younger sister, looked around in panic noticing the smaller body far away from her. She tried to get up to reach her, but the sound of a trigger froze her. "I told you not to take a step, I might blow your leg off, but that would not please my boss, so let's avoid giving each other trouble," huffed the dark-haired man, he was ruthless. She began to tremble, realizing the trouble she and her sister had gotten themselves into.

They had applied to work everywhere from small bars to supermarkets, not leaving out discos and more domestic jobs. But there was no work, or the pay was starvation. Finally she had made the leap, finding herself applying for jobs in a variety of red-light clubs, and before she could say or do anything, her sister had also followed suit, but she didn't think it would end like that for them. "We never received any recruitment letters or emails, so what are you talking about?" she hissed through clenched teeth. The taller one looked at her sideways, "The Dark Moon is not used to hiring the way you imagine, sweetheart...to fit into its standards you have to possess certain qualities and you two have all of them." If possible that answer left her even more confused, the dark-haired man with the piercings huffed, "Boobs and three holes to fill are not enough, once you enter the Dark Moon you never leave, those who "win" our attention do so because they live far away from their family and with a low lifestyle," he explained vulgarly, heedless of the increasingly evident pallor on the young woman's face. Everything was clear now, one of the brothels to which she had sent her application was much more than that, there was a highly illegal prostitution ring behind it, involving the total disappearance of girls from the rest of the world. The menacing appearance of the two men spoke volumes.

What had they gotten themselves into? "Wait a minute, ours was a request made without thinking" she tried to negotiate, but the grin on the pierced boy's face grew. Jimin was amused, did the poor deluded woman really believe that there was any way back? He shook his head, "Without thinking? You ran away from home because of an abusive family, dropping out of school and cleaning here and there to earn enough to afford a low Motel in the lowest neighborhood in town...it doesn't seem to me that you applied without thinking, in fact, it was desperation that convinced you and you even got bingo," he chuckled nastily. The girl cashed the blow, bending over herself; there was no remedy. She had been kidnapped and a madman was pointing a gun at her with impressive ease, the other man would probably hurt her sister if she decided to challenge them. She felt like crying, but she pushed back her tears; she would not let them see her whimpering like a child. After a few seconds a choked sigh was heard, Y/N opened her eyes again with fear. She turned toward her sister, who terrified looked at her with a lost and confused look. "What...? Y/N, what's going on?" she asked with some difficulty due to the drug used on her.

"Blair, stay there!" she exclaimed, but her sister tried to get up anyway, and the taller guy had to intervene, pushing the younger one against the concrete wall without any kindness, pulled the gun out of his jacket, and Y/N felt herself dying, yelled at him to leave her alone, pushing herself toward them, but a heavy kick to the leg stopped her actions. She groaned in pain, staring at the piercing guy's boot pressing right against her thigh, there where a purplish bruise had already taken shape from the violent sting. "Ha-ha! You're such a naughty little girl, you know? Lucky for you that wasn't a step, because otherwise I would have had to use this," he said in a childish tone, teasing her by moving the barrel of his gun left and right. Y/N swallowed hard, chewing between her teeth the pain she so badly wanted to vent, that boy was scary to her, there was a veil of madness behind his dark eyes. She did not want to find out how far she could push him, that madness. Namjoon, on the other hand, went no further with her sister, just put her back in her place. She resumed breathing as the man moved away from her, but a knock on the door made her stomach flip over. The two men exchanged a brief glance; it was Jimin who opened it without lowering his gun.

Y/N saw three other men enter the building, one of whom towered prominently over the others. He wore a gorgeous fur coat over his smoking, and his incredibly handsome face was obscured by an apathetic expression. The other two, on the other hand, were dressed quite similarly to those who had taken her hostage; they, too, were beautiful and surreally dangerous. "Are there only two of them?" the man in the fur coat asked, pointing at her and her sister. "They are the only ones who passed all the requirements, they are also quite pretty, Jin," shrugged the man the girl had labeled "The Tall One." The Jin in question squared them carefully, Y/N felt naked under his gaze and wished she could hug her sister to protect her from them, but she could not. She would be of no use to her dead. "What are their names?" "Byeon Y/N and Byeon Blair, they are sisters, they used this surname in the application, definitely not the right one...as you can see, they are not Korean." "Good job, Namjoon... As for their status?"

The girl didn't know how they could know all that, because it was true, they had changed their last name so that they didn't have to be related to their father and his family, but what made her cringe was the word "status," underlined in a strange way. The one she seemed to understand was called Namjoon remained silent a few seconds, then shook his head, "We haven't checked." "No problem, we'll do it now," he moved a finger toward the other two, "Taehyung, Hoseok," he said, but the pierced boy got in the way. "Leave this one to me," he said, intriguing Seokjin. "Why, Jimin? You usually avoid by saying it's too hard to handle them." Now she knew the name of that devil, but still not understanding what they intended to check, something told her she would not like to find out, she exchanged a glance with her sister. She saw her as frightened as she had ever been in her life, and it certainly should not have helped to see her, her older sister, in the same condition, so she tried to calm her expression, though with little result. "I have a score to settle with her," she said earnestly, it was then that Y/N remembered the kick thrown at the man's face in her fury to escape him, but she couldn't see any bruises so it must not have hurt him that much, right? The other nodded, "All right."

Next she saw the man named Hoseok heading toward her sister, who pushed herself against the wall trying to escape, but she was surrounded by men with guns and could do nothing. Y/N sprinted toward her, but Jimin was quick to grab her by the collar of her shirt. "Be still and quiet, behave yourself and it will only last a few seconds." But she did not understand, what would last only a few seconds? She blanched at the younger one's shocked screams, turned quickly toward her, and what she saw left her bewildered. The red-haired man, Hoseok, was holding Blair's body crushed to the ground while he did something with his hand under the fabric of her shorts, the insight made her shudder and she threw herself at her once more, heedless of Jimin's firm grip, who gritted his teeth at such stupidity. "What the fuck are you doing to her, you bastard! Let her go immediately, before I kill you!" she snarled bright-eyed, aware that as her sister kicked trying to get the man off her, she could only watch with no chance to react. A laugh behind her back made her skin crawl. "He's doing just that to her," she heard him say, before she was pinned to the wall hard, missing her breath for a few moments, time for Jimin to imprison her wrists in one of his hands, reaching with the other to the fabric of her underpants, which he went over, ending right under her panties.

In horror the girl felt the fingers still wrapped in the leather glove tracing her folds and without any care penetrating her tight slit, she cried out in pain and shock, the fingers went all the way, finding nothing to stop them, but Jimin wanted to provoke her a little. "You're so dry that if I continued you would bleed, wouldn't you? Like a virgin, too bad you're not," he whispered in her ear. The young woman, red with shame, overcame her shock and tried to kick him in the groin where an obvious bulge was taking shape, but Jimin ducked in time, stared at her with icy eyes before stepping firmly out of her intimacy, causing her another painful twinge. He let her fall back to the ground observing his fingers, only a few drops glistened on their surface, nothing striking. "She's tight as hell, but she's not a virgin," he communicated to the others in an impassive voice. Hoseok turned away from the youngest, who cowered in shock. "With this one I stopped pretty much right away, she's a virgin," he showed everyone a few drops of blood present on his fingers before licking them.

No one commented on that gesture, as if it was normal for them, Y/N just felt like throwing up, she clenched her legs trying to calm the burning that the bastard had intentionally caused her, god... if they were on equal terms she would have destroyed him. Seokjin nodded, "We'll make a lot of money with that one, I already have an interested customer." Y/N widened her eyes, rising up sharply. "At least let my sister go! She is young and unfit for such a life!" she exclaimed, staring into the eyes of what appeared to be the boss. Taehyung laughed, "Then why did she apply for such a job? Besides, what would she be different from you, is she a princess or something? Come on, we are fair and consistent people we, it wouldn't be fair to you," he teased her, ignoring Blair's sobs, still hunched over herself because of the pain she was feeling. Hoseok did not seem to have gone easy on her, as he had said. "Miss Byeon, the Dark Moon is a place that lives in anonymity, our clients are important people who want to spend moments of pleasure in complete relaxation, I can't afford outside witnesses other than my men, that's exactly why we only pick up girls like you," he began to explain calmly, "Beautiful, but desperate, I offer them protection and comfort, as long as they abide by my rules." Simply put, 'You know too much, and since you've been brought in, you will do as I say'.

Y/N felt lost, there was no turning back, she would be a whore without freedom until the end of her days, and her sister would follow her freewheeling. At that point, with another needle stuck in her flesh, tears flowed copiously without her being able to do anything to stop them.

Y/N regained consciousness in what was no longer a dingy warehouse, but lying on a soft bed with silk and velvet blankets. Smelling of essential oils and wearing a satin blouse, she widened her eyes, turning around. Next to her a girl was arranging some things in the sliding door closet. She was not paying attention to her. "I-where am I?" she asked in a low voice, the girl blocked her actions, then turned to her, glowering at her. "You should know, shouldn't you? You asked to work here yourself," she arrowed, Y/N looked at her shocked. Why had the woman answered her in that rude way? "I don't think I did anything to you to deserve such an attitude," she said in fact, the other rolled her eyes. "You newcomers are all like that, all naive holier-than-thou. You're at the Dark Moon, girl! Place of pleasure and sin, where you will open your legs without a single complaint and I recommend it for your own good," she blurted out, made to leave without adding more, but Y/N stopped her. "My sister! Have you seen my sister?" she ignored the scurvy attitude of that girl as beautiful as she was rude to ask about the younger one, the other looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Ah, yes...when you arrived they just asked me to get you ready for the room, but I heard about the other one.... She was a virgin, virgins are always sold and never stay at the Dark Moon.... so it was your sister, huh? I'm sorry," she sneered, before leaving the room. The world came crashing down on her, her sister was not there with her, she had been sold without ifs and buts, they had not even given her a chance to see her one last time. She clutched her chest, trapped in a painful grip, and let herself fall on the bed without energy, she merely sobbed for what seemed like hours. She had definitely lost her entire family and there was absolutely nothing she could do to change that. She was gone, Blair was no longer with her, and she would spend the rest of her life spreading her legs for any man with a sizeable bank account. With tears still clinging between her eyelashes she saw the door open once more, revealing the slender figure of another girl, wrapped in a pattern similar to her blouse, but much darker. "Hey. You're the newcomer, aren't you? Nice to meet you, my name is Hanon," she said jovially, waving her hand, Y/N remained impassive, too exhausted and bitter to be in the same mood as her.

"Y/N..." she mumbled back, shutting herself up. The woman was not impressed by that closed attitude; on the contrary, she found herself smiling more. That girl reminded her of herself at first. Almost no one wanted to end up trapped at the Dark Moon, but getting used to it wasn't so bad. They had food and beautiful clothes, as well as a roof over their heads. "Well, hello Y/N! Welcome to the Dark Moon, I was asked to show you around a bit," Hanon said cheerfully, Y/N instantly glowered at her. She didn't want to take the prostitute prison tour, she wanted to go back to the horrid old Motel with her sister, better poor than divided and slutty. "I don't care for that, thank you," she replied through gritted teeth. If possible Hanon's smile grew bigger, a strange light shone in her eyes. "Oh, believe me ... it's in your best interests to listen to me, Seokjin here is the boss and his word is law, if you don't do as he says you'll end up bathing in the icy waters of the Han River, with no chance of rising" from the satisfied voice Y/N guessed that it had already happened and that Hanon was probably someone quite important among the girls, he believed she had power over all of them, that's why she smiled like that. Without uttering another word, Y/N got out of bed, found some bedroom shoes placed neatly on the polished wooden floor, and putting them on followed the other woman.

Hanon showed her several rooms, numbered and with a key inside each shiny, well-oiled lock; almost all the rooms were the same, except for a few cases of far more luxurious suites suitable for clients quite important to the boss of the "shack." Hanon explained to her that the one where she was a few moments earlier was her personal room, no one had the right to enter there, and that every client had one of those other rooms rented for a set amount of time that varied from the fee paid for each type of service requested. Y/N felt disgust and nausea with each piece of information she learned, the customer paid and they automatically had to obey him. Hanon finally showed her their relaxation room; it was a large greenhouse where one could play freely and grow flowers and plants of all kinds. That was perhaps the only area Y/N would appreciate, she told herself. "From this corridor instead you get to the kitchens and the dining room, instead to ask for any kind of information you can ask me, if I will not be available go ahead to Namjoon's office, I will show you where it is" at that name the young woman felt sick. She remembered the silver-haired man, she had no idea he personally worked at the Dark Moon. "Namjoon?" she swallowed, Hanon stared at her for a moment confused by her sudden pallor, then understood. "So this time it was his turn, I guess it went well for you then, he is very kind to girls and-"

"Namjoon kidnapped my sister," she said harshly, "He was not kind to do such a thing, much less his friend with piercings all over his face, who was simply an animal with me," she growled. Hanon winced, he could tell she was talking about Jimin from the description-he was the only one of the men in Seokjin who had piercings all over his face, not to mention his neck. Those seven were divided into distinct and separate personalities, and Hanon knew for sure that the worst were Jimin and Hoseok themselves. "All right, for any doubts ask me, then," then she remembered something important, "Oh, I almost forgot the most essential thing! In case you need help during a session with your client, on the bedside table next to the bed there is a white phone, it has a unique number and communicates with the bodyguards, if you will be in trouble don't hesitate for a moment to call" she explained seriously. A shiver ran down the young woman's spine, she had not yet thought of such a possibility, she believed that with clients of a certain caliber something dangerous could not happen, evidently she was mistaken. When she was escorted back to her room, Y/N stopped Hanon. "Um... Hanon?" "Yes?"

"Before you came, there was a girl in the room with me, she was very rude and I would like to know why, I'm new and didn't give any trouble...I wish I could at least live peacefully here, though I doubt it." Hanon weighed the words well, but decided to be honest. "I told you we have personal rooms, but not as much as they are..." Y/N widened her eyes, "Your room belonged to Ester, the girl you met." "What... Why did you give me her room?" she asked wordlessly, Hanon shrugged her shoulders. "Well, only five other girls have the room like yours, these girls are selected by Seokjin's most trusted men because they are their favorites, and you are now one of them, indeed, of us." If possible, Y/N found herself more confused than before-what was Hanon getting at? The latter sighed, "Ester was Jimin's favorite, but I don't know how...now you're the one who will share a bed with him if he decides to stay here from time to time, when he arrived he didn't think twice about sending her away to give way to you, I think you intrigued him and quite a bit too." Y/N found herself staggering back, everything simply had to be an absurd and horrible joke, should she have shared a bed with such a beast? The disgust did not leave her for a moment longer.

Houndtooth [5]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: waterboarding - 5.1k words

You can see it in his eyes, in the shadowed window of his mask, that disdain.  

They always carry it, don’t they? That pure, vitriolic contempt for the power you hold over them, the sway you have on their mind and body just by existing in your cursed vessel. Just by having your cunt, so he calls it, that he both scorns and hungers for.  

It must be tiring, you think, having to walk that tightrope. Having to hate and want you in the same breath.  

But you take quiet pride in your small victory. His silence, his glower, are proof enough that you have left him with nothing to say. He simply drums the armrest of the steel chair in impatient contemplation, scrutinising you with his glare.  

“Sold my body, you reckon?” He probes, coarse and bitter.  

Your agitated teeth gnaw at the inside of your lip, you stifle your instinctive urge to bite. Careful. It’s satisfying to get your digs in, to prod and to irritate. But you don’t know how short his fuse is.  

So you nod, cautiously, shooting a glance at the Union Jack patched on the shoulder of his jacket. “To the Crown,” you muse softly.   

A shift in his skull-painted mask, a tug in its knitted cheek. Is he smiling?  

“You think I do this for money?”  

Your brows tighten. “What, then, for glory?” 

He leans forward in his seat, widening his legs, propped up by his elbows – his predacious stare lingers, impaling you, it forces you to swallow a restless gulp.  

“For fun.” He mutters, through his teeth.  

An uneasy scoff jumps from your throat. “I don’t believe that.”  

“No?” 

“You don’t seem like you’re having much fun.” You huff, tone gentle, still careful not to set him alight. 

He tilts his head with a flick, conceding. “Not yet.”  

With that, too close to a threat, you fall silent. Adjust in your seat out of disquieted reflex.  

“That must be where our similarities end, Mia,” he continues, sneering. “I can’t imagine you sell yourself to that hideous cunt for fun, eh?”  

Keep your lips sealed. He wants a reaction from you and you refuse to entertain him. 

“So that leaves the money, doesn’t it. And you know where his money comes from, don’t you?” 

You swallow.  

“Don’t you?” He barks – his sudden aggression makes you flinch like a frightened cat. Your eyes glue to him, refusing to blink, they sting with their dryness. Your heart flutters, barely pushing your cold blood through constricting veins.  

“I did what I had to.” You spit, though your attempt at animosity fizzles quickly, dampened by the whimpering terror in your throat. He must see the stream of tears that leak from your tired eyes. How could you ever dream of feigning strength? 

“Had to, eh? You had to spread your legs for a warlord? To what – buy a nice car? Live in a fuckin’ castle?” 

“To survive.”  

“Survive?” He scoffs, almost amused, “fuck, you poor thing. It must have been hard to endure the millions in pocket change. Survived by the skin of your teeth in that fuckin’ mansion of yours, eh?”  

His fury is hot, scornful, threatens to reduce you to quivering prey despite your desperation to maintain your defiance.  

“Do you sleep well knowing your fuckin’ wage is paid for by genocide, Mia? Do you sleep like a baby with that blood on your hands?”  

Your lips curl into a scowl, you taste the salt of the tears that dribble into the corner of your mouth. You croak out; “Do you?” 

The hunter bites his tongue. He squints at you sharply.  

“I do,” he murmurs, after a bitter pause, “because I don’t work for fuckin’ terrorists.”  

Your eyes jump once again to his Union Jack, proud and bold on his arm. “Yeah, you do.” 

He surprises you, when a huff of laughter escapes him, a quick jolt of his chest as he chortles at you. Leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms nonchalantly over his chest, for a moment he says nothing, only drawing in an ireful sigh.  

“You’re a smart-arse, aren’t you,” he remarks stiffly. “That’s not going to do you any favours, here.”  

You suck down a slow and trembling breath, deep into your chest, you hold it there like you’re about to plunge into deadly waters. “Then what will?”  

He chuckles under his breath. “You want me to help you?”  

You know your hunter has no interest in charity. Takes no pity on you. By the incredulousness in his tone, it’s clear he is amused that you even had the gall to ask. 

No, your pleas will not work on him. Your attempts to beguile with puppy eyes and wet lips will fail you. Your hunter is observant enough to see through any attempt to obfuscate your intentions. Best you remain translucent. 

“I – I want to know what I have to do to get out of this alive,” you admit, nearly a whisper, there’s a nervous squeak in your voice that you do your best to conceal. “You might be willing to die for your employer, but I’m not.”  

He laughs, again, and his apparent amusement only serves to enrage you. You swallow it, though, that bile of anger. Keep your cool. 

“Greedy and disloyal,” he hisses, taunting you.  

You lick your teeth. “I don’t think being loyal to Victor will help me anymore.”  

A lie when you uttered it, but as you sit with the statement it begins to ring true. Your husband is in no position to help you. And even if he could, would he? Might he suspect you of betraying him already? Leave you to be eaten alive by the soldiers who stole you from him? 

“Maybe not,” he shrugs, and you blink to look at him. “But it does make me question the value of any of your information.”  

“Why,” you squeak.  

“If you’re willing to do anything, who’s to say you’ll tell the truth, eh?” 

Your lips stiffen. “I’m not a liar.” 

“No?” He jeers, “You don’t strike me as an honest woman, Mia.” 

“You don’t–”  

“In fact, Mia, I think you’re a conniving slut.” 

Your brow crumples into a pointed scowl, letting his caustic insult fester in the heavy air for a beat.  

“You don’t know anything about me.” 

“No?” He goads, “Enlighten me.” 

What an intriguing little thing you are.  

Ghost watches you, meticulously – every movement of your legs, every flutter of your eyelids, every twitch of your lips. To read you, he tells himself. To better understand you. To learn how best to play you, how to get in your head.  

That’s his objective, now, for the brief time he has you alone. Once he’s in, once he can splay you open like a filthy book – he can take you apart, page by page, letter by letter. That’s when you’ll be useful to him. When you’re spread thin, desperate to please, fearful of his discipline. 

Though you seem determined to prevent him from finding any satisfaction in doing so. As if you have opened your book willingly, presenting your schemes to him in plain English. 

As you say, you want to survive.  

And you have made it clear, now, what you’ll do to ensure that. You’ll spread your legs for him. You’ll backstab your husband. You’ll blow your whistle. Or, you’ll lie.  

He’ll find out which soon enough. Not long until that Shadow Company wanker shows up. Perhaps you’ll resort to all four. 

For now, he toys with you. And he awaits your answer.  

Who do you think you are?  

You must know how much of a revolting little monster you are. What could you possibly say to prove him wrong? 

You hold your thighs together tightly and coil your white-knuckled fingers between themselves, tensed enough that they might snap. You keep your pretty eyes on him. 

Your lips part only slightly, just enough to inhale a minuscule gulp of air before you finally speak.  

“Where are you from?” You query, gently, apprehensively, you blink at him as you sniff.  

He frowns, bemused, his immediate reaction concealed from you by his balaclava. Leaves him flummoxed for heartbeat – not a witty retort, or some vitriolic insult – what, some attempt at conversation?  

No, he determines. You, little rabbit, must be playing your own game.  

He’ll play along. Licks his teeth in capitulation.  

“Manchester.” He answers, eventually, keeping his tone dull and irate. Doesn’t want you to detect how suddenly you’ve piqued his interest. 

He watches you chew your lip, careful gaze flitting about him, you assess him. Finds himself immediately regretting his decision to tell you his hometown, and questioning why he answered you at all. He can’t have you feeling empowered enough to question him, can he?  

“Nottingham.” You say.  

His breath hitches in his throat. 

Shit.  

He had undoubtedly noticed a faint accent in your suspiciously natural tongue, but he chose not to acknowledge it.  He didn’t want to. 

But you’re not his neighbour, he reminds himself. You’re not a girl-next-door.  

If you are an Englishwoman, as you say, then you’re even more of a treacherous creature than he had first assumed. Dismissive of the spates of blood spilt from your own countrymen at the hands of your Soviet husband and his ilk.  

Surely you’re not attempting to fraternise with him. You cunning little whore. He’s not that stupid. He can so easily detect your attempts to manipulate him. First with your body, then your eyes, now your tongue. You’re not subtle, not even slightly.  

Yet as he glares at you, wordless, regardless of how adept he is at identifying your influence – he finds that he is not immune to it.  

Not when you look at him like that, fluttering eyelashes over your glittering stare; so frightened of him, and yet so willing to challenge him.  

Not when he catches glimpses at the shadows that follow you, at their reflections in your fretful eyes, their silhouettes so perplexingly familiar. 

One question from you, one answer, and his long anticipated and carefully planned assault begins to waver. Proven now, especially, by the fact he is riddled with questions he feels compelled to ask you. A pathetic interest in determining who you are. What you are.  

But he gleans one thing from you, from your artful balance of fearfulness and bravery, of submission and retaliation.  

You’ve played this game before. 

Before he has the opportunity to respond, an impatient clatter echoes out from the door behind him. His gaze lingers on you as he listens to it open, the shrieking of old steel hinges resonating in the empty room. You jump at the noise. Your façade of confidence is quick to slough off from you. 

“Hey hey,” greets the visitor, intonation so casual he utters it as though they had crossed paths on a walk in the park.  

Commander Graves.  

Later than he had been expected to join you. He watches your eyes dart from him to the American, who eventually closes the door. Too arrogant to lock it.  

“’Bout fuckin’ time.” Ghost grumbles.  

Your pupils widen at his arrival, glistening black voids that anxiously track his every movement. You shrink in your seat. He senses the swift acceleration of your delicate heartbeat.  

Poor thing.  

Ghost knows what Graves is here for. By the look on your face, you do too.  

With not one, but two fifteen-litre water jugs in tow, the kind intended for drink coolers, he dumps them onto the vinyl floor beside the table. Seems like he’s being purposefully loud with them, threatening water sloshing around noisily in their plastic chambers as he drops them.  

Ghost watches as he saunters in your direction with an affected swagger, thumbs tucked into his beltloops. His lips pucker to sing out a low whistle. A real show pony, the yank.  

“Jee-zus,” He jeers, donning a snide grin. “Look at you.”  

You flinch like a spooked animal, resorting to your silent nature now that you are outnumbered, the prey you are. Your wide glare follows him, glued to him as he comes to a stop in front of you.  

With a gloved hand, he grabs hold of your face by your cheeks, forcing your lips to pucker as he moves your head about to inspect your features.  

“No fuckin’ wonder you went solo to grab this one,” he chortles, swivelling on his heel to present your face to Ghost like a prize catch. “I get it, man.” 

Ghost bounces his knee. Impatient. Irritated. He rolls his eyes. 

He feels the need to busy himself as Graves continues his lecherous inspection of you, irked by the shamelessness of his needlessly grabby attention. So he pushes himself to stand, huffing in frustration. 

And you, poor girl, you catch his eye. You say nothing but your stare speaks for you. Have you decided he’s the lesser of two evils, hm? 

He keeps your gaze, down his nose, as he lumbers towards the corner of the room. He turns his back to you. You won’t find any help in him.  

Takes of his snow jacket. Slips off his gloves. Prepares. Listens.  

“Look at me,” Graves growls at you, through an audible sneer. “Not him, me.”  

You let out a quiet yelp. He must have hurt you. Ghost doesn’t turn to check.  

“Mhm,” he drones. “Open your mouth.”  

“Open it.” 

“‘Atta girl.”  

“Fuck... what a goddamn waste.”  

“Alright. Gimme a hand, buddy, before I get ahead of myself.”  

Ghost rolls his head on his shoulders, stretching out his neck to the point of hearing his tendons crack with the strain. For something he had been itching for, fervently anticipating for the days leading up to your capture – he is confronted with an eagerness to get it over and done with.  

And he’s unsettled by a distaste, an acrid bitterness that swells in his mouth at the brazen piggishness of that American mercenary.  

Still, duty calls.  

So he returns to you, tossing the keys to your cuffs to Graves when he gestures for them with his open hand. Observes with crossed arms as he kneels beside you, deftly unlocking the cuffs with the tiny keys and prying open the steel looped around your ankle.  

Yet you surprise him, again – the second both of your feet are free, you wind back your knee, hurling the heel of your foot down into the side of Graves’s head with as much force as your shaky legs can muster. Lands square in his temple with a dull thud, and a shriek of your chair jolting back on the linoleum floor. 

He stumbles back with a furious grunt, cupping the impact. Whimpers like a wounded dog. “Sonofabitch.” 

Ghost only observes; he should intervene, but he finds himself crudely entertained. He can see in your wide eyes, that burgeoning fight. Can scent the adrenaline beating though your blooming arteries, as you prepare to land another kick – leaning back in your seat, wrists still bound, you fling your legs recklessly in Graves’s direction for the brief moment he takes to recover from your first blow.  

He’s almost envious.  

You didn’t put up this much of a fight when he hunted you down. Really, you gave him no fight at all. Handed yourself to him wrapped in a bow. He had no chance to relish in your attempts to combat him, to let you throw your blows, to watch your tenacity fizzle out once he inevitably overpowered you.  

So he watches. Knowing the cocky American left the door to the cell unlocked, he steps casually towards it. Pre-emptively blocking your exit, anticipating that you might slip past the mercenary after you land your second kick.  

And you do, right in the collarbone. Far too easily. Aren’t you a slippery little thing?  

Graves roars as you evade him; “Motherfucker!”  

You bolt towards the door, ducking down to evade Graves’s clumsy attempt to apprehend you amidst his frustrated cursing. And as tempted as Ghost is to let you flee, if only for the thrill of hunting you again – he intercepts you with his swinging arm, hooking you by the waist and lifting you off the floor, you nearly break in half over his forearm with your momentum.  

A heart wrenching shriek erupts from your chest as he wrestles to restrain you; you writhe around franticly in his grip, bucking and kicking in every desperate effort to break free from his capture. But you fail, of course, sweet thing – and as he had hoped and predicted your resilience is quick to falter. 

He reels you into his chest, pinning your back to him with both heaving arms as your wriggling subsides. Keeps your feet off the floor, your legs dangle as you swing your heels backwards to get a few final kicks in, landing futilely in his padded shins.    

“That was stupid,” he growls. 

He feels you deflate in his arms, falling limp, and the jolt of your ribcage as you let out a pained sob. With his mouth by your ear, knitted mask pressing into your unkempt hair, he snarls, under his breath;  

“You want to survive, yeah?” 

Your breathing is panicked, erratic, your lungs expand shakily under his control. He knows you have submitted. That you have resigned to your ruin. But in some primal greed, a refusal to release his freshly caught quarry, he cannot yet set you down again.  

“Don’t you?”  

You nod, sheepishly, he feels the movement of your head against his collarbone.  

He huffs, exasperated, angry. “Then fuckin’ behave.”  

And you nod, again. Good girl. You wriggle, just slightly, a polite request to be let go. But – you're so soft, so pliant, so warm. There’s something addicting in the aroma of your perfume and sweat, roses and musk, as he constrains you so close to him; a concoction of the sweetly feminine and the raw and animal, it fills him with a hunger that threatens to overpower his better judgement. 

But he sets you down – forces himself to, as Graves impatiently marches towards you, after having finally locked the cell door.  

And while Ghost still has a grip on your upper arm, ensuring your quiescence – Graves lunges with a closed fist, clubbing you in the cheek with a wholly unwarranted ferocity; a sucker punch, the kind of assault Ghost holds an enormous contempt for. A fucking coward’s move.  

You crumble immediately after the strike, knees buckling as you keel over; knocked out so cold not even a squeak escapes you on impact. But he keeps you upright with his grasp of your arm, heaving you upwards until your strength returns to your legs.  

Disapproval leaps from Ghost’s throat before he has the opportunity to second guess himself. “Fuck’s sake, Graves.”  

“Evil little bitch,” Graves growls, shrugging dismissively, shaking out his fist as if he had hurt his soft knuckles.  

Ghost glares at him with pungent scorn, but swallows his urge to lash out any further than his already humiliating impulse. Why would he feel the inclination to safeguard you at all?  

While you’re still dazed, the soles of your feet struggling to find any grip on the floor, Graves reaches for the dropped cuffs. They chime shrilly as they shake in his grip, he moves to grab your ankles while you have no capacity to deter him. He cuffs them together, needlessly tight, your skin turns white under the wrenching pressure of the steel incising into your flesh.   

With another petulant growl of fury, Graves dabs the growing welt on his temple; the one you gave him, you wild little thing. “Got one hell of a kick, I’ll give ‘er that,” he grumbles. “Just gonna make this part more fun, though, eh?” 

Your dwindling fire beaten out of you, you put up no fight as Graves heaves you up by your legs, and the two men haul you to the steel table. You’re conscious, at least, a winded yelp shooting out from your lungs as they drop you onto the cold surface.  

“Alright, missy,” Graves barks, cadence once again returning to its characteristic, painfully cloying nonchalance. “Time to start talkin’.”  

You attempt to curl up on the table, blinking slowly and groaning in either pain or confusion – likely both, poor creature. Graves moves to one of the other nondescript surfaces in the hollow room, returning with a towel, ragged and cut raw on the edges – a tired scrap, that had been used for this purpose, many times over. Probably had the screams of its last victims still trapped in its frayed fibres.  

“Here ya go,” he chimes, leaning over the head of the table, clutching you by the bare shoulder and pushing you to lie flat. He lays the towel over your face, covered entirely, pulled into the contours of your nose and mouth as you breathe deeply underneath it. “Covers up that bruise nicely, huh?” 

Ghost merely stands at your feet, fixated while Graves busies himself in preparation for your suffering. Listens to your quiet, delirious whimpering as you come to more lucid consciousness.  

“You can ask the questions, Riley,” the mercenary continues, as he heaves one of the gargantuan water bottles from the floor by the table. “You know what I’m better at.” 

Right. The questions.  

In truth, the veneer of this endeavour acting as an interrogation is thin and unadorned. They don’t anticipate you will have answers to many, if any, of the questions they might have for you. No, your husband is the source of truth. You, a witness, at most.  

What you’re here for, is just this. To be hurt. To be frightened. To emerge shaken and scarred, for the sole purpose of leverage. A cat’s-paw to wring further information from your husband, should he remain stiff-lipped.  

A war crime, of course. But not his first. Nor his last. A quotidian necessity in his line of work – operating in the realm of shadows, his transgressions are welcomed by the dark. We get dirty, as the Captain reminds him, and the world stays clean.  

Dirty, he will get, if he needs to. Now, more than ever. With the lives of millions on the line, at the many filthy hands of both your husband and his confederates. You are merely a tool. And he’ll use you as one. 

Besides, he tells himself, you’re a prudent little thing. It would not surprise him if you were indeed more aware of your husband’s sins than you have so far let on. And, as you say, you want to survive.  

So, for your own sake, you’d better talk.  

“We need to know where the gas is manufactured,” Ghost finally says, voice low, throaty, a near growl. “Factories, labs, all of it.”  

A muffled cry emerges from you, he watches your ribcage shudder as you struggle to suck down a breath amidst your sobs.  

“Cryin’s not gonna get you anywhere, doll,” Graves chides, as he impatiently twists off the cap to the cooler jug.  

You whimper. “I don’t know. I don’t – I don’t know what gas you’re talking about. Or about any factories, I don’t know. Please, I don’t–”  

You sound honest. Desperate.  

“I dunno! I dunno!” Graves mocks, sing-song tone rich with amused derision, “why do they always start with that? It never works, y’know?” 

Another sob, animal, raw, it’s almost abrasive to hear. “I don’t! I really – please! I–” 

Too eager, Graves cuts you off as he tips the jug above your covered face. The stream of water is unsteady, glugging and sputtering as it spills from its blue mouth, splashing into the towel and spilling over either side.  

With his free hand keeping your head still, a controlling palm on the side of your face, there’s very little you can do to escape the drowning stream of cold water. And it’s not long before you begin to writhe, bucking and squirming, flailing your body in any way you can to escape the suffocation.  

Ghost is compelled to pin you down, a wide hand pushing your bound wrists into your soft stomach, the other at the top of your thigh, close enough to your hips to limit most of your movement. You kick with your free leg, still fighting. Sucking in what short, squealing breaths you can amidst the inconsistency of the waterfall.  

It’s never been a difficult watch for Ghost. Far from his first waterboarding. If anything, he’s hardened to it. Bored by it. And of all people, the very object of his most visceral and blistering hatred, he expected to thoroughly enjoy spectating your torture. Anticipated he’d be the one drowning you, not the one holding you down. 

But there’s something especially sick about it. How the icy water saturates your lingerie, rendering the thin pink fabric even more sheer than it already had been. How the gooseflesh spikes across your bare skin, your nipples stiffening with the sudden cold, plainly visible in their silk cups. How the veil of your negligee is pulled up by the hands pressed into your stomach, exposing your belly, displaying the lacy little knickers you wear underneath, so close to his controlling hand. How Graves lets his overly indulgent glare linger on the bouncing of your breasts as you writhe while you suffocate, that sneer curling in his maw. 

It repulses him. 

Graves finally deems the first pour to have persisted long enough, lifting the bottle upright and balancing it on the edge of the table. He plucks the saturated fabric from your mouth, folding it over your nose – and you immediately vacuum in a heaving breath through your open lips, relentless dry coughs interrupting your attempts to inhale.  

“There’s a lot more water here, honey,” He gloats, “and if I run out, I can  get more.”  

Another wail, cuts like a knife. “No, no, please, I–” 

“It’d be my pleasure,” he persists, chuckling to himself. “Sure don’t mind watching those tits of yours jiggling ‘round.” 

You sob, audible disgust wet in your throat. Ghost merely glowers at him. Finds himself similarly revolted by the mercenary’s crude cruelty. 

“You’ve got to give us something.” Ghost murmurs coarsely, returning to the objective. 

As though momentarily pacified by his voice in particular, your breathing steadies enough to form a coherent sentence. “I-I don’t know about any factories. Or labs. But V-Victor travelled a lot. There – there were a few places he went to all the time.”  

“Where.” He demands. “All of them. Where.”  

You sniff, swallowing the sob that almost interrupts you. “I – uh – I think, Moscow, Verdansk – um, I can’t remember, the third one – uh – somewhere in Kastovia–” 

The mercenary, the prick, mutes you mid-sentence, unfolding the towel to cover your mouth once again, tilting the jug to pour more icy water overtop of you. You shriek in dispute before the stream hits you, silenced by its gushing, you quickly begin your convulsing as you drown under the cascade.  

“Fuck’s sake, just let her talk.” Ghost roars, a fuming command.  

“She was stalling,” Graves groans in dispute, but is quick to relent, halting the pour.   

He eventually frees your mouth from the choking towel. At first you simply cry, hardly able to suck in a breath between your eager sobs. Ghost can feel you trembling under his restraint. You must be cold.  

“Where in Kastovia?” Ghost insists.  

Perhaps you’re delirious. Your first response is merely a whimper.  

“Mia,” he prods.  

You swallow a quivering breath, shallow and unstable. “It – it’s only a small town, I think, he – he only mentioned it once. I can’t – I can’t remember. I swear, I can’t.”  

Ghost lets out an exasperated sigh. Frustrated that he believes you.  

“Fine,” he begrudgingly concedes. “Where did he go most often? Where did he spend the most time?”  

“Verdansk,” you answer quickly, obediently. “He – he’s there f-for weeks at a time. But I don’t know if he, if he stays in the city.”  

“No?”  

“He brings – he packs gear, I don’t know. Boots and s-shit – not suits. He usually w-wears suits.”  

“I don’t fuckin’ care about your husband’s wardrobe, Mia.”  

You groan, in panic or frustration, he cannot tell. “I mean – I just mean, when he travels to b-big cities, for business, he only packs suits. But only Verdansk – only when he says he’s going to V-Verdansk, he brings h-his utility stuff.”  

“For business,” Graves scoffs, finding humour in your euphemism. “That’s what we’re calling it?”  

“What does he do there? What business, eh?” Ghost questions.  

Only a whine. “I – I don’t know.”  

“Don’t give me that shit.” 

“He doesn’t tell me! I can only guess, I can only t-tell you what I can guess. You’ve d-done your research, I can’t tell you anything y-you don’t already know.”  

Graves lets out an irate grunt. “Yada, yada,” he mutters, covering your mouth, returning to the routine.  

“No, nonono, please–” you plead, muted by the damp cloth, and silenced by another waterfall. The stream is steady now that the jug is half-empty, pouring cleanly over your mouth and nose, right on target, giving you no gaps in which to inhale nor exhale.  

Your soft body contorts on the hard table, its steel legs rattle with the vigorousness of your resistance – kicking, twisting, arching, flailing – all in vain, as Graves does not ease up.  

“Okay–” Ghost barks, urgently, feeling your struggle begin to wane, your muscles weaken and stiffen as the cascade persists its unrelenting suffocation.  

Graves ignores him, seemingly determined to empty the bottle, he tips it steeper to continue the steady pour.  

You start to go limp, purposeful wriggling turning into frail convulsions.   

“Jesus – Graves!” Ghost finally roars, releasing his restraint of you to barrel towards the mercenary, viciously tearing the jug from his grip and hurling it carelessly to the far side of the room. It leaves a torrent of water in its path and sends a splash up the wall when it lands with a loud bounce. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill her, you fucking idiot.”  

“Far out, Ghost, who fuckin’ cares?” Graves retorts vexedly, but raises his palms to prevent further altercation.  

Agitated, furious, Ghost savagely shoves him in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards. “We need her alive.”  

“She’s fine, Jesus Christ,” Graves insists, still upright, to Ghost’s ire, he points to you on the table.  

Briefly glancing over his shoulder, he sees you reach slowly for the towel over your head, with your bound hands, pulling it aside to allow yourself to breathe. 

“Fucking mercenaries,” Ghost mutters, a growl under his breath.  

Graves rolls his eyes. “What, we’re too efficient? Practical? Did you want me to fuckin’ wine and dine her beforehand?”   

“Reckless,” Ghost spits, correcting him. “And fucking shameless.”  

“Oh, please, don’t you high-road me, Riley. I’ve heard the stories.”  

Ghost lumbers towards him, then, chest puffed, tall enough to intimidate without needing to utter a single threat.  

“Fuck off back to your Shepherd,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. “Tell ‘em she’s good to go.”