Hello, hello! I'm Ghoul(they/them) and I write fic, like a lot of fic. This is my Directory
I write in second person(you) so all of my fic can be read as x reader, and you can think of any callsigns/nicknames as your own. However, my fic is technically x oc, if that's not for you no problem! I don't include descriptions or names in any of my fics.
I am an adult writing stories about adults for adults, and so Minors and Ageless Blogs Do Not Interact
I do not give consent for my work to be used in ai, be that ai chats or ai writing. This is a hard boundary I will not budge on.
Buy me a Ko-fi! And check out my ao3
Here I am on bluesky!
COD AUs
Cowboys
Fae
Demons
Ballet
Historic Aus
Sin Summer
Ghost!Ghost
Regency Au
Cyberpunk Au
The Ghost Distribution System
Professor Au
I want the Darlings
Sugar Daddy!Hesh
SCP-141
Shining Au
The Price of Fire
Alone on the Holidays?
Hephaestus!Nikto
The Doll Au
Cult Au
Monstober 2025
FAQ:
Can I write Fic with your OCs?
Yep! Just tag me in it if you post it.
Can I tell you about an OC I have for [insert au]?
Of course! OC talk is always open, but posting is contained to the morning.
Can I draw you OCs?
Yes. BUT I try to keep their descriptions vague so people can use them as Reader inserts, so I might not post/reblog it if you submit/post the art.
Do you take requests?
Sort of. If you have thoughts I'd love to hear them and if they inspire me I'll write something, but it might not be exactly what you requested. I tend to use asks as jumping off points rather than direct requests.
Do you cross post to anywhere else?
Yup! My ao3 account is actualPrincess
Could you make a character AI for [insert character or au]?
No. I absolutely abhor ai and hope it crashes and burns before it does any more damage to art and creativity. Role-Play in a discord server like an adult.
Do you have a list of your OCs anywhere?
Yup. Here you go!
Ghoul's Hozier Bullshit
Pillow Princess Ghost
those who plagiarize my work or harass me will be met with misfortune :)
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I'll be honest, I did the rounds before settling in. I tried a couple of the names everyone mentions, candy.ai and ourdream.ai among them, and they're fine in their own right. But when it came to actually designing a companion who felt like she came out of my own head, SweetDream was the one that kept pulling me back. The character creation just goes further.
On sweetdream.ai you're shaping everything that matters, the appearance, the personality, the little quirks, the voice, the backstory that gives her context. And it doesn't stop at setup. The chat is remarkably natural and emotionally tuned, it remembers what you've shared, and the AI-generated photos and videos look beautiful. There are even voice messages and human-sounding calls when you want to hear her.
What sealed it for me was how private and discreet the whole thing stays. Building an AI girlfriend feels personal, and it should stay personal. If you're weighing your options for an AI companion, do what I did, try a few, then build something on SweetDream and see why it's hard to leave.
reminder that the books themselves also suck ass actually. there's an entire plotline endorsing slavery. the one character who advocates to end slavery is bullied and made fun of. the one slave who doesnt like being enslaved is bullied and treated as an outcast. the bankers are the picture of racist stereotypes of jewish people. the one asian character is named fckn Cho Chang. the worldbuilding SUCKS. fuck harry potter and fuck rowling. stop giving her your money.
This is all true, but we need to talk about how to explain JK Rowling to normies who aren't in any of the circles where JK Rowling's awful choices are discussed regularly. How do you talk to someone who, if you mention Harry Potter, says, "Oh, I really liked those books" or "Oh, I really liked those movies?" and get them to understand what a shitstain she is without seeming to just be calling THEM names for saying they liked something?
Yes, she mocks rape victims. She threatens litigation against the mildest criticism against her. She has created an LGB group to make it so very clear that trans people are not welcome where she gives money. She is the funding behind Scotland saying trans women aren't legally women. The list goes on.
But. I promise you, 99% of the people around you don't know she's done any of this because they aren't following her social media or stories about her. To them, she is just the author of those fun wizard books. You gotta talk about how she's SO WEIRD and ISN'T IT SAD.
You need to tell the normies how she uses the funds from all her payout agreements for ALL Harry Potter licensing, including the re-release of these movies.
"It's so fucking weird. It's so fucking off-putting. It's so fucking sad." Say that over and over. Don't try to tie it into larger ideas. This is not how people will listen. "Isn't it just fucking sad she has all this money that could go to literacy or scholarships, and she's using it to attack people who are just living their lives? What a weird fucking choice."
We need to out-Morbius Morbius in terms of this tanking, and the way you do that is talk to normies about how fucking WEIRD and RUDE she is. How ODD that the second Fantastic Beasts movie gave a "actually, fascism isn't too bad" vibe all the way through and especially at the end. How she has complained that the child actors from those movies particularly don't agree with her views on trans people and that she's publicly said that's why she wanted a new show.
What a WEIRD thing to say about child actors you worked with over a decade ago. It's so WEIRD she would care that those child actors have different opinions than her. It's really SAD she apparently has no hobbies except posting on social media about how she hates trans people. A beloved author who could be using her name to raise money for animal rescues and homeless people and all sorts of really great causes that could improve people's lives, and she's out here doing THIS? It just bums me out. I just can't support someone who uses their money to harass and harm other people like this. I don't know WHY she acts like this or WHY she's chosen to make it her whole personality, but it just makes it really hard for me to want to support any Harry Potter stuff, even when I loved it so much. Knowing any money made from that franchise goes into her pocket to just pour out onto orgs and laws that tell adults they can't just live their lives and be left alone is WEIRD.
And then say what you're gonna be doing instead. You know, I'm going to go and find some new fantasy books at the library. I'm going to boardgame day down at the game store. I'm going to a stitching group. I'm going to host a 1980s fantasy fest at my place; do you have any favorites you recommend? We should have a film fest where we watch all the movies that scared the shit out of us as kids.
If the normie goes, "Well, I'm going anyway," say, "Okay," and change the subject. If they try to justify because you clearly aren't into their decision, don't let them. "Hey, do whatever you want. I'll be [doing whatever you said you'd be doing." And then change the subject again. You don't have to threaten to cut someone off or yell at them or say they're terrible. They have to make the decision on their own, but you can make your point in a way that hopefully resonates and also refuse to back down but also refuse to absolve them.
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Of the many things you've said about your lieutenant, ghost, never once would you have expected to say he's...shockingly good with babies.
"Hey lil' man," ghost coos to the baby sat in his lap, happily chewing on the ear of a snoopy plush with a tiny fist wrapped around ghosts pinky. "Having fun? Thinking up some big things, I'm sure."
It looks comical how small a normal, healthy baby looks in his lap. Little arms waving absolutely while it turns to look at ghosts unmasked face. Baby doesn't cry, only stares up at ghost before exclaiming "ahh!! Babbfaaahh!!"
Ghost, he only laughs and holds baby up in his palms so baby can touch all over his scarred face. Little excited "ah ah ah"s and random giggling interspersed whenever ghost pulled a funny face.
"Smart fella, ain't you?" Ghost snorts, sets baby back down to chew on snoopy. He's got this soft, sappy expression on his face. Looks so natural with a baby in his arms. You can't help but snap a few photos.
Next time you baby sit, you'll ask your cousin about letting the twins stay over. You have a strange feeling ghost would love a princess fairy teaparty.
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john price who buys a plot of land and moves west, only to arrive after weeks on the trail and find a ramshackle little cabin already squatting on it. the whole place looks abandoned. reeks of neglect. he draws his gun and ventures in for a look anyway, see if he can’t at least salvage the place to build his own—and scares its lone resident, a woman armed only with a knife.
though it takes some time, skittish as you are, he talks you down. learns who you are and what you’re doing on his property. apparently, you’ve been fending for yourself for months after your new husband took your horse into town for supplies and simply never came back. no letter or body, nor word from anybody who might’ve seen him—just a house that’s falling apart and a garden you depend on to keep you alive.
price shows you the deed and bill of sale to convince you he isn’t some drifter or swindler trying to trick or rob you, and watches the fight go out of you when you realize what the papers actually mean, that the land was never your husband’s to begin with. that this stranger has every right to put you out.
you were frightened before, but now you’re looking at winter coming on with no horse, hardly any money, nowhere to go, and truly no one left in the world. and price, who’s spent his life living hard and thought that he’d spend the back half of his life alone, finds he can’t stomach the sight of you standing there trying not to beg him mercy.
he looks at the growing calluses on your palms, the dirt under your fingernails, and the dried mud caked along the hem of your skirts, and he is struck. all those violent, bloody years he survived when better men did not? this must be what he’s been kept alive for. to come all this way to this slice of heaven and find you here.
so he strikes a bargain instead: you can stay through the next month while you decide what you want to do. in the meantime you’ll help him make the place livable and he’ll teach you what he knows.
you’re not stupid. you know exactly how lopsided a deal it is, how little you have to offer compared to what he’s putting on the table—besides the obvious. he gives you the night to think it over, you toss and turn beneath for hours trying to invent a better alternative, but there simply isn’t one.
in the morning, bleary-eyed and embarrassed, you tell him you accept. john just grins and drains his coffee. to him, the matter was never in much doubt. he puts the two of you to work immediately.
the first few weeks are hard. john tackles the roof and walls first, making you his little helper, calling down for whatever tool he needs next or sending you to fetch whatever materials you can manage. you go to bed and wake up sore, palms blistering in a pair of his old gloves. all the while, john, strong as an ox, seems capable of working from dawn until dusk.
in the afternoons, when the heat makes repair work miserable, he puts you both on his horse and rides double to the nearby lake to teach you to fish. you squirm the first time he makes you gut a trout, nearly retching when the knife opens its belly. john only laughs when you try to shove the whole bloody business back toward him. his big hands close over yours instead, guiding the blade while his chest glues to your back, his voice rumbling in your ear as he chides you for trying to worm your way out of it. can’t live on good intentions, love. go on. get your fingers in there.
he teaches you to shoot next and that’s when you get your first inkling of whatever life he led before he found you. he’s an excellent shot, on foot and horseback. he’s also a good teacher. hands-on. correcting your stance, one wide palm at your waist and the other on your elbow, enduring every flinch of yours until you can fire without shaking. he shows you how to set basic snares and read the ground for tracks. in return, you teach him what grows best in the garden and what you’ve found foraging.
and during those early weeks, you live on edge, waiting for him to ask for more than just a second helping at dinner. because you know enough of the world to know what sort of bargain a woman in your position might ordinarily be expected to make, whether the exact terms are spoken aloud or not.
you hold your breath whenever he squeezes past you in the kitchen and go stiff when his hands squeeze your sides while shooting, steadying you against the recoil. more than once you’ve lain awake listening to the floorboards creak beneath his weight while he stays up late, waiting for him to appear at your bedside. when you bathe in the lake, he stands watch on the bank with his back turned, and though you wait to catch him looking over his shoulder. but, to your honest shock, he never does.
he’s refreshingly gentlemanly. you can’t tell whether he’s honoring the existence of your husband, suspended somewhere in that awful limbo between living and dead, or whether john is simply a patient man biding his time. waiting for the right moment.
whatever the reason, each day that passes without him demanding that certain kind of tender as payment relaxes you just a bit more. your vigilance eases and you stop keeping track of where he is in and outside of the cabin. for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.
as a consequence, the whole situation grows domestic. his razor appears beside your washbasin. his coat hangs beside yours by the door. you start setting two places at breakfast and supper. at night, when there’s oil or wax to spare, you read aloud to each other.
so it comes as a surprise when, near the end of the month, john tells you to put on your best. you’re going into town.
today, apparently, you’re going to finally buy a horse of your own.
you start protesting immediately—you haven’t the money for a horse, your husband carried the bulk of it, you certainly don’t have enough a good one—but john waves all that away. you need one, he insists. can’t have you stranded. and while you’re in town, you can make some inquiries after your husband.
that shuts you up. almost makes you petulant. worse is the stab of shame when you realize you’ve barely thought of the man in weeks. for months, his absence had occupied every waking hour. you would daydream and imagine hoofbeats or footsteps and fly to the window, searching. then john arrived, and at some point, your husband became an afterthought.
in town, john waits patiently while you ask after your husband at the general store, the barber, the blacksmith. he accompanies you into the saloon, standing a few paces behind while you question the bartender and whatever regulars might have been there around the time your husband disappeared. john doesn’t say a word. he watches their faces, thick arms folded across his chest, eyes jumping from face to face beneath the brim of his hat while you explain when your husband left, the horse, and what he looked like.
nobody knows a thing.
in the end, you wilt dutifully. resigned to the fact that he either ran off or that his bones are bleaching in a ditch somewhere on the road. the thought ought to devastate you more than it does, and that brings another little stab of guilt.
john simply plants a hand between your shoulder blades and steers you toward the livery.
there, at least, he manages to cheer you up. he helps you choose a pretty chestnut gelding with a blaze on his forehead and a friendly disposition. john pays for him while you’re busy cooing at the creature, along with a saddle and tack, and when you claim that you’ll pay him back, he merely smiles and says, ‘m sure you will, love.
back home, neither of you mention that your agreement is nearly up. and when the month comes and goes, and neither of you mentions that either.
the timeline simply stretches, one day passing into the next. any sense of urgency gets lost. there’s still work to be done on the cabin, after all. you’re getting better with the rifle but john reckons you’ve plenty left to learn. you’ve only just got your own horse and ought to become a better rider before setting off anywhere alone. then the sun starts setting earlier and the leaves start to change, and really, leaving now would be foolish what with winter so close. you better to stay until spring.
john lays all this out over dinner one night. says it so plainly.
you agree, a mite too eager, and hide your smile behind another bite.
that night, while you sleep curled beneath your blankets, john eases your door open enough to look in on you. he stands there for a long while, listening to your breathing, before slipping a hand into his pocket. his thumb finds the worn band of that wedding ring he picked off a dead man on the road west and toys with it.
he wonders if he ought to pray. john never put much stock in faith or fate before. but what could he call this? finding that failure of a man, then finding the home he’d abandoned and the wife he’d left behind? what else is john supposed to understand it as, if not a series of signs pointing him precisely where he was meant to go? of all the land he might have bought, all the roads he might have taken—what are the chances?
the next day, he takes that dead man’s ring down to the lake and tosses it in. he will buy another the next time the two of you ride into town.
and that night, after weeks of patience, of sneaking off to see to his own wants in private, kicking dirt over his wasted spend, he will finally make his move. he will employ that same slow tenderness he’s shown you from the beginning. he has no reason to believe you won’t welcome it. you won’t shy away. you’ve been alone so long, starved for company, and he’s taught you to reach for him when you need something, hasn’t he?
no, you won’t fight him one bit. you’ll understand better, too, when he’s got you on your back, cock buried deep, drool hanging off your lip—you’ll know that you’re both right where you belong. where you’re meant to be.
and with luck, by the time spring returns, there’ll be more reason for you to stay. maybe his baby in your belly and a new ring on your finger. that bargain of a single month so far behind you both that neither of you will remember there was ever supposed to be an ending to it.
at first you thought he was just out for the day- running errands, meeting friends, buying more spy equipment to hide in your flat- but when he didn't come home that night or even early the next morning, you realized you'd been given an opportunity-
-and you took it without hesitation.
in your mind, you deserve an oscar for the little private performance you gave in your flat. after all- if you're being recorded, there's a likelihood that whenever kyle comes back, he'll want to review the footage. so you went about your day as normal, pretending to stumble upon the camera he'd set up in a light fixture, gasping and acting shocked and terrified when you 'realized' what you were looking at. you made a big show of packing things up in a hurry, calling rental trucks, and breaking your lease with your landlord.
it's not until a day later when you're sitting across the poker table from big d, still buzzing in excitement over getting a clean break from kyle, that you even find out about the austrian.
"been meanin' t'ask," d rumbles around his cigarette, casually tossing a chip into the pot. "is it you we owe thanks to f'solvin' our little kraut problem?"
"what?" you ask vaguely, only half-listening. across the table, elizabeth is trying to decide if she's going to shoot for a full house or settle for her three of a kind, and what you do next depends on her.
"oh, you didn't 'ear?" he asks, wicked grin spreading across his face, and it makes your blood run cold. you know better than to say anything, so you keep staring at your cards like they're going to save you somehow. you're just one card away from a flush, which, depending on what elizabeth does, could help pay the next month's rent in your shiny new flat on the far other side of london.
"gruesome shit." cora mutters beside you, shaking her head- more so at her single pair than the newsreel playing in her head about an austrian immigrant being pushed onto the tracks in the underground. the shock of it steals your breath from your lungs, but you don't show it. you've got far more practice than any of these people when it comes to perfecting your poker face, after all.
"mhm. real nasty shit. 'ard t'say if 'e was pushed or jumped or if the knob'ead just slipped an' fell." d says, audibly pleased about the whole terrible turn of events- although the straight he's working on is definitely contributing to his good mood. he stares at you over his cards, hazel eyes under thick eyebrows locked onto you in a way that you'd find more intimidating if you knew less about what goes on in his head.
go on, birdie. say somethin'. was it you? gimme a tell f'once.
but you don't. instead you stay silent and keep your face schooled into the bored mask that you've perfected at these tables, silently celebrating when elizabeth resigns herself to her three of a kind. it's been a long night already, and you've already decided to leave with your winnings as soon as this round is over.
the call is made and cards hit the table- elizabeth's three of a kind, big d's straight, mitzi's two pair, and your flush. beatrice shakes her head, having folded ages ago with a pitiful single pair, mentally chiding herself, swearing to a god she doesn't really believe in that she's never coming back as you scoop up the chips.
"well, this has been fun, but it's a school night." you tell the table as you make your way to cash out.
"done olready?" d teases, taking one last drag on his stumpy cigarette. "was it somethin' i said?"
you don't bother responding, handing your chips over to be cashed out as you ignore d's rumbling laugh and the nervous thoughts of everyone else at the table.
wait, did she really kill him? was it not an accident? the bloody git seemed upset about being kicked out, i'd assumed he'd up and offed himself. what does big d know that we don't? did they kill him together?
their silent questions follow you up the stairs and onto the main floor of the restaurant you played under tonight, the diner's thoughts eventually drowning them out with complaints about overcooked chicken and gristle in the stew as you make your way to the front door and out onto the street. the air is cooler out here, fresh against your face, and it helps you think as you spiral out a bit about the austrian's fate. you watched the news report in cora's head, but she'd forgotten some details already, and it made everything muddy, blurry, and borderline incomprehensible. you decide to take a taxi home, uncharacteristically avoiding the tube tonight.
you try not to think too hard about why.
it doesn't take too long to get to your lovely new flat with the lovely security guard in the lovely lobby and a lovely series of thick deadbolts on your door. as soon as the last lock is slid into place, you immediately go for your computer and pull up every news story you can find about the austrian immigrant that died in the underground just a few days ago.
it's not sadness that makes your eyes go water or your hands shake. fuck 'hans arschegeige', it's not his death you're emotional about. instead it's the inexplicable system glitch that seemingly turned off all the security cameras on that particular platform at the exact right time that allowed his demise to go completely unrecorded that has you on edge. there's no way to prove it was kyle without getting close to him again, but your gut instincts are screaming that this was his doing. the thought alone is dizzying, really- after all, you knew he was connected enough to get his hands on the surveillance equipment that was hidden in your old flat, but getting the cameras cut in the fucking tubes? that's a level of power you hadn't realized he had, and it makes you feel absolutely ill with fear over having that man's obsessive attention turned your way.
except he's gone now, you tell yourself in a vain attempt to settle your own nerves. he's off on a mission or something, terrorizing someone else very very far away from here- and when he comes back, you'll be gone. he won't be able to find you. the flat's been paid for in cash, you've told no one where you've gone, and you haven't had your mail forwarded. you'll be the one that got away for a while, and then he'll move on and find someone new to obsess about. you just have to be patient, that's all. give it a few months, settle into a new routine, and it'll all be okay. you'll see.
it takes an entire pot of chamomile tea and four valarian root tablets to relax you enough to sleep, and even then you find yourself plagued by nightmares about dark eyes watching you through crowds, unseen and unwanted, as a familiar voice rings out in your mind about how it's only a matter of time, babes. i won't be long now. just wait for me, i'll be there soon.
~
it takes three months to get into a new routine. the new neighborhood takes some time to get used to, but soon enough you find a new favorite coffee shop, a new favorite bookstore, and a new favorite chinese place. the neighbors are quiet enough, their thoughts blissfully mundane, and it almost feels like you can live your life again. no longer do you keep your 'inner ear' open for him when you go out in public, and the panic-induced at-home dye job you gave yourself when you moved into your new flat is starting to show signs of grow out. the mental and emotional terror kyle put you through is nothing more than fodder for your bad dreams anymore- a mere memory of a time when everything was oppressively bad.
every day your paranoia and guilt over the austrian's death grows fainter and fainter, and it almost feels like you can breathe again. sure, you probably should've moved further- to scotland, perhaps, or even america- but breaking into new backroom poker tables is difficult, especially with no one local to vouch for you. and since a regular nine-to-five doesn't appeal at all, so you stick to big d's games, meeting in the backs of laundromats, the cellars of restaurants, the occasional vip suite of a nice hotel. you win just enough to keep your bills paid and accounts fat, and lose just enough to keep from being suspicious- but now it's a little more nerve-wracking, with big d's attention always pointed your direction.
he hasn't said anything to you since that first game after hans' death, but he doesn't need to. you hear it all in his head, the idle curiosity whether it was or wasn't you that pushed the big lunk to his death. the police officially ruled it a suicide, but neither of you buys that. it's just the easiest way to close the book on the case and move on, and you both know that the bobbies are notoriously lazy, especially in cases of immigrant deaths. so d watches you, wondering silently to himself if the big soft card shark sitting across from him really has a killer instinct, or if it's just a coincidence that you'd had a public run-in with the man mere hours before his death.
one night you come home after a series of strategic losses, antsy and unable to sleep. you allowed finn to go on a roll tonight after listening to him worry about paying off his mechanic for some extensive repairs. poor man's been put through the wringer lately, and you figured it was the least you could do, considering that you cheat at every game you've ever played against him. but now you're left with too much pent-up energy, so you do the only thing you can think of- you start to clean.
dishes get done, floors get swept, and you finally tackle the boxes you still haven't unpacked since you moved in, just sitting in the corners, gathering dust. books find homes on shelves, clothes you'd forgotten you owned are moved to closets and drawers, and knick knacks are placed wherever the vibe feels most correct.
it's not until you're sorting through the contents of your go-bag that you find it- your old burner, the one you forgot to dump months ago, with one single contact listed in it. the battery died a long time ago, but a niggling thought raises a small panic: you don't remember if it was turned off when you moved. did it leave a digital trail or tower pings leading right to your new hideout? surely he can't follow a long-dead cell phone to you, can he? is he even home yet? is he pissed? he must be, right? but you were careful, so careful to not leave a trace, to not put anything under your name-
but you still forgot to ditch the burner, didn't you? god knows what else you've forgotten, what little clues and tidbits you left behind in your scrambled panic to run away.
you don't know enough about cell phones or kyle's capabilities to be sure, and the uncertainty sours your stomach as you stare at your horrified reflection in the black screen. you need to get rid of it, you know you do, but there's a curiosity that you just can't shake- if he's back, he'd have texted you, right? and you'll need to know if he's back, won't you? for your safety's sake? but your most paranoid thoughts tell you that you can't turn it on here, that you'll have to take this somewhere far away to recharge.
there's a bar in your old neighborhood that you know has an outlet you can use, and that seems like the best bet. you can plug it in there, check for a message, and then immediately abandon it. the plan is simple enough, but just thinking about it makes your chest feel tight and your palms feel sweaty- but it is, unfortunately, the best idea you can come up with. if kyle's not home, then the last ping of your cell phone will be in your old neighborhood- and if he is back in london, then he'll still be drawn to the wrong neighborhood, plus you'll know to run and stay clear away.
you wait until friday night when the bar is full and it'll be easier to hide in the crowd. you're on high alert, jumpy and paranoid again, nearly startling out of your skin when a drunk woman accidentally stumbles into you, slurring her apologies as she follows her gaggle of friends to the next bar, their heels click-clacking in harmony with each other. you keep looking over your shoulder, listening intently for kyle's thoughts- but there's nothing. not yet.
you're all nerves as you impatiently wait for your phone to get to even 1% battery life, tapping your foot and biting your lip to the point that you're worried you might start tasting blood. a pretty blonde bartender watches you with concerned eyes, and asks you twice if you're all right. all you can do is give her a less than convincing smile, telling her that you're waiting on some bad news and feel silly about letting your battery get so low. she doesn't believe you- she's not stupid, after all- but like any good bartender, she knows when things aren't her business, and leaves you be. when there's finally enough juice to turn on your phone you wait with baited breath for three whole minutes, waiting to see if any missed calls, voicemails, or texts come in.
nothing.
an almost manic laugh bubbles up from the core of you as you leave the bar, abandoning your burner as you slip into the night. there's no messages from kyle, which surely means he's still gone, right? you're safe now. if he has any way of tracing that phone, he'll be lead to a location far away from where you actually live. you're free.
it's not until you're safely home, half a city away and hidden behind a security guard and some very sturdy locks that you allow yourself to cry. it's so cathartic, all of that apprehension and fear sloughing off of you, emerging out of it like a butterfly from a chrysalis. your last loose end is tied up, and now you're finally free. the relief of it is more relaxing than any massage, hot bath, or stiff drink you've ever had in your life, and after a good cry session and a celebratory calippo from the freezer, it finally, finally feels like you have your life back.
~
for the first time in a while, you sleep deeply and undisturbed. no nightmares about dark eyes following you, about cameras in your home, about being abducted by a man that grew instantly obsessed after only a few meetings. there is only the black nothing of a dreamless sleep that swaddles your mind in a comfortable blanket, allowing you to find rest for a solid nine hours. it's only when sleep starts to recede from your mind that the thoughts of your neighbors start to slowly creep back in.
-milk, bread, eggs- jesus, mary, and joseph, how are we out of eggs again? i'd swear i only bought some last week-
-and what do i care who he dates? we broke up ages ago. it's not like it was serious, so why does seeing her on his instagram make me so bloody furious? whatever, she's just a slag, it won't last-
-he's lying to me about that test at school, i just know he is. i swear, if that boy doesn't shape up, i'll send him to live with his father-
-somewhere around here, the cabbie dropped her off at the corner last night. she's got to be nearby. walking distance, at least. that building, maybe? come on, babes, where are you? there's no need to run anymore-
your breath catches in your lungs, drawing out a ragged gasp that sends you rocketing upright, eyes wide and brow sweaty. it's kyle. he's here- or, at least somewhere nearby. within a block, at your estimation. it feels like you've been woken up with a cold bucket of water dumped over your head, and you can't help the shake in your knees and your hands as you scurry to your window, peering through your curtains down at the street. you can't see him, but his vivid memories trickle in unbidden all the same.
a cell phone in his hand, with a notification telling him the signal could not be found. going home to his laptop, only to see the look of terror on your face as you 'found' the camera. the way you packed up in a hurry, leaving a completely bare apartment within just a day. so far as he could tell, you hadn't even seen the headlines about the death in the underground before you started your escape. he assumes that you thought the surveillance equipment belonged to the austrian, that you panicked and ran without realizing he was gone for good.
the way he stared at your contact in his phone, your name saved with a blue heart emoji, unsure what to say after months of silence. the sudden ping of your phone spurring him into action, leading him straight to the bar, where he went to 'bump' into you, finding only the abandoned burner still plugged into the wall.
"she looked really upset, is she all right?" the blonde bartender from last night asks, towel slung over her shoulder.
"that's what i'm trying to find out." kyle tells her. "did you see her with anyone?"
"no. like i said, she came in alone, plugged in her phone, and then left without it. kept looking around, all nervous-like the whole time." the bartender shrugs. "when i turned around for a moment she disappeared."
"when did she leave?"
"not even an hour ago, i don't think."
what had you so scared, babes? your boyfriend's gone now, we took care of it, let us take care of whatever's making you run-
"it's you." you hiss through your teeth into your empty apartment, hysterical with grief. "you're making me run, kyle garrick. go away. just go away!"
shaking knees give out from underneath you, and you collapse onto the floor, chest and sinuses aching from the panicked tears that you're trying to fight off. more flashes of thoughts and memories sear across your brain- hacked surveillance cameras, grainy images of you hurrying out of the bar and into a nearby taxi, hopping from camera feed to camera feed, trailing its journey until you exited and set off on foot. it's what brought him here, what has him peering into the lobby of your building and silently cursing at the obvious security guard.
i'll be back for you, babes. we'll be together again, i'll come up with something, he thinks as he gazes up at the lines of windows on your building, eyes sliding over where you're hunched behind the wall, sobbing desperate, angry tears.
you're trapped again, cornered once more by kyle garrick. he knows your building now, and he'll be keeping too close an eye on you for you to try to move again- unless you decide to abandon everything you own and make a run for it with just the clothes on your back.
fuck. shit! motherfucker! your months of freedom were a sweet, sweet taste of what your life should be like- but potentially never will be again. he's a dog with a bone, you know that now, and so long as he has the resources and free time, he will never, ever leave you alone. all you can do now is seethe and cry and try desperately to think of a plan before he comes back, knowing that every single camera posted on the street could be used against you again, to trail you to wherever you might try to run.
bloody fucking london with it's bloody fucking cameras every bloody fucking where.
just had to block someone so quick reminder that zionists are not welcome on this blog. genocide supporters, apartheid supporters, bigots in any sense, are never, ever welcome on this blog. i will block you when i see that shit. get OUT
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