Houndtooth [6]

houndtooth [6]

[masterlist]

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

There should be blood.  

You’d never have thought you could experience such visceral, rib-crushing pain, with so little blood.  

It feels like blood, the hot foam spraying from your mouth as you cough so viciously, forcing as much of it as you can out of your aching lungs. It feels like blood as it pours from your nose, thick with mucus, the delicate skin of your swollen sinuses and closing throat burn like you’ve inhaled blistering steam.  

But it’s only water. Saturating you inside and out, dripping from orifices and off extremities, you shiver violently as if you’d been left in the blizzard – though you don’t feel cold. Your body smoulders with adrenaline, so ravaged by the carnal desperation to survive that your heart still blazes hot and your muscles burn with the acid of exertion.  

Your jittering fingers are weak, barely strong enough to grip the soaked rag from your face and drop it to the plastic floor with a splat.  

Your lungs gnaw for oxygen, too anguished to swallow a breath to sate the need – you only sip at the chemical air as you attempt to roll yourself off the steel table; now that no masculine claws hold you down to it.  

The impact as you land face-down on the linoleum tosses an animalistic squeak from your throat. Purely mechanical; the whine of deteriorated, corroded machinery.  

But you alert the skullhead, all the same. Your hunter turns his head over his thick shoulder, just enough to look down at you, as the other tormentor marches out of the cell and slams the door behind him.  

You’d like to run. You dream of it, as you float in between states of consciousness – you see yourself leaping to your feet, tearing open that door and jetting off down the hall – only to open your eyes again, to blink, and see the speckled vinyl under your nose.  

He simply stares at you. Observes you as if he is intrigued by your suffering.  

You see his boots, hardly able to lift your head enough to see him in his mammoth entirety. The boots take hesitant steps in your direction, heavy and thumping on the floor, you feel the vibrations of his weight across it. Your reaction to his approach is reflex – a shriek, sudden adrenaline giving you the strength to push yourself up just enough to scurry backwards away from him, though still unable to stand.  

“You’ll survive,” he says under his breath, but it sounds more like a promise than an admonishment. You glare up at him. Panting like a trapped rabbit. Vision faded and throbbing.  

“I can’t – I,” your attempts to beg get caught in your swollen throat, wet and desperate, “please, I can’t take – please don’t do it anymore. Not again, please–”  

“There’s not going to be any more water,” he grunts, through teeth, as though irate that you had made him say so.  

A soaked sob escapes you, indeterminable whether out of relief or simply your body shutting down. You attempt to wipe away the wetness on your cheeks with trembling hands. 

“Promise.”

In your utterly fevered mind you cannot not understand the source of your audacity to request such a vow, from a man so plainly without morals, and yet your tongue forms the plea nonetheless. “Please.”  

And after a tense pause, he surprises you. With a beleaguered huff, he answers; “Okay.” 

Your sticky eyes flit across his features, from under your brow, you attempt to thank him with a shaky nod. He crouches slowly in front of you, rests his elbows on his knees. His shadowy eyes seem to catch the light of the glaring overheads, the colour of burnt honey, the first time you’ve been able to see them. Maybe it’s because he’s not scowling. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he mutters, muffled by the dense knit of his mask. “You’re not done here.”  

Your appreciation is quick to sour. Your lips curl into a vengeful line, but your eyes betray the cracks that spider through your veneer; brow twisting into an expression of misery despite trying to contain it, you cry. Breaking out in stunted sobs. Sucking in squeaking breaths to fuel the next ones.  

He’s adept in keeping you confused, the fucking beast, not allowing a single expectation to form, a single prediction to prove correct. Rewrites his code just as you begin to translate it. You can beg at him, but only so long as he is entertained by it. You can seethe at him, but not so viciously that he is compelled to punish you.  

Does he want you to submit to him? Does he want you to fight him? Despite your attempts you cannot determine. Up until now you’ve been walking the line between both, careful not to tip too far in either direction.  

Now you are running on pure instinct. Your torture has, for now, rinsed away any mask you have tried to maintain. Leaving only the raw, dripping, desperate organs that you consist of. Burgundy and beaten.  

He reaches forward, calloused hands slipping indifferently under your arms and lifting you up with him as he stands, hoisting you like you’re a limp cat. It’s odd feeling his bare skin on yours. So far only gloved fingers have grazed you. It’s warm.  

“Can you stand?” He asks, monotonously and impatiently, ensuring you interpret no kindness in his concern.  

“Think - so,” you shudder, not yet quite able to create cohesive words.  

He lowers you to your feet, you tap the floor with your toes to ensure you can grip it as he removes his hands from you. Your knees wobble like colt legs as your weight returns to them, you’re rendered dizzy by the sudden verticality. And, wholly unintentionally, your arms jut out on reflex to prevent yourself from toppling over, bound hands landing flat on his upper stomach. You feel his muscles tense rigid with the touch, skin burning hot through the fabric of his black half-zip fleece – for a brief, nauseating moment, you find comfort in it. Heartbeat. Breathing. Human.  

His monstrous hand moves disinterestedly to your wrists, and he clutches them tightly – your stare darts to meet his. His eyes are cautious, scrutinising, blond eyelashes flittering as his glare dances around your face, reading words on a page.  

You expect him to scold you, or tell you that won’t work as if you had done it purposefully to endear yourself to him – but he silently peels your hands from him, pushing them towards you so they sit under your chin.  

“Ready to see your husband?”  

Ghost is well acquainted with terror. Both endured and inflicted. And after years, decades, of suffering his own, he has become a savant in that specialty. Injecting the fear of God into those that cross him, only to remind them it’s him they should pray to.  

But it has never made him feel so sick.  

So nauseated.   

A silent pleading in your touch. Accidental and yet so careful. It turned him to stone, the moment the pads of your fingers landed on him, the resting of your wobbly weight in your hand against him. A gentle and ruthless reminder that despite being a foreign, machiavellian, billionaire warlord;  

You’re just a girl.  

Too scared of him to beg, too frightened to fight, too small to try. 

The bitterness of guilt bubbles at the back of his tongue. Acrid enough to make him swallow. A taste he had long forgotten. Your red eyes gaze at him wetly and nervously, smeared black by the makeup that has been liquefied by your torture and your tears. And he feels guilty. 

Christ. Pathetic.  

He’s got one job to do. One objective. Prevent the mass murder of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions. Your husband is an orchestrator of death and agony. You are the leech at his ankle, bleeding him of that evil.  

You’re ready for your only purpose here. To be used as leverage, to coerce and extort a terrorist kingpin. To be shaken, tearful, yet still alluring enough to remind him of the cost of his sin – losing the only thing that lets him pretend he’s more human than creature. You.  

Your reaction to the mention of your husband is unreadable. Nervous and yet hopeful. Scornful and yet tender. But you are speechless, only whimpering as your lungs readjust to the ability to breathe, as your fight-or-flight begins to settle back down into dark dejection. You stay quiet as he once again pulls that black hood over your head, not bothering to tighten its fastening.  

With a commanding grip of your upper arm, he guides you with a push, keeping you in front of him so you don’t trip on your feet. And you need that balance, clearly, squeaking and stumbling over your weak legs as he takes you to the door. You land with your back against him, unintentionally using his rigidity to keep you stable.  

Unlocking the door, he nudges you through it, steers you down the clinical hallway; a continual tunnel of plastic, painted cinderblock walls, droning fluorescents, heavy steel doors. He ferries you to one in particular, marked No Entry, and kicks it open – it leads to a steel staircase, spiralling deep into the subterranean basement of the compound.  

The guttural roars are already audible from deep below. They echo through the cement chute, reverberating like the cries of angered spirits from the walls, chattering the rusting stairs as they creak with the weight of him.  

You let out a yelp, tripping over your feet as you attempt to descend the stairs with him; you tumble knees-first onto the steel and cry out from behind your blinding hood. Firm grip not waning, he prevents you from falling any further. Fuck’s sake.  

“C’mere,” he chuffs, disgruntled, lowering himself to scoop you up. Tosses you over his shoulder. You feel different. When he carted you to the helo, you were unyielding, stiff, hot – every muscle, every breath begrudging your abduction. Now you’re damp and flaccid, cold like a wet cloth. You hang from his shoulder like he might be able to wring you out. It makes his job easier. It makes his stomach churn.  

A minute of raucous cries growing louder, Ghost reaches the door, hauling you like a body bag. Thick, steel, no window. He knocks in code. One-two, one, one-two-three.  

Shut up, shut the fuck up – he hears through the door, some shuffling and and the odd thud.  

The door squeals open. Price stands in its frame – bloody, swearing, red on his neck and veins bulging in his temples.  

“Simon,” he greets through his jaw, “good timing.”  

Ghost nods, adjusting you on his shoulder with a jolt, you respond with a squeak.  

Price sucks his teeth, an air of disapproval, he raises his eyebrows. “Glad you’ve kept her alive for us, eh.”  

Fuck off, captain.  

He feels the urge to defend himself, but he bites his tongue. No sense in attempting to prove he’s not as barbaric as they think he is, while you’re wet, half-naked, and near-dead slung over his shoulder.  

Price steps aside to allow Ghost through – the room is dark, lit only by the down-lighting of the bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Raw concrete walls, cement floor, the odd steel shelving housing old tools and electrical paraphernalia.  

In the centre sits your husband. Victor Zakhaev. 

Duct-taped to his chair, hands bound to the armrests, ankles tethered to the legs. Shirtless, dripping with sweat, skin red and purple and speckled with blood. What a fucking sight to behold. Ghost’s mood is lifted just at the vision of his much deserved agony.  

His eyes swollen nearly shut, thick with the blood that pools under the surface of his skin – he looks up, scowling, glare catching on the ass of the woman carried into the room.  

“What the fuck,” he mutters, teeth bared. 

Ghost carts you towards the seat across from your husband. He drops you down into it, too carefully, makes sure you don’t land too harshly. You whimper nonetheless – panting, shivering, negligée still too sheer from the wetness of your torment.  

“Mia?” Zakhaev grunts, squinting, his tone more bitter than concerned.  

Price, having locked the heavy door, strolls to stand behind you and abruptly tugs the hood from your head. You wince in the sudden brightness, head bolting around as you hastily absorb your surroundings. He watches as your gaze lands on the man across from you, chest hitching as you hold your breath.  

“Victor?” You breathe, a whine, he cannot determine if out of fear or relief. “Слава богу, ты жив.” Thank God, you’re alive.  

“Что ты им сказал?” What have you told them? 

Seething. Accusatory. No concern for your wellbeing. Ghost suddenly feels he overestimated your value as leverage.  

“Ничего, малыш, я им ничего не говорил.” Nothing, baby, I haven’t told them anything.  

You little liar. Are you attempting to spare yourself the wrath of your husband? Are you trying to ensure you remain useful by keeping your husband on your side?  

Cleverer than he thought.  

Do you love him? 

You know that face.  

That lour.  

The stare your husband gives you when he hates you. When you disobey him. When you disappoint him. The hatred that reminds you how replaceable you are. How easy it would be for him to leave you in the snow-blown wilderness and let you die, how little he would care if he did so.  

You had at first found it almost amusing, that your militant abductors thought they could use you to extort him. As if he cared about you enough to bother spilling a single secret in exchange for your life.  

But, you now know what awaits you if it doesn’t go the way they want it to. Your usefulness will expire. Your time will be up.  

And now, aching, exhausted, withering, your beaten mind only yearns for comfort. Something familiar. The care of a man that isn’t itching to murder you. You just want him to love you.  

Despite how long, how ardently you scorned him and the life he forced you into – now, you miss it. You long for it. Your heart leaps back mere hours ago, when he kissed you, when he held you, when he whispered his Cyrillic pet names in your ear. Mere hours ago, you hated it. Looks like you got what you wished for.  

“Xерня.”  Bullshit.  

You feel the jagged rock rising in your throat, and you release it with a sob, eyes swelling with tears as you longingly glare at him.  

His wounds upset you. Bruises and slices and welts. You wish you could just float back to the estate with him, put ice on his injuries, apologise for ever wishing that you could inflict those wounds on him yourself. You had everything and you forsook it.  

“Я этого не делал, обещаю. Я тебя люблю.” I didn’t, I promise. I love you.  

The man whose voice you recognised, the one you had named The Captain, steps around your chair, stands in front of you with a roll of duct tape in hand – a shrill tear as he pulls off a piece. You tilt your head to glare up at him, and he takes you in his hand. Sticks the strap over your mouth, silencing you. 

He moves aside, your eyes once again land on your husband. Even more hateful than before. You hope he can see in your eyes how devotedly you love him. It mightn’t even be true, but you cling to it, with nothing else left.  

Your hunter re-enters your line of sight, sauntering behind Victor, leaning against the concrete wall, returning to the shadows. He crosses his arms, spectating it as if it were sport. He meets your eye from under the darkness of his mask. Fucking animal.  

The Captain grumbles from elsewhere in the room, amongst the clinks and clatters of whatever tool of suffering he prepares. “Had no idea your wife was so pretty, Victor.”  

Victor scoffs, as though amused, still harshly disdainful. “Как ты думаешь, почему я женился на ней?” Why do you think I married her? 

Captain chortles. “Mh. Not sure why she married you, though, eh?”  

“Take a guess,” your husband snarls, switching tongues. You know the answer, don’t you? His wallet. His empty promises.  

“Can’t be for your looks,” the Captain jeers. The familiar clicks of a spinning barrel ring out from where he stands. “I expect you lovebirds are familiar with русская рулетка.” Russian roulette.  

Your heart drops like steel.  

Your tongue forms your pleas behind your lips, as if you could speak them, instead you just moan and quiver in your chair, hoping they’ll listen. 

You jerk your head to see the Captain approach you. Behind you, he puts a warm and gentle hand on your shoulder, and you feel the sharply cold point of the revolver’s mouth against your opposite temple. You can only whimper, too terrified to tug yourself away, deathly afraid the gun will go off with the slightest movement.  

Please don’t kill me, you silently beg, entreating eyes land on your hunter. He observes disinterestedly. Please don’t let him kill me.  

“Alright, Victor,” the Captain drones, nudging the pistol at your forehead. “Tell us about London.”  

“Пошел на хуй.” Go fuck yourself. Victor spits, the apprehension in his voice belying the venom in his throat.  

“We know you’ve got WMDs in production. You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, right?”  

“You’re full of shit,” your husband growls. “You think I’m stupid? You have nothing.”  

“You’d be surprised.”  

Click.  

You scream – jolting unconsciously as you feel the gun crack against your temple – chamber empty. One down. Five to go.  

Your husband jumps, glowering at you, then the Captain, shuffling in his chair and out of breath.  

“Иди на хуй! Fuck you. Fuck you,” he roars, neck straining with his intensity. “You’re too fucking noble, Captain. You’re going to murder a woman in cold blood? No, you don’t have it in you, Ты жалкий хуй.” You pathetic fuck. 

“London. When.”  

“You’re stupider than I thought if you believe this will work.”  

Click.  

Your throat burns with the intensity of your crying, shrieking in horror as you survive yet another pull of the trigger – the click as loud as the eruption of a bullet. 

“You’ll really let your wife die for your lost fuckin’ cause, Victor?” The Captain admonishes him, grip of your shoulder firm and bizarrely comforting – your sanity begins to drift away from you, you watch as it fades.  

Victor releases a huff of scornful laughter. “Lost cause? You are desperate, Captain. Desperate enough to bring my wife into this.”  

“She’s one of many options,” the Captain threatens, “not a last resort.”  

“You’re a fool. It might be your first time killing a woman, it’s not mine.”  

Click.  

Your screams turn to whimpers, heart and lungs depleted of all strength, eyes itching with the flood of tears that flow from their swollen glands.  

“Do it. Go on. You fucking asshole.” Your husband goads him, shaking with fury, he averts your gaze even still  

Click.  

“Two left!” The Captain roars, “the odds really are in Mrs. Zakhaev’s favour, eh? Now we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance, don’t we.”  

“Fuck you. I’m not telling you anything. Not for that whore.”  

You sob, head tumbling from your shoulders in defeat and exhaustion – you'll die here. Two chambers left, one containing certain death. Your fucking husband will let it get down to the last round just to prove his obstinance. He’d let a bullet blast through your head just to prove a point.  

“It’s two simple things, Victor. Only two things you need to spill. When your fucking cabal of Soviet pricks is hitting London, and what with. Is that really worth her life, mate?”  

The Captain slips his hand under your jaw, lifting your head to realign it with his pistol. Victor glares at you. Finally meets your gaze. His eyes are small and black, beady like a shark, furious that you’ve put him in this position.  

“I’m not as pathetic as you, Captain,” he shouts, knuckles white, he shakes the steel chair like he might break it.  

Click.  

This time, you shriek, so certain that would be the end – no, another blank shot, another roll of the barrel. Which leaves the last chamber.  

Now it’s an execution. Now, you cry, and writhe, and tug, and kick, and scream – wordlessly begging, anything to plead with your husband to just tell them! It can’t be that horrific. It can’t be worth more than your life. He can’t love you that little.  

“Doesn’t seem like your wife is ready to die for you. Listen to her.” The Captain snarls, his thumb on your jaw, the revolver cold on your forehead. “It’d be such a waste. An awful shame to lose such a beauty. Wouldn’t it?”  

Victor’s skin is burning red, thumping with rage, he glares at you so viciously it terrifies you that he might tear free from his restraints and kill you himself. Something you always feared might happen eventually.  

He snorts loudly, hurling a lump of thick saliva onto the cement floor with a loud spit.  

“Go on, Captain, fucking shoot her,” he roars. “I’m not weak, like you. She’s just a fucking whore. I picked her up from the streets. And I married her for her cunt – and there are plenty of nice cunts out there. You think I give a shit what you do to her? You’ve probably already fucked her, I bet. Did she ask you to put your cock in her? It’s all she’s fucking good for, and she’s not even that good at it. I'm sure she bent over the second you broke into my house, you son of a bitch. Tell me, was she good for you? She’s not very good at listening to me, so maybe not. She’s good at sucking cock, though – did she offer that to you? It’s the only thing she knows how to do. I bet that’s why you haven’t fucking killed her already. You’d be doing me a favour. She spends my money like it’s fucking hers. You’d be saving me money if you put her down like the worn-out bitch she–” 

Bang. 

Wailing in horror, you’re certain that was your demise, that you had just drawn your last breath – briefly wondering if your spirit had already drifted from your filthy body, a death so instant that you were spared the agony of a bullet tearing through your skull.  

But you open your eyes, trembling, sobbing, dizzied by the sudden silence; to see your husband’s head hanging off his shoulders. A fountain of maroon blood. The splash and dribble of it pouring thick from the red crater in the centre of his forehead. It lands on his knees, drips from his fingers, puddles on the concrete floor around his feet.  

Behind him, your hunter.  

Gun raised. Still smoking.  

“Fuck’s sake, Ghost,” the Captain chides loudly, releasing his grip on your head, dropping the gun from your temple.  

You release a heaving breath, almost fainting with the relief, your vision begins to fade.  

“Had to shut him up,” your hunter grunts. Seems nonchalant about his sudden murder. Irritated that he had to waste the bullet.  

“Why? We were just getting him talking.”  

The hunter sniffs, rolling his head on his shoulders, cracking his spine.  

“Just had to.” 

houndtooth [9+10]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 7.2k words

You smell that sour iron, metallic and hot, miasma oozing from the pool of blood on the floor before you. Or is it your own blood you can scent? Coating your teeth, sticky on your lips? 

It doesn’t ache, though, the split in your gums, nor the chip in your tooth. Roaring adrenaline still floods every nerve ending. Too many abhorrent sensations overwhelm you. Too many storming thoughts torment you. 

You can still see the sneering grin of that American commander, his cocksure laughter and cloying drawl that convinced you he thought he was charming you. And how quickly that smile sunk into a cruel satisfaction when you spat a hunk of acrid saliva onto his cheek. You had given him an excuse. Fuelled his retaliation. 

You can still feel the wrenching of your babydoll’s silk seams, cutting into your flesh as it was yanked from you. Can still hear the shrill zip of the satin being torn into shards. Still feel the shiver down your spine at your exposure, at the rapacious sneering of your tormentors.

Still feel the fingertips on your skin. Their dents in your flesh. Their intentions in their wake. 

Still feel the searing agony in your scalp. Your skin being separated from skull as you were hung by your hair, the sound of it crackling as its connecting tissues began to split. 

Still feel the knuckles on your cheekbone. Your tongue between your teeth. Can hear the ringing in your ears, the throbbing of your shaken brain.

You ruminate on the cold hard edges of that gun, the weight of its possibilities in your palms - the possibilities you had quickly forsaken, handing off your last resort to your only hope. You can still hear the thunder of that gunshot, the two times it had been unloaded into your worse aggressors by your reticent captor. Was he protecting you as a person or as a possession? 

You reminisce on the sickly sweet satisfaction that doused you as you watched, in awestruck, shock-ridden silence, your hunter hurling fist after hurling first into the smug head of your torturer. 

You can still see his face. The skin beneath the skull. It had inexplicably surprised you that he had a face at all, that he was a man and not some hideous beast. You had imagined him with fangs, you imagined those honey-brown eyes peered through a coat of slick fur, that his tongue was forked behind those pointed teeth. But now you know for certain that he is human, his face lingering behind your eyelids as plainly and brightly as it was first revealed to you. 

He had softer eyes than you had expected, than the slit in his mask exposed; they were weary and heavy, dark with both greasepaint and a potently resentful exhaustion. His nose was sturdy, thick at the bridge, perhaps once broken by a fist and healed slightly crooked. His lips were full and pale, marred by a pink scar from a split lip. And other scars littered his pale freckled skin, slices and welts, carving through a tawny shadow of overgrown stubble that coated his jaw, through thick but fair brows that permanently furrowed above his eyes. 

He may have been once a good looking man, in his youth, before whatever hatred he’s laden with began to seep through and stain him. You saw his face and thus suddenly a glimpse of his distant humanity, however cryptic and transient it may be. You saw his face and now fabricate a past, a reason - there must be a reason, that he has become such a laconic, violent creature. He must have been entirely human, once. 

You wonder if he thinks the same thing of you. That you’ve been just as stained by the pessimistic hatred that pumps through your thinning vessels, dark and coagulated. Made ugly by it. Made into a creature much the same, running on base instinct alone. Maybe that’s why he seems to hold such visceral disdain for you. Why his eyes are always so heavy with contempt when they stick to you for too long. 

But his unmasked expression was novel. As if the bitterness in his eyes gained a new, a different meaning in the context of the rest of his features. Told a different story, when you could see the curl of his vaguely concerned brows, the jutting of his angered jaw, sour and furious after beating the sadistic American cunt to near-death. 

No, instead, he looked… sorry. Sorry that you had to bear witness to his face, his behaviour, had to see him at all. Sorry that you seemed to draw hope from it. 

But you did, anyway. You hope that if he looks human, he might act human. That it was sympathy in his poignant glare and not pity. 

You know you’re concussed. You know the feeling well; the throbbing, the ache, the vertigo. So you fight the dragging urge to sleep, so heavy on your shoulders that you couldn’t bring yourself to stand even if you tried. You haven’t left your spot on the floor, back gritting against the cold wall, knees against your chest. The blood on the floor can’t reach you, here. 

You fear your nudity. You fear exposing yourself any further than you are already by moving from your cocoon. Might there be cameras in here? Who could unlock your door and step in to leer at you? You’re not foolish enough to forget that no amount of clothing deters a predator with his sights on you. But you know how they use your bareness as an excuse. 

So when shadows of boots peer through the crack under your cell door, and precede the heavy clatter of keys in the lock, you only tighten the knot your body is in. 

It’s your hunter. 

Riley, you remind yourself.

His mask is still on. He locks the door behind him, his back to you still. 

You take a short breath, bracing to speak - but you spot his arm full, with what you’re not yet sure, and bite your tongue. He turns finally, hesitantly, squinting eyes almost fighting their immediate focus on you.

Seems he bears gifts. In one vascular hand he holds an unbranded plastic water bottle, almost dwarfed in his straining grip, in the other a large chunk of black cloth. 

You tilt your head back to follow him apprehensively as he approaches you, as he wordlessly hands you the fabric item first. 

You mustn’t respond in time, because with a frustrated shake he jabs it at you. “Fuck’s sake, take it.” 

Snatching it from him petulantly, you unravel it to reveal a hooded sweatshirt. Thick, black, vastly too big for you. Which is likely on purpose, given he hasn’t brought you trousers to pair with it. Still, you find yourself grateful. Only reminded of the bitter cold in your cell when an alternative warmth is presented to you. 

You do your best to stay tucked-in as you pull it over your head; though you don’t doubt some amount of nipple slipped out from behind your knees, as you struggled to find the neckhole in the tent of black fleece. You grit your teeth, suppose he’s already seen it all. 

The hoodie smells of dust and tobacco, like it might have sat in storage for months without a wash since the last person wore it. Once you adjust it over yourself, long enough to cover everything, you feel the tight snarl in the pit of your stomach loosen, if only slightly. Concealed, finally.

“Thanks,” you mutter, as he then hands you the bottle of water. You take it with fury and tear off the royal blue cap, swilling it with sincere desperation, teeth clamping into the ridges of the screw top. The water is stale, tainted with the ghosts of ammonia and salt - but it could be toilet water, for all you care, you’d been completely unaware of your thirst until the first drop touched your tongue. 

He crosses his arms, again, the disgruntled mammoth, ever impatient with you. 

“You know what’s going to happen next, don’t you.” 

Whatever threat he may have been trying to convey was lost in his tone, hoarse and bizarrely sincere. A solemn reminder. 

“If I don’t spy for you?” 

He curtly nods. 

“You told me already,” you murmur, surprising yourself with the defeat in your voice. “You’ll kill me.” 

His chest swells with a laboured sigh, near a grunt. 

“If you’ve got a deathwish, you should’ve put that gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger,” he retorts, monotonous yet severe. “Because it’ll be a long time before you get the bullet you want.” 

You pull the sleeves of your hoodie over your wrists, tucking in your palms, a nervous habit. Your hands are cold. Fingers are blue. “What do you mean.” 

“You had a go of it already. You don’t need me to remind you.” 

Your stare drifts through him, blurred and dizzy. You still taste the blood.

Exhaustion trumps your better judgement, obfuscates your ability to consider your words too carefully. “Then why don’t you just shoot me. You keep saying you will. You haven’t yet.” 

“I don’t like wasting bullets,” he grouses, “and I don’t like being wrong.” 

“Wrong about what?” 

He seems to hesitate before he speaks. Breathes irefully, like you’re the one pestering him. “I was certain you’d be useful. And I convinced my boss to take you instead of assassinating you in your bathroom.” 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” you grumble. 

He chuffs. “You don’t want to die, Mia. You’d have fuckin’ shot yourself. And you didn’t.” 

He was right. 

You had only briefly considered it, in reality; imagined the cold tip of its mouth on your temple, imagined your fingertip caressing the stiff trigger. You considered the torment that might have lay ahead of you, the dogs that might salivate at the sight of you, might chase you, might catch you in their teeth. 

You even envisioned holding the gun outward, pointing it at your masked captor, tugging that trigger as many times as the weapon would allow you to. Firing holes through his thick, heaving body, watching how many it took to bring him down. 

But even as that pistol sat heavy in your hands, you couldn’t help but fantasise about the faint chance of  going home. A possibility that would be quashed no matter where you sent the bullet. 

You couldn’t help but daydream about walking down the cobbles of your hometown even though you had no great fondness for it, about sitting on a café chair in the morning sunlight on one of three days a year it didn’t rain, about wearing your old wellies and trudging through the grass, petting old ewes.

And you weren’t going to die for your fucking husband, nor his sadistic coconspirators. 

Spotting your silence, perhaps sniffing out your lapse in conviction, he once again makes his offer. “Like I said, quid pro quo,” he repeats, voice low and dry, you can hear his confidence in his chest. “You help me, I help you.” 

“How,” you spit. “How will you help me.” 

“You get the intel we need, and we’ll get you on a plane home. You’d have a clean slate. New name, new address. Mia Zakhaev will’ve never existed.”

You snort at that. She never did. 

“You’d be sending a corpse home,” you growl, feeling the terror creeping up the back of your throat. “If there’s one left. There probably won’t be once they find me out. And that’s only assuming your fucking men don’t get to me first.”  

“My men won’t touch you,” he says coarsely. “You’d have protections as an informant.”  

“Yeah? Well I don’t have many fucking protections from the men that you want me to spy on,” you bark, voice breaking, your sudden loudness makes you dizzy. Your sore eyes swell, their supply of tears seemingly replenished by the water he had provided you. 

“You wouldn’t-” he starts, but your tired, terrified anger lurches from your throat and viciously interrupts him. 

“You have - you have no idea what these animals do. What I’ve seen them do.”

You hear him spitefully suck his teeth. “I know exactly what they do.” 

Taking a moment to breathe, to gather yourself, your eyes finally shudder up to meet his. “Then you know I won’t last an hour with them.” 

“You wouldn’t be sent in alone,” he rumbles, taking an irate pause. “You’d have protection.” 

“Can’t say I feel any safer around your men,” you retort through a croak. 

“Not them,” he grits amidst a reluctant sigh. “Me.” 

Despite what Ghost believed to be an inborn skill in reading people, your expression continues to elude him. Is it disappointment in your glistening eyes? Terror? Or is it relief? Hope? 

You swiftly look at the floor again, perhaps at the pool of blood Ghost nonchalantly stands in. Not the first time he’d trail red footprints. Not even the first time within the walls of this very compound.

It must be confusing for you, having him condemn you and then help you. Harbouring a hatred for him almost as potent as your awareness that he’s your only option. But it won’t be as confusing for you, as it is for him. He felt sick and bitter as he handed you that sweatshirt, one he had quietly dug from an empty storage room, had carried to you in the dark so that he wouldn’t be seen doing you a favour. 

Earlier this very night he would have left you naked and bloody. He wouldn’t have intervened whatever creative technique Graves had to make a spy of you. Graves wouldn’t have needed to touch you at all - he would have done it himself. 

That’s how disgusted by you he was. When he knew you as a conniving, vapid sadist. As a warlord’s avaricious consort. As a slithery creature complicit in the suffering inflicted by your kind. 

But at every step, you seem to have confuted him. 

Perhaps you’re that good of a liar. A talented actress. You would have to have been quite the thespian, to fulfil the role of Victor Zakhaev’s loving wife. And Ghost can see your attempts to decipher him, to write a script based on your readings so that you might have him play the part that would serve you. 

It’s what he’d expect. From you, and from anybody. Honesty has been a rarity in his sordid life, something so elusive he struggles to believe that anyone truly has the capacity for it. Even himself. 

“If I do this,” you breathe, hesitating. You glare directly downward, sucking on your words as you fail to spill them out. “If I do it, and they catch me, will you - will you get me out?” 

He sucks in a wary gulp of air. “I can try.” 

Your glower shifts to him, dark and tired, peered up from under your stiff brows. “And if they don’t, when can I go home?” 

“Once you get the intel we need.” 

Quiet, reluctant, you seem to despair every word you release. “And you promise I can go home? I can just - disappear? Like none of this ever happened?” 

He nods stiffly. “Like I said. Clean slate.” 

You shiver. 

“Okay,” you murmur, “I’ll… I’ll do it.” 

The lieutenant had decided to let you sleep. 

He hadn’t said such a thing, of course, it wasn’t a favour that he had offered you. After you had obligated yourself to their scheme, he nodded curtly and left without another word. You weren’t sure, at the time, whether he had let you be out of some charitable sympathy. But, despite the effort, you hadn’t carefully deconstructed his actions nor his words, like you would have in a more alert, more conscious state. 

After every physical and psychological torment that had been inflicted on you in the ten hours since your abduction, your mind had atrophied into grey milk. Runny, formless, utterly incapable of amassing a single thought or sensible decision. And despite your wounds, visible and otherwise, you fell into a hollow, dreamless sleep the second your feeble body made its way to the deteriorated mattress. You lay as close to the wall as possible, facing it in the hopes you could cast away the savagery that stained the floor behind you. 

Your sleep had functioned more as a system failure than a recuperation, and so, as you wake up, you feel as though you had not slept at all. Despite being damp with sweat and panic, your skin pricks in the dry cold of your cell. You have no indication of how much time had passed, how long you had slept, what time it is - your cell has no windows, after all. The sun might have risen and set already, or it might still be the same unending night. With a painful, irrepressible yawn, grinding your bruised jawbone against your skull, you wonder if only a single hour had gone by in your slumber. 

There’s a throbbing in your head, radiating and sharp; the forceful ache thumps out from the swollen bruise on your temple and bounces off the back of your skull. You feel your heart racing behind your ribs, pathetic little beats, it seems as if it barely pumps your blood an inch at each twitch. Anxiety, you’re sure, instant panic at the reminder of your imprisonment once you open your eyes; but you know that fluttering as a different omen, one foretelling a self-inflicted sickness. 

You hadn’t taken an oxycontin since the evening of your abduction. Four hours before your hunter had broken into your home, sadistically assassinated each of your sentries, and stolen you from your sanctuary. Unable to know for sure how long it had been since then, you suppose at least twenty hours. Perhaps more, perhaps less. 

Your oxycodone, though not prescribed, is controlled-release, long-acting - which has spared you, at least, a quick descent into withdrawal immediately after your abduction. But its arrival is inevitable, however prolonged it may be. They must have something in the compound, you think, you pray. If they’re soldiers, like they say - there must be analgesics, maybe some codeine, or surely some vicodin. You could ask the Lieutenant, maybe, you are in pain, after all. Or you could ask, beg, the Captain, the one who pretends to be so caring and so noble - an injured, beaten woman, surely he would not stand to see you in such agony? 

But just as the flustered panic sets in, there’s a loud, pounding knock on your cell door. Thud, thud, thud. You jump, shooting upright from where you lay flat on your creaking bed, and before you are given the opportunity to speak or dispute, the door is unlocked and thrown open. Three men file in, you dread, three of them - soldiers, in grey and black. You spot the union jack patches on their bulky vests, and find yourself feeling some inkling of relief - not the Americans that had brutalised you - though you recognise none of them. 

They waste no time, organised and hasty, two of them march towards you and the other stands guard by the door. You squeak in terror, backing up to the wall on instinct - they offer no comfort, no patience as they take you by your arms and pull you uncaringly from the bed. You’re tossed and spun, hands tugged behind your back and cuffed with another cable tie as if you present any danger to them. 

“C’mon,” one grunts, the only word spoken to you. His tone just barely encouraging, like he is instructing lumbering livestock to file obediently through his gate. 

Hyperventilating, you try to look over your shoulder - before, once again, a black cotton bag is pulled over your head. Blinded and incapacitated, they are swift to twist you and yank you, dragging you by your arms; you stumble over bare feet and feel the stickiness of undried blood on your soles. 

“Where are you taking me,” you whimper, not expecting an answer but disputing all the same. They won’t hurt you now, right? You are doing what they wanted. You agreed to their terms. What more can they take from you? 

“A meeting,” one says stiffly, the one on your right. Your feet do their best to take steps as they cart you out of the cell, presumably down the maze of hallways. You hear the echoes of their boots in the labyrinthine cement tunnels. 

Your instinct is to ask, with who? But, you can guess, can’t you. If not the Lieutenant, then the Captain, who you suppose had orchestrated the scheme in the first place. Though you begrudge their needless brutality, you follow their physical instruction without further complaint. 

They’re not the American soldiers in black, you remind yourself - so surely, you pray, they aren’t taking you to the Commander for some form of comeuppance. His business with you was unfinished, you suspect, there is no way he is done with you. 

But your violent escorts come to a halt, and you hear them knock on a door right in front of you. There’s murmuring emanating from behind it, the dull thuds of boots approach before the sound of it opening.

A grunt, a sigh, you hear the ire in the man’s breath, whoever it is. “Right. Bring ‘er in.” 

The Scotsman. You don’t have much of a read on this one, you recall, besides the salivating, dog-like hunger that oozes from him. Though it is less potent, now, you suppose you must appear far less appealing in a dusty, poorly fitting sweatshirt, than in your priceless silk lingerie. 

You’re shoved unceremoniously into the room, almost tripping over your feet before a firm hand lands on your shoulder. Far from a gentlemanly gesture, he then pulls you by your bicep, pushing you downwards until your ass lands in a cold, seemingly plastic, chair. You hear the door shut behind you. 

Before you can speak, the sack is pulled roughly from your head, yanking a few of your hairs with it, and the stark brightness of the room forces you to squint. 

“Jesus,” the Scotsman scoffs, as he sees you, before going to sit in another chair. “Graves is a fucken’ animal.” 

As your eyes adjust to the light, your glare shoots around the room - there are four of them, around a table, you have been seated at the head. You recognise three, the Captain, the Scotsman, and unsurprisingly, the Lieutenant. The fourth, you guess, must be the sergeant - the one you had heard on the helicopter, but who you have not yet seen. He looks somewhat less jaded than the others, and disturbed by the sight of you. A grimace of shame dents in his brow when you meet his eye, and he turns his head to look at some paper on the table. 

There’s a window in the room, and while you had just earlier been wishing for one, you now scorn the daylight that glows from behind it. A reminder of the outside world, you feel it glaring in at you, taunting you with freedom. You wonder how many storeys high the building is. You can’t see any trees. The grey sky obfuscates the time of day - it could be morning, or afternoon, for all you can tell. 

“How the fuck is this gunna work if she looks like that?” The Scotsman gripes, gesturing at you with his thumb.

Leaning back cavalierly in his seat, with his arms crossed, Lieutenant Riley snorts spitefully. “Ask the Cap.” 

The Captain stands, then, at the other end of the table, he leans on his knuckles against the synthetic wooden surface. “D’ya sleep alright, Mia?” He asks suddenly, directly to you, as though casting silence on the others. 

There’s an itch under your left ear, it makes your eye twitch, and you cannot scratch it. Vexed, tired, you simply scowl. “No.” 

He seems to find humour in that, huffing as if quietly laughing. “Of course not,” he admits with a sigh, “you poor thing. I’m sorry about all of this, I truly am.” 

You spot the Lieutenant scowling at him, eyes lidded darkly, he radiates a fury that you can taste from where you sit. You decide not to answer, not yet, you wait in uncomfortable silence for the Captain to get to the point. 

“I was told you’ve considered helping us,” he says, a cautiousness in his throat. “S’that right?” 

You swallow. “I was told I could go home,” you answer quietly.

“And you will,” he nods sincerely, “if you do what we tell you to do. If you get us what we need.” 

“What do you need,” you ask, shuffling in your seat, doing your best to only subtly stretch your shoulders - they ache from where they are pulled behind your back, you feel your cold fingertips swell. 

He laughs, then, a self-deprecating chortle, as he sits himself back in his seat and tugs himself forward. “Ah, well - of course, that would be helpful to know, wouldn’t it?” 

His casual amusement unsettles you deeply, you glare at him in anxious anticipation. “It would,” you croak. 

“We’ve asked you about Makarov, haven’t we,” he explains. “I don’t think you were honest with me about how well you know him, eh? Not according to Riley, here. Sounds like you’ve had a few run-ins with him, have you?” 

You say nothing. 

“Well, love, he’s who we’re after - if you hadn’t guessed already. Your husband was, let’s say, one on a long list. We would like to apprehend him, definitely, but you see - he’s like a virus, this man. He has infected plenty of other men with his ideas. If we take him out, well, it’ll be hard for us to figure out who else his plans may have spread to. He wouldn’t be as lovely and cooperative as you have been.” 

You feel the knit form in your brow, viciously upset by his comment. Cooperative? As if you had a fucking choice in any of it. As if you could have defied them any more than you had already tried to. As if you’d be gifted the option of a swift execution if you failed to comply. 

“So,” he continues nonchalantly, “ideally, we’d like to get as much information from him as we can while he’s in his natural habitat, so to speak. We want to know what he is planning, and who else is involved, so we can intercept it this time.” 

This time. You find yourself stuck on that. How many other times have there been? What else have they done? What else had your husband helped commit? You suck deep a careful breath in the subsequent silence, he evidently waits for you to offer some input. 

“You think he would tell me anything?” You mutter doubtfully,  “that he’d tell me anything about this plan?” 

“Well, love,” he grunts, “for your sake, I hope he does.” 

“You won’t ask him directly,” the Scotsman suddenly speaks. You didn’t expect him to participate much in the scheming, he seems to you as thick as a plank. “That’d be a bit obvious.” 

“Couldn’t we bug the place?” The Sergeant asks, speaking up for the first time since you had entered the room. 

“They’ll have RF detectors,” Riley remarks bluntly, shaking his head. “At least.”

“So, you…” you hesitate, thinking aloud, “you want me to eavesdrop?”

“Assuming they talk about anything of value,” the Captain agrees. “But you’ll prompt them where necessary, won’t you?” 

“You know them, Mia,” the Scotsman interjects, again, and you begin to question your first assumption about his stupidity. “So, if you think there is a better way, a… safer way to get the intel we want, then say so. We want to help you, help us.” 

You stare at him, doubt on your tongue. You know, in the pit of you, that if your cover is blown, they will leave you to die - simply another failed scheme, and they will move on to the next one. But he is right, in that, of course, you want to find the safest way to fulfil their ploy and guarantee your freedom. Desperately. Your eyes flit between the four men before you, who shoot glances at each other before looking at you expectantly, as if you might have some suggestion. 

And in the silence it dawns on you quickly the fact that you will soon have to face them again. Have to be seen by, have to walk amongst, have to talk to the very men you had denied your fear of for as long as you had known them. Then, when you were a wife, they feigned respect, they kept their tasteful distance. Now, you’d be a widow, a ripe fruit hanging from a low branch. That in itself sends painful pricks down the nape of your neck, but the thought of having to question them about their clandestine crimes, even daring to speak to them - you know, with conviction, that it will be your death sentence. 

“I can’t ask him,” you utter, shaking your head twitchily. “There’s no- they will know, straight away, if I ask them anything about it. Even if I just - even if I express interest in what they are talking about, they will know. And if they don’t think I’m a rat, they will still think I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. As a wife - a widow. They’ll say it’s not my place.” 

“I’m sure it’s not abnormal for their wives to ask innocent questions,” The Captain shrugs, artificial support in his tone, as if he is providing you some reassurance. “They’ll be more receptive after a few drinks.” 

“Are you stupid?” You anxiously blurt, immediately regretting your sudden insult, but quietly relishing in the minor outburst of long-craved aggression. He simply looks surprised, almost amused, like he thinks it was cute. “You’ve been spying on these men for - for so long, and you don’t know anything about them, do you?” 

“That’s what we’ve got you for,” the Scotsman retorts.

“They won’t just give me a scolding, a slap on the wrist, if I displease them - if I disobey them - do you think they are forgiving?” You assert eagerly, angrily. “My friend Sasha, she raised her voice at her husband in front of the rest, and so he poured boiling water on her face. I went to her funeral two months ago. One of them beat his nineteen-year-old girlfriend to death for denting his car. They held Alena’s hand to a stove after she smacked her husband, they had to cut her hand off. She was lucky. And Vladimir-”

You stop yourself, stumbling on your tongue. You sweat with stress and hot terror as you remember each horror you had to witness or hear of, each of them long buried and desperately ignored so that you could bear to live in your bubble of fragile safety among the monsters that had enacted them.

“Vladimir what?” Riley queries rigidly. 

Glaring at him, you shift uneasily in your seat, your brow knots in worry as you struggle to let loose the words. “He’s the… he’s the worst of them.” 

“What’d he do?” 

“He-” you bite off with a groan, frustrated with your frightened inability to even describe what kind of a man, what kind of a beast, he is; you feel your heart shrivel at the thought of him. “He hurts, he kills, anyone. Anyone. If he wants, if he decides to.” 

They remain silent. Expectant. You involuntarily elaborate, as your sore eyes begin to well. 

“I - I saw him murder one of my maids, in my home. He was a guest, in my home, and he pulled her by the hair into the kitchen and slit her throat - and he never explained why, he just left her body there and went back to dinner. Nobody even asked him why… God forbid I asked him, or even showed that I was upset by it, he would’ve… he… I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t. I knew what, I knew what he’d do. Because, h-he - there’s nobody he won’t hurt. Even, last year, he tried to sleep with Vasiliev’s wife, and s-she rebuffed him - so he had her put in acid. He put her in acid. He put her in while she was awake and then left her in the barrel on her driveway.”

A disturbed quiet settles in the room, as you suck down a wet and quivering breath. You contort your shoulder to wipe the errant tears that had dribbled down your cheek. The four of them seem to take the moment to consider, a thick air of disgust and guilt seeps from each of them. The Scotsman rubs his eyebrow, the Sergeant holds his hands to his forehead, the Captain drums his knuckles against the table in disquieted thought. 

The Lieutenant, though, had not turned his eyes from you. He keeps his thick arms crossed, glower low and sharp through the hole in his mask. 

“Did he ever threaten you?” He asks severely, voice hoarse. Despite emphasising you, evidently asking about you specifically, no concern for you could be gleaned from his tone. If any concern, at all, merely a worry that such a thing might in some way affect his mission. You wonder if he had deduced from your terror that Vladimir might have turned his sights on you. Clever man. 

Worriedly biting your tongue, you sniff back the frightened tears that threaten their persistence. “Not explicitly,” you mumble. “But he - he would remind me of her. He’d remind me of what he did to her, if I didn’t do what he wanted.” 

“What did he want?” The Captain questions, leaning on his elbows, interlocking his fingers as though still plotting something unspoken. 

You scowl at him, red eyes laser in his direction. “If you’re asking whether he wanted to fuck me too, then no - he didn’t.” 

“No?” He queries gently, frowning in apparent doubt. 

“No,” you spit, tearful, “he didn’t. And he wouldn’t have tried. Victor was protective.” 

“I bet,” the Scotsman chuffs, and your lips curl in disgust. 

“So he didn’t hurt you, then, I take it?” Asks the Captain. 

Your eyes shoot briefly to Riley, the man still scowling behind his mask, he bounces his leg as though irritated. “Why does it matter,” you bite. 

“Because if he’s going to throw you in acid the second we send you back, then it won’t be a very successful mission, will it?” The Captain explains, condescension dripping from his tone. 

You shut your eyes for a short moment, frustration and fear thundering in your temples, you take the second to breathe deeply. “No, he didn’t hurt me.” 

“He must have liked you then.” 

You weakly shake your head. “He doesn’t like anyone who isn’t useful to him.” 

The Captain again drums the wooden surface with the tips of his fingers. “Well, you could make yourself useful to him,” he suggests wryly, “couldn’t you.” 

You grimace, sniff, glaring at him like he had smacked you. Another fucking use - such an apparently short list of uses you serve, and yet all of these dogs seem find you useful for one thing or another. You know what he is implying. 

“I just told you what he did to the last woman he thought might be useful.” You snap with sore venom. 

“Then what do you suggest, Mia,” the Scotsman asks bluntly. 

You inhale deeply, warily, staring at the centre of the table as you do your best to separate your terror from the reality of your situation. 

“I can eavesdrop,” you hesitantly insist, “they think I don’t speak Russian very well, so I can listen. I’m - I’m sure that they’ll have a lot to talk about after… after Victor’s death. But - they’re going to have questions. They’ll ask where I have been, where I was. Where his body is. They’ll ask about, about everything. I’ll n-need a story.” 

“Don’t you worry about that,” the Captain asserts, “we’ll sort one out.”  

You swallow, you wonder if they can see you shaking, now that your tentative future encroaches on you so violently. “How?” 

He seems to mull over his words before he replies, perhaps deciding whether you are even allowed to be privy to his plan.

“We’ll plant you back at your estate. Zakhaev, too. It’ll look like a botched assassination.” 

The tears threaten their swell, at his mention - at the thought of having to lay eyes on your husband’s cold body. You see his face erupting from the inside out, then, in an instant; you see the crater left by the bullet that tore through from the back of his skull, the pieces of brain and bone and meat that hung in strands from the hole, having turned black and dry in the hours since his murder. You wonder if they had left his corpse there, buckled over and dripping, still tied to that seat, festering under the fluorescent light. 

And you imagine having to step around the frigid bodies of your guards, the pools of blood that will stain every floor, of every room in your home - having to avoid getting it on your feet, and further staining the carpet with your footprints. Nausea churns in your fragile stomach, your skin shivers as you sip in quick and shallow breaths.

“Mia,” he grits, as though getting sick of your panic. 

He grounds you though, somehow, bitterly reminding you of your circumstances, of the deal you made, of the things you will need to do to go home. 

So you nod, hastily, once again using your shoulder to try and wipe off the stream of salty tears that dripped from your chin. “Okay,” you relent, shaking, “Okay. I can - there’s someone I can call to, to make it believable. But it… it’ll take time to clean out the house, for the, for the funeral, so-”

“We won’t have time for that,” Riley interjects, tone dull and irate. “Was he Orthodox? Is there a church? Cathedral? A place to hold it instead of the mansion?” 

Your husband was not a religious man. Not outwardly so, anyway. You suppose you can’t fathom committing the crimes that he had while still worshipping a supposedly benevolent God. 

“They wouldn’t - I don’t think they’d expect to hold the funeral at a church.” 

“Why’s that.” 

“When - when someone like Victor, someone important dies… it’s more of a business meeting, than a funeral. When his father was killed, they didn’t even have someone there to give a sermon.”  

The Lieutenant grunts in frustration, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb. 

“I could have them come to the estate in Kastovia,” you suggest sheepishly, now so surreally disconnected from your situation that it has begun to feel to you like you’re discussing the plot to a film. 

He scoffs at that, Riley, with an air of spiteful disgust. “Another one?” 

“It was - it was a gift, from Victor. He’d send me there when h-he had business I wasn’t allowed to be home for,” you ponder, barely murmuring. “It would make sense for me to go there after, after everything.” 

“Fine.” He retorts flatly. “Kastovia it is.” 

“Right, then,” the Captain muses, evidently enthused, satisfied with how the strategy has so far unfolded. “The Lieutenant will act as one of your hired guards. He’ll keep a close eye on you. And he speaks plenty of Russian, don’t you Riley, so he’ll fit right on in.” 

“No, he-” you interject dryly, but insistently, “...his Russian is bad. If he talks, they’ll know.” 

The Scotsman snorts at that, chuckling and shooting a mocking glance in the Lieutenant’s direction. Riley falls briefly silent, and it leaves you fretting viciously - had you angered him? Will he take that out on you later? You’ll be stuck with him. Only him. Nobody to hold him accountable, and nowhere to run. 

“She’s right,” he instead dismisses, through a grumble, and you let out a small breath of relief. “They’ll pick up on my accent. She’s not even Russian, and she did.” 

The Captain grunts in irritation, rocking his head back with a sigh. “Then, Christ, make up a story about your tongue being cut out. Fuck’s sake. It doesn’t matter, they won’t ask about it. I’m sure you’ve gone through plenty of bodyguards in your day, eh, Mia?” 

You nod restlessly. 

“Good,” the Captain barks, smacking the table with a satisfied hand. “Perfect. Let’s get you ready to go then, eh?” 

You feel your chest close on your ribs, your blood floods to your feet and renders you sick and dizzy. “Now?” You croak, barely, staring vacantly in his direction. 

“Not backing out, are you, love?” He questions, the casual friendliness in his tone belying a clear threat, you can see it in his piercing stare. 

You shake your head desperately, hyperventilating, you swallow dry. “No, no I’m - I’m just, I don’t think I’m ready-”

“‘Course you are,” he encourages you, and you watch as the Scotsman stands, black sack in his fist, he steps uncaringly towards you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll get you home. You just need to be brave, yeah?” 

You whimper, let loose a wet sob, as the sack is crudely tugged over your head, and you are plunged into the violent unknown once more. 

Ghost stays seated, leaning back deep in his chair, sourly thankful that Price had brought the ‘meeting’, as he called it, to a hasty end. He couldn’t stand to see the man feign charity and empathy for a moment longer, watching him leer at you while pretending to be a voice of comfort. Asking how you slept - who the fuck does he think he is? He was the one that had endorsed your beating, after all, he seemed to have no qualms about it then. The fucking hypocrite.  

He watches in resentful silence as Soap grabs you by your arms, his thick hands gripping you wrenchingly tight as he shuffles you through the door. He listens to you whine and cry quietly, to yourself, looks at your bruised and trembling legs as they stumble over each other on your way out of the room. In the lull, he rocks his head back in exasperated fury, glaring at the panelled ceiling and releasing a loud and hoarse sigh from this throat. 

“Not gonna lie,” Gaz grunts, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and plucking out a crumpled box of Richmond cigarettes, “I’m starting to feel bad for her.” 

Ghost scoffs. “Want a cookie, sergeant?” 

“Piss off,” comes Gaz’s quick retort, as he lights the cigarette he holds in the corner of his lips. “Just ‘cause you’re a sociopath doesn’t mean we all are.” 

“Remember what she is, yeah?” Price remarks dully, scooping up the folders and sat phone he had previously left spread across the table. 

“Yeah, yeah, Cap, she’s just a hooker,” Gaz mocked, groaning, “you’re not as chivalrous as you think you are, eh?” 

“God’s sake, Gaz,” Price grouses, lips twisting in a disapproving curl under his dense moustache. “Nothing to do with that. She’s a fuckin’ oligarch and she’s a terrorist. Don’t forget that.”

“Don’t you get the vibe she had nothing to do with any of it?” Gaz asks, cynicism in his tone. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ghost cuts in, flat and hostile. “She married a warlord. Whatever happens to her now is her own fault.” 

Gaz snorts, shooting a scornful glance at Ghost before turning to the Captain. “You really gonna let this guy take the mission alone with her?” He asks derisively. 

“Ghost has the right attitude,” Price dismisses. “You feel guilty, you get attached, the whole fuckin’ mission shits the bed.” 

“If you think she’s a terrorist, why’d you offer to send her back to England, eh?” Gaz interrogates, punctuating his doubt with a drag of his cigarette. 

Ghost looks down at his hands as they knot into a single fist, and Price releases an awkward huff; an indignant silence between them seems to answer Gaz’s question. 

“You’re not serious,” he spits, agog at the realisation, “are you fucking serious?” 

“She’s a war criminal, as far as we know,” Price says, close to a murmur. “It’d be a threat to national security.” 

“Jesus,” Gaz vents, rubbing his jaw with tense fingers. “You’re both sick.” 

Ghost involuntarily clenches his jaw, gritting teeth. He didn’t consider himself as lying when he told you that they could get you a passport and send you home. If you succeed, if you prove your loyalty - he is sure that would convince Price that you are worthy of rescue. 

Rescue, he curses at himself - as if you need rescue. As he said, he reminds himself, you made your bed and now you are lying in it. You’re so good at it, clever girl, at twisting their impressions of you, at wringing pity from them by fluttering your eyes and letting loose your sparkling tears. Your bruises must hurt, he’s sure, but they must only help you, now - you can brandish them and whimper like a beaten puppy, you can whine and beg for comfort and protection. 

He tells himself, demands himself, not to fall for it. You had already swindled him once, tricking him into bringing you water and clothes by sitting naked and shaking on the floor of your cell. You just looked so wounded, so defeated, so desperate… 

“You keep her hopes up, won’t you, Simon?” Price orders apathetically. 

Ghost nods silently, running his tongue along his teeth. 

“And if she gets herself caught - leave her with ‘em. Get yourself out of there, they’ll take care of her.” 

There’s a sordid silence as Ghost glowers jadedly out of the window, watching the dark clouds of an encroaching snowstorm roll closer across the low-lying sky. 

He huffs. “Yes sir.” 

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

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.”  

Stellar Behavior 💜 Part 3

“It's not the price of anything or a deal. Just let me eat you out again.”

PAIRING: Officer!Yoongi x Mafia (f)reader

SUMMARY: Yoongi needs you again, and you strike a deal. This time, you don't ask for any favors, though. Now what?

WORD COUNT: 5.9k

GENRE: Gangster AU, Law AU, enemies to lovers, smut

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: corruption, power dynamics, mentions of crimes, guns, knifes, semi-public sex, fingering, oral (f rec), masturbation (both), caught having sex, unprotected sex, switching, bratty, hate sex...

A.N. Ignore the excuse for steamy hot sex... Again, infinite thank yous to @moonleeai and @downbad4yoongi for working through my crazy and being incredible! Enjoy 🔥🔥

Masterlist | Masterpost | AO3 | Wattpad | < Previous Chapter | Next Chapter >

Yoongi threw the package of gum across the desk, ignoring it when it fell to the floor of his office. It was empty, again, and his fingers were twitching with how much he needed a fix. He huffed; as if quitting smoking fucking mattered.

His last promotion so many months back had not come without its challenges. His bosses knew how difficult his cases were, but after he saved Officer Jimin, they chose him for the job. He heaved a deep breath and pressed his eyes beneath his eyeglasses; the problem was that he wasn't the one who actually fixed it then, and he didn't have a way to fix things now.

He thought about you more often than he'd care to admit. Initially, he thought you had infected him. How else was it that he thought of you for no reason, got boners at random times just remembering something about you, or couldn't jerk off without thinking of you?

It was all because he was lust-crazed the last time you were together. He shouldn't have succumbed to it and given you what you wanted, but he was thinking with his dick. That was it. He didn't know he could act like that, but he guessed you did that to him. So he shouldn’t have been intimate with you or let it get to his fucking head, let alone have your name written across his cock for months for no reason. He was an idiot, but no one else got him going. And so he had given you everything you wanted.

He held his end of the deal once he checked the address you gave him. It was easy to get a warrant since witnesses were placing key directors of the conglomerate in that area, and in a second, everything had gone down. Like wildfire spreading, the amount of incriminating evidence found in that gambling house was still turning heads months later. It was a win for the department, a success with the public, and it affected a long chain of people in power, from managers to politicians. Once again, Yoongi was seen as the face of justice, and he was left uneasy about it.

He had used the flash drive well, but first, he asked his team to investigate its contents. He was done with being your puppet; you were as bad as the people you were helping put away. How the hell had you gotten that info? You had a reputation regarding information, but still. What did you know? And how did you know it?

Unfortunately, he couldn't find anything. All he had were suspicions and gut feelings, but that wasn't much of a case. Still, he'd get to the bottom of it. He'd find your dirty little secrets, and not because he wanted to have something on you like you had on him. Not because he wanted to blackmail you, but to level the playing field.

The problem was that he needed you again. He handled his cases fairly well, but a drug operation had just gone south. The undercover agent who infiltrated to bust the biggest net of distribution in Seoul had just died in a shootout, and they couldn't even recover the body because the dealers took him with them. The family needed to be informed, and without their son to bury, it was bound to be a huge problem. It didn't matter that Yoongi took over the operation a couple of months ago; his head would roll, and he wouldn't be able to bring peace to the lost agent or his family. He sighed and pressed his eyes; his failure he could handle, but not leaving the grieving family like this.

So he got up, left his office, and crossed the parking lot to his car. He worked at a more prominent building now, but the road was the same one as he drove to Aether. He couldn't think of anyone else who could help, and you had always come through. Maybe you knew where his body was or how to get to him, or any other information that could help. It didn't hurt to try, even for a price.

The sly smiles you gave him popped into his mind, but he stayed focused. That wouldn't happen again, and this was bigger than him. This was about doing the right thing again, and you'd surely understand.

He was surprised when the security at the Aether recognized him and instantly let him in without checking him. As he followed a member of the club's staff down a familiar path, he considered that he had only been there once, so that had to be your doing.

Before he could think further about it, he was stepping into your office with the door closing behind him. You were wearing a white shirt with a couple of buttons open and had your hair up in a messy bun, sitting at your desk working at your computer as if you had a simple office job. You stayed focused, typing whatever you needed before waving for him to take a seat. His eyes traced every detail of your focused expression. You looked healthy and glowing, focused on your work, and he wondered if things were working out for you.

“My, you look stiff, Chief,” you commented, taking a glance at him before wrapping up whatever was taking your full attention from him. Your smile had a hint of mischief, and it was a relief. “In need of a drink? Must be, after the whole drug mess and agent down ordeal.”

His shoulders softened, “I need your help.”

You straightened your shoulders, “Why would I help you?”

“Because there must be something you want.”

Silence stretched between you as you both just eyed each other. Neither one gave away what was running through your minds, and he decided to wait quietly. He could overthink this — excuse himself for calling you greedy and/or letting you think he meant it sexually — or wait for your spirited self to run the show.

He was certain about waiting, thus having time to adjust to you, and yet you scrunched your nose slightly and looked away when a notification popped up on the screen. It made him feel uneasy in your presence for the first time, and he decided to change his approach. He was coming to you for help; the least he could do was make it interesting for you, too.

“I thought it could be in your interest as well,” he restarted, sitting comfortably. “They're stepping into your territory, no?”

“I'm not in the drug market.”

“But you want to be.”

His heart started racing, and he cursed you in his mind. Did you want him to chase you? To plead and beg like before? Did you have to look so effortlessly breathtaking doing it?

The corners of your lips twitched, and it was the only hint of the familiar mischievousness he was used to. You stayed quiet as you considered things, even eying the paperwork on your desk in front of you for a moment.

He wondered if he should say something else when you finally said, “If I help you bust their network and get your agent, you'll let me take some of their product.”

He pursed his lips, “If I bust them, I'll already be helping you with a competitor.”

“But without immediate product, I won't be able to control the market and distribute it safely,” you shrugged, and he was mesmerized. You were doing business, and he shouldn't be that entranced, but he was. “Trust me, that's the only right way of doing it. Otherwise, the small fries will start selling bad products and have people sick and overdosing on your streets.”

He knew his answer but insisted anyway, “And my agent?”

“He's been moved to one of their warehouses where coincidentally they have their ‘clinic’,” you used your fingers to quote, then pressed your lips. “They'll dump him somewhere soon.”

He nodded. That was one of his fears. They needed to get rid of the body so as not to be incriminated, and he needed to get to him before they did something irreversible.

“What can you do?”

You hummed, “Addresses and names. But we'll need to coordinate when you raid them so some products can slip through the cracks. Except for that particular warehouse, you should go there as soon as possible.” 

“We have a deal.”

You reached for a sticky note and scribbled before giving it to him. “I can arrange for people to support your operation quietly in a couple of hours.”

He caught the sticky note, rolling it in his fingers. “I can't do it that quickly.”

You nodded and asked for the paper again, then added something under it before returning it. “My private number. Use a burner and let me know.”

He took the note and looked at it nonchalantly, but his teeth still nipped his bottom lip. Why was he getting that excited? It wasn't a date. It meant absolutely nothing. And yet, he felt giddy when he looked at you getting back to your paperwork. He wanted to jump from the chair and—

“Was there anything else?”

You asked, looking up from the documents as though you were surprised he was still there.

He pressed his lips, “Just… We made a deal.”

“Yes.”

“And I guess I didn't leave you wanting like last time.”

You sat back and gave him your full attention again, though your typical mischief was nowhere to be found.

“Are you trying to say you expected a sexual favor?”

“Yes.”

You scoffed, “Well then, shouldn't you be happy there isn't one?”

He didn't respond and just evaluated your reaction. Were you upset with him? Why weren't you teasing him relentlessly for even bringing it up? Were you no longer interested? But then, why did you sound just a little bit annoyed? Was he reading into it too much, or could he just already read you?

He got up and put the paper inside his jacket pocket before taking it off and leaving it on the chair. You observed him and straightened even more against your office chair when he circled the desk to get to you.

“I didn't request anything,” you reiterated.

“I know,” he answered calmly, turning your chair to him.

“I'm not threatening you either,” you added, your eyebrows furrowing slightly in confusion.

He looked down at where he knew your knife would be and nodded, “You're not.”

You looked up at him, almost flabbergasted, “So what is it? Or do you just want to hear praise or something—”

“Thought you'd tease me about it,” he admitted, then moved to his knees because standing and forcing you to look up didn't seem natural.

You pressed your lips, “There's nothing to tease. You gave me exactly what I asked for.”

From that angle, you looked even more powerful, almost majestic. His brain was really wired wrong because instead of happily leaving through the door, he wanted to touch you.

But he wouldn't until he understood, “And there's nothing else you want?”

“There is,” you didn't hesitate, almost making him smile. But he didn't because you didn't seem at ease.

“Then ask.”

“There's no need.”

“And if I want you to?”

“Why would you want that?”

Your suspicion was plain in your light frown, and he took a moment to think it over, “Because we should celebrate. We're doing something good.”

You tilted your head, “We're saving your ass.”

He rolled his eyes; it wasn't just that, and you knew it. “And that's also a good thing. So let's enjoy it.”

“You’re already going to pay me for—”

“It's not the price of anything or a deal. Just let me eat you out again.”

Your eyes widened, “What?” 

Your stupefied look wasn’t enough for him to back down nor to think closely about what he was doing. He looked down at your legs, covered above the knee by a raised skirt with golden floral patterns. Every ticking second increased his eagerness, no matter how patient and composed he seemed. He could already see his long fingers indenting the flesh of your thighs, and he could almost remember the exact scent between them, too; it made him dizzy with want.

“You just…” You started, tilting your head slightly again, drawing his eyes up. “Want to give me head… to celebrate?”

He hummed, licking his lips subconsciously, and you blinked. It took you a second, but a crooked smile pulled your lips, and you spread your legs. You exuded a snobbish nonchalance that almost annoyed him. Still, there was a clear invitation in your actions that he prioritized over anything that could stop him from getting what he wanted.

His fingers gripped your outer thighs gently as he moved in, nuzzling your soft skin with a deep breath. He could have forgotten why he wanted to be that close in the months that passed, but taking in your sweet scent, he chose to forget everything else instead. The fact that he shouldn’t do this, that he didn’t have to, the cameras, the time and place; none of it mattered. There was no use in letting the disgust or frustration disrupt the moment he’d finally attained what he had fantasized about for so long. His teeth and tongue teased you gently, earning your hand in his hair, and he sighed, relaxed. Just for a little while, he’d admit he wanted it and grasp it all.

Still, he moved slowly, or as slowly as he could in his urge. His deft fingers dragged the hem of your skirt slowly back while he feasted on the sight being revealed, an inch at a time. His tongue kept circling over your sensitive skin, yearning for what he knew would soon be unveiled, and your deepening breath only made his hunger stronger. Your nails were grazing the back of his head, massaging his scalp in waves as if you wanted to pull him closer and urge him to move faster. He could only agree with you, but there was a sweet torture in making you both long for it.

“Is it the humiliation, Chief?”

Your voice was a wanton breath that had him sinking his teeth just a little more while he finally revealed what was under your skirt.

“No,” he murmured back, voice taken. 

Why were you not wearing any underwear? He could have asked, but the question slipped from his mind. One second he was taking in the view of your glistening slit, juicy just for him with barely a touch; the next, he was jumping forward, springing on his heels to press his face to your core as hard as he could to taste you.

His tongue darted out, spreading over your lips to open them, tasting and collecting as much of your wetness as possible, and you moaned. He heard it; you didn’t mean to, but you wiggled on your chair to give him better access and intensify those sensations, melting you, releasing even more of you for him to taste.

He could have made you work for it, but he was thirsty and, like a junkie, addicted. Every drop made him forget himself and crave the next, and when it came, it reminded him why he wanted it all to begin with. You were a force of nature, reacting to him like the perfect storm — quaking above him, breathing heavily with your voice etched quietly to the little wheezes, trembling with your legs firm around his head. He sighed, nuzzling your clit greedily. After longing for you for months, your taste had finally invaded his mouth, and along with your scent, he was drowning. A sigh of contentment escaped his lips — he had reached paradise.

Your thighs clenched around his head, and he tried to prevent you from pushing him away by holding onto you tighter, but the arms of your office chair were making things difficult.

He was displeased but had to move away and breathe, “Stay still.”

“Yoongi…”

Your voice was broken, and your flushed, desperate expression twisted his guts unexpectedly. In a second, he rose to his feet and grabbed your arms, yanking you to stand up before dragging you with him. You didn’t offer resistance, pliable to him, just like last time. 

He placed you in front of the smoked glass overseeing the dance floor of Aether just below, and you extended your arms to support yourself on it. Instantly, his lips latched onto the back of your neck, right under your messy bun. Your moan gave him goosebumps, and he didn’t stop, tracing your curves with big, open hands while suckling your skin. 

You drove him crazy. Last time, you were sitting above him, pleasuring yourself on his face like you owned him, and now, you were letting him position you and touch you to his heart’s content. He wanted to get on his knees so you’d grind on his face, but he also craved leading you to the state you were in right now, at your utmost vulnerability, letting him do as he pleased.

But all he wanted to do was get more. Like an alcoholic downing a drink after a long drought, he craved more of you with every inch he touched, whiff he took, and flavor he swallowed. Even with you vulnerable in his arms like that, he didn’t want to subdue you or take advantage — quite the opposite.

He kneeled and moved to slot himself between your parted legs and the glass. He yanked the skirt back up to have unrestrained access before licking and biting your mound while his fingers traced a slow, maddening trail up your legs. You groaned above him, and he was lost again, needing more of your voice just like that.

He gripped your ass, pulling you flush to his face with his lips brushing your clit. You jolted, searching for something more than a fleeting touch, and he groaned. The more you gave him, the more he wanted; there was no holding back.

“Look,” he whispered, looking up at you. Your open lips, graciously letting your quiet whimpers out, trembled, and he nuzzled your bikini line. Your scent intensified his crazed desire, but he insisted, “Look at them.”

You did, as one hand of his kept you in place, grabbing your ass cheek, and the other disappeared between your legs. He observed you, taking in how you gasped when his digits sunk inside, widening your eyes at the unsuspecting crowd. It set his nerve endings on fire the way you whimpered softly above him while your slick slid down his fingers as he pressed inside your velvet flesh. It was why he needed more, coaxing you with his hooked fingers to see where he could take you.

Your whimpers became inconsistent, and not even a thumb rubbing your clit made you fall into the rhythm. On the contrary, you kept tightening, moaning, and yet he could sense the note of annoyance in your tone. His eyes and mouth were on you, licking the soft spot where your leg met your mound, and he wondered what more could you possibly want. 

He knew you were close; he had obsessed over the little signs of your peak, and he was seeing them now: your lip tucked between your teeth as you fought rolling your head back while moans slipped from your throat. And yet, you weren’t letting it happen. Why?

The answer came when you grasped his hair between your fingers and pulled him to the right spot. You forced him there while you humped his face, pressing his head to the glass, and a smile crept on his face. Your moans became desperate as you viciously chased your climax on his mouth, and the euphoria lit his head like fireworks. He didn’t know why, but you taking what you wanted from him was so fucking hot, his hard cock was aching inside his pants.

It didn’t take long for you to find the perfect friction, and he helped by suckling. The moment your clit slotted between his lips and he sucked hard, you tried to move but it was too late. He heard it in the pitch of your moan, the way you cowered over him against the glass, and the faint grind as you trembled against his mouth. You were heavenly— like a godsent delicacy, your orgasm only accentuated your taste, your divinity, and like a fool, he couldn’t resist.

You pulled away. He knew that moment would come, and perhaps that was why his tongue had been restless. Even during your aftershocks, he still searched for more, licking your cum off your swollen lips like an opportunistic slob. Yet, he relented when you moved back and stayed kneeling to give you space, removing only his head from the glass. 

His dick was throbbing in his pants, crying for attention and relief, but his mind was somewhere else. His hungry eyes stayed on you as he wiped his chin, and you composed yourself. He had what he wanted. Of course, he’d have more if he could, but a part of him expected you to tell him to leave now that you were satiated. It would both anger him and amuse him if it were the case, so he was anticipating what would happen next.

“Sit down.”

He almost jolted, confused. He was already kneeling—

“Sit,” you insisted more firmly, pointing at your office chair.

You walked over and perched yourself on the desk, facing the chair between you two, and suddenly, he thought that maybe it wasn’t over yet. He got up and did as you asked, spreading his legs to accommodate his hard dick. It wasn’t a hint. He wasn’t able to think that far. All he could do was look at you, already so tranquil, when he wanted to mess you up all over again.

“Pull your dick out.”

He burned from the inside out, taking seconds to comply with a muted eagerness. He remembered you saying that last time all too well, and the thought of you using him again got him so excited his fingers were shaking.

“Grab it,” you said, and he did, fighting to keep his eyes open to look at you. 

You were observing every move of his long fingers, and you surely didn’t miss how his cock was weeping. Your tongue peeked out between your lips as he spread it over the tip, and the sight was enough for him to release more. His balls tensed, still tucked tight inside his pants as his whole body screamed for release. Wouldn’t you put him out of his misery?

“Show me,” you demanded, licking your lips, and he almost groaned. His plea must have been clear in his eyes because you bit your lip. “Show me how you work your cock.”

His palm moved down his length, and he shook his head. He needed to feel you, to touch you, to have you on his lap, moaning with every plunge of his hard cock inside you, and yet you changed everything. You just had to ask for something, and he instantly did it, like a puppet entranced by your charms. Not even the principles he upheld withstood; there was only them or you, and you were undeniable.

Doing what you asked had its dangers, but having your full attention was worth it. Your dark eyes were boring into his, drinking the sight of him fisting himself on your chair like you were equally hypnotized. Fortunately for Yoongi, jerking off meant controlling how soon he’d blow, and he could edge himself all night if it meant having the chance of you riding him.

He didn’t count on you opening your shirt slowly, pushing each button through its eyelet, working your way from top to bottom as though the fabric bothered you. But the more you revealed, the harder it was to stay put. Your unblemished skin looked appetizing, smooth, begging to be licked, bitten, shown the meaning of want. Your breasts, tucked inside your bra, looked too constrained for his taste. He knew what your round breasts looked and tasted like, and he was on the verge of begging for the chance to touch them. He could drive you crazy, he wanted to, and—

He held his breath and slowed his hand, taking you in like a mirage. You squeezed your tits over the bra, moaning under your breath before those same hands moved lower to pull your skirt up. Your legs spread, and he almost jumped, the sight of your slick dripping ever so slightly a pure taunt that he wanted to follow through. But your hand moved down to rub your clit, and he groaned. 

You were driving him fucking insane. He could have pumped his cock a bit harder and come, but why the fuck would he when your wet heat was right there? He wanted it, and you, and your tantalizing scent and sensual moans, and—

It was so subtle he almost missed it. While one hand worked your clit and another had fun gripping your chest, your head fell back to breathe heavily, and your feet dangled in his direction before settling. It might have been nothing, but he didn’t need much; he rolled the chair forward slowly, almost imperceptibly. When he was close, he reached his free hand to brush your shin, and you let him. You raised your foot to his lap, and it was all he needed to hold onto you.

He grabbed your leg, tracing it up to settle it, and soon did the same to the other. Then, he didn’t know what happened, only that he was hungry. He touched up your leg, feeling your outer thigh and leaning forward in doing so. This prompted you to breathe heavily and lean into him too, reaching for his head in a familiar motion that had him jumping at the opportunity to finally lick your chest.

You supported the back of his head as he buried his face between your tits, licking and nibbling your flesh mindlessly. Your bra was in the way, so he pulled it down bluntly to access your nipples, and you whimpered. Your breathing was ragged as he suckled, refusing to stop his bites even when you pulled on his hair.

His hand was hitting yours with each pump around his cock, but it only riled him up more. You weren’t stopping, as crazed as him with all that lust. This certainty relaxed him, and when you pulled his head again, he let you guide it.

He found your neck and sucked viciously, groaning into it and trying not to come. You had a scent to you, which mixed with every sweet whimper, made it hard to not find a way to shove himself deep into your embrace. Instead, he focused on kissing and nuzzling up your jaw, and you whimpered, grabbing the hair at the back of his head, but not to turn him away.

You pulled him closer, and his lips grazed the corner of your mouth. He slowed, tentatively leaning to reach the same spot, and you left him despite your hold on him. He nuzzled your cheek and tried again, and you almost met his mouth, and it was the breaking point. You lost your patience and pulled him in to crash your mouths together, pushing your tongue between his lips to create a wild struggle.

Kissing you was everything he thought it was — feral, spicy, dangerous, and sweet. Your tongue was aggressive, mapping his mouth like you owned him, and fighting you back was addictive. He matched you with savage licks, pressing himself hard to you until you needed both hands to grab him close, and so did he.

He grabbed your hair between his fingers, keeping you locked in his kiss, while the other pulled you flush to him. You were breathless but unrelenting, and he shared in that hunger, licking and nipping your lip at the slightest chance. 

Your legs wrapped around him, and his cock brushed your core, reminding you there was a way to make it all derail, and you took it. You felt the gun on his shoulder holster pressing to your inner thigh, but it only made you throb and want it harder. He had felt the knife on your garter and had left it there, too. You could use it, and that was part of the thrill. He could use it too, or his gun, or his beautiful long fingers around your neck, and you gushed between your legs. 

You scrambled between savage kisses to grab his cock and aim it straight at your core, and he tried getting rid of his pants. Yoongi could do all that, but he wouldn’t, and the power it gave you was inebriating. He was also an agent of the law, someone you despised on principle, which made the way he fucked you so much sweeter. Like two polar opposites, you were drawn to be filled by his cock and use your nails on the back of his neck and shoulders to press him to you.

He groaned into your mouth, opening his eyes to see the way your face scrunched up in pleasure. He’d never admit it, but it was enough to drive him to his knees. You were beautiful but looked preciously delicate when the pleasure he gave you loosened all the control you had.

He snapped his hips to push himself further, and you groaned, grabbing his ass cheeks. You were lost as he moved, letting your mouth hang open as he kissed you all over your face and jaw. He also needed to get used to your tight walls challenging his control.

But once he did, he grabbed your hair and pulled it, forcing your chin to raise and your eyes to meet. You clenched around him, and it was the last straw.

“I’ll show you,” he grunted before supporting a hand on your lower back.

It was all he needed to start fucking you without a preamble, and you closed your eyes and let him take over. His grip on you as he pounded into you gave you the liberty to let go and just feel him. He groaned near your ear as he buried his face in the crook of your neck and it was enough to melt you, reveling in the way he used you so well. You didn’t know how a cop could fuck this fucking good, but—

“Boss! You need to—”

“Out!” You shouted, trying to look back at whoever dared to enter your office without fucking knocking, so you knew who to mess up after this. Yoongi hid further in your neck, but he didn’t stop, thank fuck. “Get the fuck out!”

Whoever it was slammed the door closed quickly, and you almost lost your shit. The fucking audacity—

“Nuh-uh,” the grip in your hair forced you to meet his eyes, your fire facing the cool in his dark eyes. “I’m fucking you right now.”

You clenched around him, and a squeeze of his hand around the back of your neck pulled you down to earth. He felt good, too good. Maybe that was why you were on edge, ready to explode in every direction.

He wanted your focus completely on him, and you melting into him wasn’t enough. He released your neck and slid his hand between your bodies, leaning back to change his angle so he could rub your clit, and you jolted. You peered at him between hooded eyes, only to let your head fall back with a deep groan.

He chuckled as you leaned back to take him deeper, trembling with how good it felt. He loved that look on your face.

“Look at you,” he rasped, his grip on your hip so hard, his fingers dug divots into your skin. “So fucked out.”

You looked down and moaned breathlessly, and he could relate. His shaft was glistening, disappearing inside you in a blur as he pistoned into you, and he almost lost composure.

“You’re creaming my cock,” he taunted, slowing down and seeing how you bit your lip and wishing it was him instead. “So fucking greedy.”

“Shut up, you’re one to talk,” your voice wavered, and he laughed. You were upset because his hips slowed, but his fingers circling your clit didn’t. He could see the way you breathed was ragged, an inch away from your climax, and it was the power trip he was looking for.

He smirked, “You’re right, I’m greedy.”

He reached your arms to pull them around his neck, then held your waist down before jump-starting things again. Your legs wrapped around him, and the moans instantly poured from your lips when he began rutting into you again. You could feel it in all the right spots, especially when your clit ground on him with every thrust. The speed was intoxicating, but it wasn’t the most important. Yoongi deserved a medal for managing to stuff you with his cock while humping your clit consistently. At the lack of one, you tried to kiss him, and he bit you. You whimpered, licking your lip to check for blood while he effectively crushed you to him so he could fuck you senseless.

You couldn’t explain it, but it was all you needed — consistency, an anchor, and the fucking duality of that cop drilling you to oblivion. Finally, when your orgasm sparked, you sank your nails into his shoulders and screamed, and he only embraced you tighter, as if holding onto you. Him grounding you only accelerated your climax; you were like the fuse of a firework, consumed in a split second.

You writhed in his arms as the height of pleasure shook you, but he pressed you down on his cock as if to feel every throb around him. His groan followed closely after, adding a second pulse deep inside you to your clenching. You stopped breathing so you could feel it and hear him, hooked on everything. His damp skin under your lips, his chest heaving against yours, his fingers indenting the flesh of your ass — every sensation contributed to an afterglow that was more sparkly.

So when he pulled back to look at you, with flushed cheeks, disgruntled hair, and the absolutely most exquisite face you had ever seen, you laughed. 

He wasn’t bothered and stayed still while you threw your head back and let the laughter shake your shoulders, “We probably fucked up all my paperwork.”

He looked down and noticed the papers under your ass. Considering how wet you were and how he had just pumped you full of cum, it was safe to say you were right.

“I’ll help you,” he said before he could think, pulling away. 

You groaned quietly, then jumped to your feet, unbothered by the way you were so close, there was barely any air between you two. “Don’t worry, take your time.”

You walked away and composed your clothes and hair casually as he tucked his dick back inside his pants with his eyes trained on you.

“I need to handle whatever that was,” you said, pointing at the door. Then, with a crooked smile, you tapped his jacket on the chair and said, “Don’t forget your jacket.”

You left without as much as a wave, and he heaved a deep breath. There you went again—

He glanced down and recognized a name on one of your papers. He made sure you weren’t at the door, then took a closer look, and his breath caught.

the eros project ➳ kim taehyung AU

summary | You didn’t expect to actually fall for someone in a reality dating show. Then Kim Taehyung came along and you had to battle between your feelings and what this show was actually about.

warnings | realty star! Taehyung, reality star!Y/n, pining, make out, exhibitionism, pool sex (oral m), SMUT insecure Taehyung, jealousy, a little of Jungkook, angry sex, face sitting, deep throat, safe sex, rough sex, doggy, missionary

“Welcome to a new world of Love and Desire where we strive in providing you the rawest form of intimacy in an authentic environment. Our goal is to see if you can find your perfect match while still living a normal life. Here at Erotes Headquarters we wish you the best luck to all you singles!”

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