That’ll do!

almost like you were daring - hoping? - for something to finally happen. like you'd given up on the idea that life might get better. that you were just waiting for something to come along and swallow you whole.

a lamb leading themselves to their own slaughter.

his stomach twists uncomfortably.

then his body moves without conscious thought.

he wasn't planning for a guest tonight. but you're too easy to ignore. like you're tempting fate by being in his direct line of sight.

and part of him wants to see if he can break someone who already looks broken.

the other part just recognises another creature that's rotting alive when he sees them.

you hear him approach from behind. you register that there's a man that shouldn't be there behind you like a shadow.

you don't change your pace. don't run.

just let the inevitable take you.

a gloved hand clamps over your mouth. a thick arm locked around your waist like a steel band, pulling you back against a solid chest. you jerk once, more out of reflex than any real fight, your nails grazing his forearm in a weak, half-hearted scrape that barely registered through his hoodie sleeve.

it wasn’t a real struggle.

just enough movement to say you’d tried. a small, superficial attempt so you could tell yourself later - if there was a later - that you hadn’t simply given in.

a chloroform-soaked rag gets pressed firmly over your nose and mouth. your limbs turn heavy, knees buckling as the world tilts sideways.

you didn’t fight it. not really.

letting go was… easy.

his stomach twists again when he realises you're just accepting whatever fate has befallen you on this grim, rainy night.

“there we go.” he mutters against your hair, almost gentle, voice low, rough as the tarmac underfoot. “night, lamb.”

you wake up slowly, like your brain is swimming through syrup.

the first thing that hits you is the headache - a sharp throb pounding behind your eyes and in your temples. your mouth tasted like metal and something sweet but rotten. chloroform. the word surfaces sluggishly, dragged up from some half-remembered training.

then comes the confusion.

why are you sitting? why do your shoulders ache? why can't you move your arms?

your vision swims, blurry and red-tinted. you blink hard, trying to clear it. concrete floor. red light. the low, steady hum of electronics. slowly, painfully, the pieces started clicking together.

you're in a chair. a heavy, wooden chair bolted to the floor. splinters digging into your back through the clothes you've (thankfully) still got on.

your wrists are zip-tied tightly behind the backrest, the plastic cutting deep into your skin every time you shift. your ankles are strapped to the front legs of the chair with thick leather, legs spread just enough to feel vulnerable. the position forces your chest forward slightly, shoulders pulled back, a mimicry of good posture.

the red glow above you casts everything in a bloody hue. tools glinted on nearby shelves. chains. a metal trolley. a… cage.

and in the shadows just beyond the light…

him.

ghost stood perfectly still, broad shoulders relaxed, skull mask tilted as he watched you wake up. he hadn’t moved. he'd simply been waiting for you to regain consciousness.

you test the restraints instinctively, a weak tug that sent pain shooting through your wrists. the zip ties didn’t give at all. your heart began hammering as reality finally slammed home.

you were tied to a chair in some stranger’s basement, still dressed in your scrubs, with a masked man staring at you like you were a new project.

your breath hitched. the fog in your head was lifting faster now, replaced by cold, crawling dread.

maybe you should have fought harder. maybe you shouldn't have just… given in to it.

not now it looks like this. like a homemade torture chamber that you're now a resident of.

ghost takes one slow step forward, boots silent on the concrete. the red light flickers over the white skull pattern on his balaclava, making it - and him - even eerier than intended.

“mornin', lamb,” he murmurs, voice low, distorted. “took you long enough.”

you just blink. slow. like you would if you were waking up from a good night's sleep and not a kidnapping. glancing around the room again. taking in details you missed whilst your brain was coming back online.

a laptop in the corner glowed softly, blurry from this distance, something that looked like a live stream feed open but not yet started. a chat box scrolled rapidly beside it, filled with usernames and messages you can't quite read. soft chimes kept ringing out every few seconds as new donations came in. above you, a camera lens stared down like a cold, unblinking eye.

this was being recorded. people were going to be watching.

the realisation hits like a weight in your stomach, bile crawling up into your throat, before you swallow it down.

this isn’t exactly what i had in mind when i chose the alley.

the thought flickers through your brain, weaving it's way deeper in your mind, the quiet admittance only to yourself that you had chosen the alley for a reason.

you’d accepted a long time ago that you didn’t really care if you died. life had worn you down to the point where some quiet, tired part of you almost welcomed the end - preferably quick. preferably quiet. a disappearance. an accident. something that simply… stopped. no mess. no fuss. just…gone.

not this.

not a blood-stained concrete basement turned tomb. not becoming entertainment for sick strangers jerking off to your suffering in real time. not whatever this masked bastard had planned for you on camera. not having your final moments projected onto the dark net for whoever cared to pay to watch.

this wasn't quiet. this was human brutality mixed with apathy in it's most base form.

your eyes finally settle on him.

ghost stood just outside the main circle of red light, spine straight, shoulders squared.

he was…. big. tall, broad, radiating quiet, controlled violence even while standing still. the skull mask tilts slightly as he watched you, unblinking. like he was already picturing every cut, every scream, every way he could take you apart.

you tilt your head to the side, mirroring him, staring straight back even as your heart tries to punch its way out of your chest. caught between fury that this is how you're making your grand exit from life and resentment that you just let it happen.

ghost doesn't speak again.

he's waiting for you to make the next move, you realise. for you to scream or beg or start pleading. something to kick start his little show.

your jaw tenses, once, teeth grinding together so hard it hurts as it hits you - you're going to be expected to be an active participant in your own demise.

you consider not saying anything at all.

consider just letting the silence sit, thick enough to choke on.

you can't. can't just stare back into those brown, dead orbs of his indefinitely.

“what the fuck?” it comes out choked, but with less waver than you thought it would. almost indignant.

ghost blinked once, visibly surprised.

“language,” he admonishes, almost teasing, shaking his head slowly. “c’mon now, lamb. you can tell what the fuck this is, can’t you?” he takes one measured step closer, gloved fingers tapping idly against his thigh. “or did i mistake plain stupidity for a general lack of care about your own survival in the alley?”

you flinch.

just a little. a tiny motion that has his lips crooking in a smirk under the balaclava.

a general lack of care about your survival.

the words land like a slap because they're true.

you had stopped caring if you lived or died months - maybe years - ago. exhaustion had hollowed you out until waking up every day felt like a chore. you’d chosen the alley tonight half-hoping something would finally happen.

but not this.

never like this.

you didn’t want to die piece by piece on camera. you didn’t want to be remembered as some broken girl who screamed and begged for a paying audience while this man carved you up for views. that wasn’t the quiet exit you’d silently prayed for on your worst nights.

you bare your teeth at him, forcing venom into your voice. “fine. whatever sick shit you’ve got planned, can we just get on with it?” your gaze flickers around the basement again - tools, chains, the steel cage waiting in the corner. “let’s make it a short stay at Hotel Murder Basement, yeah?”

ghost stopped directly in front of you. leaning down slowly until the skull of his balaclava filled your entire world, close enough that you could see the dark circles under his eyes.

“you’re funny,” he murmurs, voice low, distorted, laced with a kind of begrudging amusement. “Hotel Murder Basement? that’s good. i might steal it. good for branding.”

"fuck you." you snap back, unable to form any kind of intelligent response as your heart pounds against your sternum.

"brave words." he murmurs, "especially for someone who practically handed herself over."

your stomach does something complicated, bile rising in your throat again.

he saw your lack of resistance. saw a mockery of an attempt at survival.

another smirk under the mask as he continues, almost conversational. “saw you hesitate at the end of the street. safe road or the alley. you chose the alley. head down, headphones on, looking like the world had already beaten the fight out of you. then when I grabbed you… that little scrape with your nails? that wasn’t a real struggle. you barely tried.”

he tilts his head again. “you let me take you, lamb. part of you wanted something to finally happen.”

the observation hit harder than any threat. heat floods your face - shame, anger, and something uncomfortably close to exposure.

he sees you.

“fuck you,” you repeat, voice cracking. “you don’t know shit about me.”

ghost steps back, arms crossed over his chest, taking stock of the woman in front of him. then, wordlessly, he reaches over to the trolley and clicks the cameras on. the live stream on the monitor flares to life; you, bound and illuminated in red. terrified yet defiant.

the chat immediately lights up.

redking72: nurse scrubs 🔥

bloodmoney98: she looks exhausted, perfect

skullfucker: bet she’s a screamer

coffinwhore: make her cry already

ghost glances at the scrolling messages, then back at you. “chat already wants to see how long that mouth lasts once i start pulling teeth or running the blowtorch up your thighs. they’re impatient tonight.”

you glare straight into the camera. “go fuck yourselves, you sad fucking murder perverts.”

coffinwhore: she’s got attitude

deadgirl72: break her fast

ghost makes a noise that's almost a laugh. almost. if laughing was something he did. instead, it comes out as a low hum, starting deep in his chest.

"murder perverts?" he repeats, deadpan. "careful, lamb. that's my audience you're insulting. and you piss them off? well, they can get… creative about what they want to see."

he steps closer, your head tips back to watch him approach. he can see the whites of your eyes flash as he stretches one gloved hand out, fingers gripping either side of your jaw, digging into the soft flesh of your cheeks hard enough you let out a hiss of pain before he shoves your head away, leans down over you instead.

you don't think. you just move.

head jerking forward as far as your restraints will allow, a thick globule of spit leaving your mouth and landing across the teeth of the skull pattern.

ghost goes completely still for a moment, like his brain has blue screened, before slowly wiping it away. you're sure he's going to hit you, grab a blade from the wall and punish you for your insolence.

he doesn't.

he just looks.

the chat goesabsolutely feral.

skullfucker: SHE SPAT ON HIM

redking72: 10 btc if you carve her up properly

but ghost still doesn't reach for any tools.

instead, he studies you with renewed interest. no tears. no begging. just pure spite and fire even after he’d called out the darkest part of your exhaustion - the part that had chosen the alley.

in that moment, ghost saw something dangerously familiar.

he saw himself.

the old version. the one from two years ago - rotting away upstairs, waking up every morning disappointed he was still breathing. the same quiet surrender to the slow death of normal life… until the night he decided to stop waiting for the end and make something of the ruins.

matching hollow caverns in your chests.

you’d given up too. he could practically smell it on you like cheap perfume mixed with hospital antiseptic. but here you were - wrists bleeding from zip ties, ankles strapped apart, staring death in the face - still choosing to spit venom and swing with words instead of curling up in surrender, or begging and pleading like most.

a final act of defiance from someone who’d already emotionally checked out.

it stirred something in him he hadn’t felt in a long time. not just intrigue. recognition. almost… respect.

he liked it far more than he should.

and that… scared him.

more than walking into a firefight ever had. more than being seconds away from an exploding bomb could.

because that makes him feel like simon in a place he should definitely be ghost. it makes him feel more like simon than he has in… years.

he swallows the feeling, straightens. won't - can't - let it show. can't let the flicker of humanity break through, not down here, now when he relies on the chat believing he's no more than one of them.

he comes up with an escape plan in milliseconds. something to save face and buy him time all at once.

“feisty little thing,” he murmurs. “didn’t think you'd have this much bite. means i’m not rushing this.”

then as quick as the cameras came on? he flicks over and turns them off. the feed on the monitor goes black.

chat erupts again, furious, but he just flips the laptop shut without looking.

he steps forward, grunts a quiet warning, "try and fucking fight me lamb? the cameras are going straight back on."

you don't say anything, just watch as he kneels down to undo your ankle bindings with deliberate care. you twitch, like you might kick him.

his hand lands on your knee.

"chat's still waiting for entertainment."

its a warning, delivered as a quiet statement.

you still. swallow down the fire.

the wrist bindings come next, zip ties carefully cut through - too carefully, you think.

before you can think, speak, move, he's hauling you over his shoulder, carrying you across the room as you try and twist in his grip - pointless, barely there, but something.

as he shoves you inside the steel cage, he's suddenly relieved he was over prepared.

the door slams shut. the padlock clicks.

you grip the bars, breathing ragged. “you can’t just leave me in here! what the fuck!”

ghost crouched outside the cage, skull mask level with your face through the bars. the faint red standby glow painted him in a blood red hue.

“i’ll come back tomorrow,” he said calmly. “when you’ve had time to consider your attitude.”

“you psychotic bastard -”

he stands without waiting for you to finish, turning away without another word and heading up the stairs. the basement lights dimmed until only a faint crimson haze remained.

you were left alone in the near-dark, heart hammering, his words echoing in your head.

you let me take you.

the terrifying realisation that he wasn’t going to kill you tonight settled over you like a fog.

upstairs, simon riley tears the skull mask off the second the basement door shuts behind him. tossing it onto the kitchen table with more force than necessary, glaring down at the empty eye sockets staring back at him.

he paces.

heavy boots wearing a familiar path across the old floorboards - back and forth, back and forth - fingers raking through his short hair. his chest felt too tight. the hollow ache that usually sat quiet and obedient was suddenly loud, restless, alive.

“fuck.” he mutters.

he’d seen hundreds of terrified faces down there. broken ones. pleading ones. empty ones. none of them had ever made him pause. none of them had ever made the red lights feel… personal.

just… her.

that tired, defiant little lamb who’s already given up on life but is still choosing to bare her teeth and spit in his face. the same dead-eyed surrender wrapped around a last spark of violence. she reminds him painfully of himself two years ago. not really there, just existing.

and instead of wanting to crush that spark, he wanted to watch it burn. wanted to see if the empty hollow of his chest could be filled with something new.

simon stops pacing, bracing both hands on the edge of the sink, head hanging low, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

he's not supposed to feel this. any of this.

not recognition. not interest.

not this dangerous, creeping thread of something almost human.

“get a fuckin' grip, riley,” he snaps at his own reflection in the dark window.

but even as he says it, his eyes drift toward the basement door.

tomorrow, he thinks. just kill her tomorrow and be done with it.

but as he reaches for the bottle of whiskey on the side, he already knows that this one is going to be tougher than most - both breaking her and killing her.

With these kind of side shots (esp. the 1st one) I like to focus on his eyes and nose, to imagine his face.

Bonus; Rudy found out

the messages overlay the porn playing on your phone screen one by one.

you don't pause the video right away - let yourself stay in the little bubble of horny you're trying to build. the bathwater is going lukewarm around you, but your skin feels warmer now from the small spark of anticipation that's beginning to grow in your stomach.

you can't help but feel a small twinge of grief that six months ago this same activity would have had you throwing yourself at simon - that six months ago you didn't even need to prepare to have sex with your husband. that it felt like the most natural thing in the world, not something you had to manufacture.

but then you remember his words "yer smilin' more. s'nice." and the grief fades, replaced with a pang of fondness so strong it almost hurts.

you let your eyes focus on the video again, letting the sounds of soft moans and the wet noise of skin on skin filter through your headphones; try and remember that the joy you see on the amateur couple's can be yours too.

you pause the video, typing back a quick message.

just getting out. haven't changed my mind. x

you dry off quickly, clean your teeth, slip into one of simon's old t-shirts; the black colour long faded to grey, band logo once printed on it lost to the passage of time. there's a hole in the hem and it's stretched out around the collar.

but it makes you feel safe, and that's what you need right now. not lace bodysuits and stockings. by the time you've padded into the bedroom you can hear the shower running - see that today's clothes didn't even make it to the washing basket in the bedroom, instead left in the one downstairs.

you wrinkle your nose - you know that means you're probably going to need to get the stain remover out later. but you appreciate that simon hasn't brought the smell of whatever it is up into your room. you light a few candles as you hear the shower switch off, pull the curtains and turn off the big light; leaving the room in a soft glow of the candles and bedside lamp.

little things you've learned make you feel more relaxed.

you're just settling on the edge of the bed as the en suite door opens - knees tucked up under your chin, heart beating a little faster than normal. simon appears, towel slung low on his hips, water still dripping down from his blonde hair and onto the scarred plain of his chest. his eyes find yours immediately, soft in the way they only ever are when he's looking at you.

"hi." you say softly, lips pricking up at the corners as you look at him.

fuck. it really does help the situation that he looks like that.

he crosses the room in two strides, one hand reaching to cup the back of your head as he leans down to kiss you - soft, slow; the kind of kiss that's a hello and isn't an expectation. his hand strokes up your bare thigh slowly; fingers pausing at the hem of your - his - t-shirt, stopping short of pushing it any higher. "hey dove," he replies softly. "missed this smile."

your smile. that's what he missed about this situation. that specific, soft, wanting smile that you only ever give him when you're about to get him in bed.

and it's that that has you pulling him down on top of you.

your t-shirt gets pulled off with careful hands; his towel lost somewhere to the floor. he ends up hovering over you, pressing kisses down your jaw, your throat, takes his time. his thumbs stroke an almost soothing pattern across your ribs as his lips trail lower - but when he reaches your stomach he pauses.

"tell me somethin'." he murmurs, "what were you watchin' in the bath?"

your face heats immediately, throat drying out as you stare down at him with an expression of absolute horror.

he just hooks your legs over his shoulders, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, looks up at you expectantly.

"just… soft stuff." you manage to murmur back. "couple in their bed. they… they looked like they were enjoying it. not… faking it."

he presses a kiss higher up your thigh, then another, before his breath is ghosting over your core. his tongue traces a slow line from slit to clit; gentle, soft, curling through soft heat like he's not in any kind of rush.

your hips twitch.

simon hums against you, an almost approving noise; like he's proud you actually answered. "yeah? what were they doin'?" he flicks his tongue against you again - more targeted this time. you gasp slightly as he settles in, one arm slung across your hips, fingers tracing over skin. every motion he makes is purposeful - circling your clit, dropping down down to dip inside you, tracing every inch of you with his tongue in lazy strokes.

your fingers thread through his still damp hair, nails scratching over his scalp in the way you know he likes. "they were taking it slow." you breathe. "she was on her back like this. he kept… talking to her. telling her how good she felt."

"slow." simon repeats, "like this?" his lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently before soothing it with broader strokes. your fingers tighten in his hair enough that he groans - all enjoyment and no pain. "you liked hearin' how much he wanted 'er?"

"yes-" the word breaks into a low moan as he slides two fingers inside of you, curling them perfectly against the spot he knows so well; mouth still focussed on your clit. "fuck, si…"

he doesn't speed up. just keeps a steady, slow rhythm - eyes flicking up to watch your face. he pulls away enough to murmur gently, "i want you dove - all the fuckin' time. everything you do is so fuckin' sexy i feel like i'm goin' insane." a soft kiss to your clit, "'m sorry if i stopped tellin' you." another kiss, "jus'… don't want you to ever feel like you 'ave to jus' cause i'd live inside you if i could."

your eyes burn, hands dropping to brush your thumbs over his cheekbones. "i know si. i promise."

he nods once, satisfied that you're not lying to make him feel better by the wet shine in your eyes. he drags the flat of his tongue over your clit again. "was she makin' the same little sounds you make? the ones that make me fuckin' melt?"

you nod, hips rolling under his mouth; the combination of his mouth and hands and the gentle questioning pulling you under. the porn in the bath feels distant now - a distant second to the real thing: simon riley between your legs, focused solely on you, coaxing your body to the edge with nothing but patience.

when you come its with a soft, shuddering cry - the same noise he loves so much - pleasure rolling through you in warm waves as simon works you through it. he waits until your fingers are limp in his hair before pulling back entirely, then kisses his way beck up your body until he's braced over you again, propped on one elbow so he doesn't squish you under his bulk.

"still good?" he murmurs. his cock is hot and hard against your thigh; twitching against you as he presses a kiss against your neck - but he doesn't push forward, doesn't press. just rests his forehead against yours.

“yeah,” you whisper, reaching between you to stroke him gently. “i want you, si. want this.”

he kisses you again, tasting like you, and lines himself up. he presses in -slow, perfect - eyes locked on yours the whole time. your fingers trace the scars on his jaw, eyes widening as he bottoms out; filling you in a way that's so achingly familiar now. he pulls back, pushes in again; soft, shallow rolls of his hips.

you brush your nose against his. "you don't have to be so careful with me, si."

"i want to." he replies simply. "been thinkin' about this since you brought it up. about makin' you feel good."

you, not him.

you thighs slide to wrap around his waist on the next thrust, taking hip deeper just by the nature of the position and he groans - a wrecked noise that carves itself into your memory.

"this alrigh'?" he murmurs against your neck, hips snapping just a little harder; thumb sliding into the space between your bodies to rub gentle patterns against your clit.

you nod, jaw going slack as you feel heat flood your stomach again. "yeah. s'perfect." you manage to murmur back.

he presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth, keeping up that same steady rhythm. "i love you. i love you when you're happy, an' i love you when you're sad. i love you when you're horny and climbin' me like a tree an' when all you want t' do is watch greys anatomy on repeat an' eat little moons. nothin', fuckin nothin', matters to me as much as you do."

you bury your face in his neck, cheeks hot, eyes burning, "i love you too."

your second orgasm is like sinking into warm water; nerves lighting up hot one by one, teeth sinking into the curve of his his shoulder with a whimper of his name. he follows immediately after, the pulse of your cunt around him dragging him over the edge, face buried in your hair as he breathes you in.

he doesn't pull out right away - just holds you, fingers stroking over sweat damp skin, pressing lazy kisses to your temple.

"still smilin' down there?" he murmurs softly.

you huff out a soft laugh, body and brain soft with satisfaction. "yeah, si. still smilin'."

"good." he kisses the top of your head. "that's all i need, dove."