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Ghost isn’t sure why he likes it so much, seeing that pride. You’re always prideful, so the sparkle that blooms in the lightless black pits of your eyes is a normal sight. It shouldn’t be any different when he’s the cause. Arrogant. Infuriating. When Ghost coaxes it out of you, he feels played. He feels a worm eating at the rotten core of his heart, and it’s charmed. It rises up through his esophagus with your magic flute. It tears and makes a wet sound when it does. Blunt and bloodied, the same kind of look appendages do when they’re blown off, only dangling by a thread. But if the worm doesn’t autotomize, the rest of that cold, beating heart of his will be pulled out with it. Warm in his palms, he’ll have to give it to you, just like the little strings he’s already had to give. He knows it’s being drawn against his will— but he refuses the thought. You’re a damn witch— no, a barbarian. Sticking your dirty claws down his throat, pinching each of his nerves between wicked fingers. Cruel and unrelenting— he hates you.

