#i wrote this in 22 minutes. No editing no second pass. Straight snack.

[pupyr0arz]

quick captor!ghost and kidnapped!reader snack. SFW

Your kidnapper is washing your feet. Maybe it’d compute in your head, mean something other than mindless white noise and empty signal chatter if it seemed sexual. Depraved people steal men and women off the street all the time, you’re sure, the news is sure. They end up in ditches and on roadsides and under concrete. Maybe if you had bruises and knife wounds and he was pressing his dick between your feet it would make sense.

But he doesn’t seem to care about making sense to you. He washes the dust and cuts you’ve accumulated trying to kick the door down clean with a wet cloth. It’s perfunctory in that he doesn’t linger, working quickly and efficiently, cleaning you. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t reprimand you, just let’s go of your legs and sits back on his heels.

He’s wearing his mask again. You like the baclava better, it’s more becoming of a menacing kidnapper. You make yourself laugh about the painted mask he’s slapped together—a skull, how juvenile, how cliche—but you worry at night that the pale arc of moonlight that reaches through the bars might catch on a white curve.

“I hate you.” You tell him. It’s perfunctory, you don’t linger on it and it never seems to phase him. You don’t scream because if you do you’ll spend so long yelling at him that he’ll leave to fetch you a glass of lemon water to soothe your throat and the humiliation of that burns hotter than your rage these days. His fingers trace the edges of the cuff on your left leg. You pull away and tuck your legs under you on your bed. He doesn’t move, the light from the overhead bulb hiding his eyes from you. You doubt you could’ve ascertained anything useful, your captor is nothing but an enigma. He hasn’t taken any photos of you, that you know of, and it’s not like he has many options to squeeze ransom money out of. Maybe he’s fattening you up like a turkey, and he’ll kill and eat you. Make necklaces out of your teeth.

“You would make awful necklaces.” You tell him. His hands are too bulky, violence steeped behind those faux-soft touches. He doesn’t seem confused at the random statement and it pisses you off. “Whatever disgusting fetish this is, it’s why no one loves you. Are you jealous of me? That I’m not as ugly and twisted as you are?” You ask, voice harsh, seeking any chink in his armor. You don’t even care if he hits you now, but the thought doesn’t occur to you in the moment that he would. Later you will think ‘fuck him, I don’t care what he does to me’ but now it all seems so immaterial.

He moves. He pushes off the floor, standing and you wonder if he is trying to loom over you where you sit, but when he reaches out it’s past you. You push at him with your hands, but you were never one for the gym and you’re sure your food is drugged the way your fingers always seem unnaturally clumsy, your limbs buzzing with lingering weakness. He tugs out the tray from this morning out from under your pillow. You had hoped to hit him with it. He tucks it under an arm, and then he is gone.

You lay back down on your bed and look up at the ceiling, painted yellow. You complained that it was all too white at some point, and he had painted it with you still chained to the wall, the smell is stuck in your nose and you try not to think about the past at all. It’s difficult now, to focus on how you have three square meals a day and no injuries brought about by anything other than your own stupidity. It seems like the other shoe is lurking around every corner, the day he comes in with a knife or a gun, and something in the back of your head is muttering that you have to prepare. It never has any good ideas. Maybe if you were smarter, you could’ve been out by now. Been one of those happy-horror stories on the evening news, interviewed across the country while your kidnapper remains at large.

You close your eyes as you try to remember the CNN opening for these sorts of things. Somehow it doesn’t occur to you that your captor might ever be captured, even in your most fantastical dreams. Later on, you might remember this. It won’t be soon enough.