I Also Participated In The @bokunoherofanzine As Well And Heres My Final Piece :D 

it takes two | sylus & mc

sum: “sylus likes you,” she says offhandedly, toying with the second button of your blouse. you scoff. humor her, lips pulling. “what makes you say that?” “because i like you.”

cw: non-mc reader, female reader, girls love girls, cunnilingus, p-in-v, threesome, fingering, explicit language, clit slapping, oocness, 3.2k of filth, spawned by this ask, not proofread, mdni

now playing: bolero - bathe

Emcee’s smiling, and you know this won’t end well.

It’s mischievous how she sways her hips like that, pushing through Lux’s private room like she owns it. The other dancers part for her like a school of fish as she makes her way to you, slinking away like they know something you don’t.

She plops onto your lap like you’re her throne as the swinging doors slide shut, siphoning the air from your lungs. Drapes her arms around your shoulders, gaze bleeding sin. 

Instinctively, your hands drop to her waist to brace her, and you bounce her on your lap into a more comfortable position. Sink back into the red leather cushions of the loveseat, her body sliding further up your thighs with the shift.

Her smile is infectious. Melts away your surprise, making way for a sly curve of your lips. You get a whiff of her perfume, the conditioner in her hair, as she leans close until your noses bump, hair tickling your collarbones. 

You’ve got a face full of teeth and bad intentions. Her laughter is bewitching, furling in your stomach like the smoke occupying the red-tinged atmosphere, and the other girls trickle out of the room with knowing cants to their lips over her shoulder. 

“I’ve got an idea,” she murmurs beneath the thumping music, blurring back into focus, breath fanning over your already warmed cheeks, your lips. 

You lift a brow, studying her mouth. Back to her eyes. “Really?” you reply, intrigued. Enamored.

She nods slowly, a hand slipping from your shoulder to splay against your sternum. Fingers the second button of your blouse until it slips free.

“Sylus likes you,” she says offhandedly.

You scoff, sticky, disbelieving. She must’ve been drinking, because there’s no way in hell your boss likes you like that. Not when he looks at her like she’s the center of his universe, the star he orbits in slow, methodical rotations. 

Sure, you’ve quietly pined for him for years. Followed in his shadow like an obedient mastiff, ever faithful, ever watchful. But you could never imagine him returning your affections. Not with your hands stained red and scars littering your skin.

You humor her, lips pulling. “What makes you say that?” 

Emcee laughs, throwing her head back, hair spilling off her shoulders, as if you’ve said the funniest shit. You get a look at her throat, the tendons jumping there. Your mouth waters. Thighs twitch beneath her warm weight.

You track the glide of her fingers along your cheek, the slope of your jaw, in your peripheral vision until they curl around your chin, tilting your head back, and you’re faced with irises that bubble like heated liquid. 

“Because I like you.”

You’ve barely time to process the implications on her tongue before she’s pushing it into your mouth. Soft yet insistent. Commanding in a way that leaves you fucking spinning, out of your mind, sighing all hot into her mouth, fingers tight on her hips.

She kisses like bonfires and sea sprays. Like peaches growing beneath the sun, like drive-in movies in the summer, a band-aid on nicked skin. She sucks the air from your lungs into her own body like it’s hers. You can’t get a grip on things, for she’s shifting on your lap until she’s straddling you, full thighs bracketing yours, hands cupping your cheeks to keep your face in place.

You kiss her with equal fervency. Or at least, you try to. You pull, stroke, and bunch up the back of her blouse in favor of the supple glide of her skin, lost in the wet swipe of her tongue, in the slow-weighted roll of her hips, in the husky, pleasured sounds she bleeds into your mouth.

She’s pulling at the lapels of your blazer, and you catch her cue, leaning forward to help her tear the offending garment off your shoulders. You pulse beneath her, her mouth slanting possessively over yours, fingers threading into your hair, pulse roaring, nipples unbearably tight. 

Emcee tears away from the hot suction of your mouth with a sticky click, and you catch a glimpse of her lips glossed with spit in the low light. She blisters your chin with pecks before she finds her way to your neck. Sucks and nibbles on your throat, tongue licking out to ease welting skin, before she’s at it again—a vampire trying to siphon your life force through your skin. 

You exhale, craning your neck back, eyes sliding shut. You don’t know what you’ve done to warrant such treatment. But you don’t deter it, fingers curling around her ass to encourage her to grind against you. And she’s ruthless in her assault, bearing down on your lap, pussies dragging across each other, drawing the sweetest little noise from your throat. A laugh, disbelieving, breathy.

She busies herself with pulling your blouse buttons free as her mouth seals around your pulse point, sucking, licking, wide, wet. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been at this—making out with your partner, your charge, like some hormonal teen. But your head lolls forward, the space beyond her shoulder blurring and bending until you’re able to make out discernible shapes and colors through the haze, and, oh shit— 

“Really?” rolls a voice so deep, so enthralling, it disturbs the dust particles around you. Like the crackle of a fire burning through the underbrush, and you feel it curdling in your chest. 

Shock ripples through you once you put things together. Cold mortification. You sit up, Emcee not at all perturbed by his entry, by your rigidness, her fingers crawling over your sides and down to your hips after she’s pushed your shirt open, baring your torso to the crisp air.

Your mouth spills open, a slurry of excuses on your tongue, face heated. 

Sylus watches the pair of you from the bridge of his nose, arms crossed over a broad chest, finger tapping his bicep, hip cocked out like an impatient parent. He quirks an offended brow, lips thinned with mild irritation, and he’s a dangerous, dark cutout of power amid the steady scrawl of smoke. Satan incarnate, limned by Lux’s customary red glow, the columns casting ominous shadows across his face, that right eye glowing a corrupted shade of scarlet. 

You wince when Emcee sucks on your shoulder, the wet sound of it jarring, and a pitiful noise is pinched from your throat. Before you can offer an explanation, beg for your life, Sylus sighs, dropping his hands at his sides, seemingly resigned. He crosses the room in measured strides, like a panther prowling through a jungle, not once releasing you from the intoxicating pull of his gaze.

The cushions on the loveseat dip beneath his weight when he plops beside you, draping a long arm along the backrest, still staring like he’s witnessing the ultimate betrayal. What audacity you two must have, getting along without him.

You watch with a constricted throat as he snatches up the whiskey glass, stained with condensation, you’d been nursing earlier, dumping its contents down his throat in one go.

He scowls like a child who didn’t get his way after he sets the glass down with a definitive clack. And finally, finally, with your cheeks in her hands, Emcee draws back, face smooshed up against yours, smile wicked, playful. All teeth and sin, like a youth caught doing something they were clearly warned against.

Your pulse thunders in your ears. Mouth hovers around words that never come. Sylus could kill you with a snap of his fingers for touching his girl like this. For being so brazen in his club, in his territory, getting all handsy without his permission. 

You flinch, anticipating your demise. But it doesn’t come, and you peek an eye open, surprised to see he’s redirected his ire to the little temptress in your lap.

There’s something in their staredown. A quiet exchange you’re not in on as they study each other’s faces, brows and mouths twitching as if they’re inwardly mulling over something together. A war of the minds, a muted battle, almost like telepathy, and you’re their unwilling hostage. 

You feel like prey between two predators. Carrion waiting to be picked clean, hands stiff and wide around Emcee’s waist. She giggles again, her breasts warm and doughy as they push up against yours, and you cast her a warning look. This is no time to be laughing. No time to taunt the Devil when your life's on the line.

Sylus’ gaze slides to you, and you’re stricken. Something cold spills into your belly, branching down to occupy your nether regions at the weight his eyes carry. They’re hooded. Slip into a mysterious shade of garnet as he tilts his head down to scrutinize you, lips slightly parting, brows pinched in the inner corners. 

You blink wildly when, in one fluid motion, Sylus snatches Emcee from your lap onto his. You’re remiss of the warmth of her body despite the moment, watching wide-eyed as Sylus tugs her close to nip at her throat.

She snorts, burying her fingers in his collar, clinging to him as he dips her back to bite her shoulder. 

You feel like you shouldn’t be here. Like you’re impeding on something intimate, a glacial spike of disappointment lancing through you. But those eyes slide to you again, punching the air from your lungs, petrifying you. And you can’t recall a time you’ve ever seen him so…

Ravenous? Needy? Towards you?

There is no warning. No preamble when long digits curl around the nape of your neck, when rigid features pan in. He tugs you to him, sealing his lips to yours, tongue probing the wet cavern of your mouth, swallowing up the surprised little noise you make. 

Your shoulders drop once the shock peters. And you know you’ve lost your shit because you’re kissing him back. Your boss. Your employer. The focal point of your affections, your fantasies. You’re kissing him, tangling your tongues, pushing a breath into his mouth, tearing your fingers through his silken locks.

He groans into your mouth as if he’s waited lifetimes to kiss you. To experience you like this, and Emcee’s like a little imp, snickering as she occupies her fingers with unbuttoning his shirt, with sinking her teeth into his ear, dragging them across his lobe.

Sylus pulls away, lips imparting on a journey down your neck, blazing a path opposite where Emcee branded you. He sinks his teeth into your collarbone, and you toss your head back for the second time that night, breath all shaky, mind turning to smog. 

He alternates between kissing you and Emcee, and the positions are awkward as he tries his best to hold you both in the wide span of his arms on his lap. Tries his damndest to divvy up the attention, never leaving either of you enough time to catch your breath. 

You’re on your knees now on the cushions, lips sealed around his throat once Emcee’s set his pretty, warm ivory skin free. She’s opposite you, licking up his neck, along his jaw, and you pulse when he releases a shuddering breath, voice all ragged, pretty lashes sweeping over inflamed cheeks.

He’s gripping you both. Palms full of ass as the pair of you render him speechless with the devious scrape of your teeth, hands smoothing down his sculpted chest, his stomach, to knead the thick of him pulsing in his pants.

You part every so often from the salty tang of his skin to kiss Emcee, tongues wriggling, messy, giggling. Sylus humps into your kneading palms when you get too distracted, sighing so pretty, voice so sexy, so guttural, so needy. 

He’s leaning towards you now, ingesting you with those dangerous eyes before he pushes you down. Eases you onto your back, and Emcee’s crawling off his lap so he can moor you to the loveseat with his weight.

He’s kissing you again before you can catch your breath. Like snuffed out hearth fires, like the shifting gears of a muscle car, like the welcomed burn of brandy at the back of your throat. He notches himself between your splayed open legs, rolling his hips until the thick of him throbs against your swollen labia, and you see stars.

He’s commanding in everything he does. A steady, comforting pressure, swallowing you whole with overwhelming heat and the meticulous stroke of his palms. And you feel you’re dreaming, pulling at his neck, his shoulders, your body undulating like the lazy lap of waves against him. 

You almost forget she’s in the room—the source of this debauchery. Almost, until she’s maneuvering herself behind you on the loveseat, settling your head onto her lap, petting through your hair, laughing so sweet. 

Sylus flows like smoke, perching himself on sturdy palms to kiss her over you. And where you should feel left out, jealous of their unspoken bond, you burn, watching their mouths fuse, their tongues dance, hearing the sounds of their pleasured sighs taking place overhead.

He returns his attention to you, forgoing your mouth to brand your throat with kisses, down your shoulder, towards the swell of one breast. 

You arch against his mouth when he bites down, eyes hooded, peering up at the beauty overtop you. She’s all smiles, messy hair, swollen lips, before she angles herself down to steal the taste of your lips. And she’s got your nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, twisting through the lacy drag of your bra. 

You bite your lip, so deliciously out of it. The attention’s too much, the scenery hazy, your mind slowly disconnecting itself from your body, ascending.

Sylus is on a mission, blistering kisses down the ripple of your rib cage, groaning with each press of his lips like you’re a meal worth savoring. Down, down, down he ventures, teeth scraping the meat of your belly near your navel, before he lines the stretch of skin just above the cut of your slacks with reverent kisses. 

You lift your hips to help him pull your slacks off once he’s unlatched your belt and snatched the button free. And you can’t focus with his lips so close to your cunt, with his breath so hot, kissing where labia meets thigh, groaning at the earthy scent permeating through your damp panties.

Emcee pulls your tits free from your bra, kneading them in lazy arcs, testing their weight, their fullness, pushing them together, occasionally swiping her thumbs over your puckered nips. 

Her gaze simmers like heated liquid when she wets her fingers with her tongue, doubling down on her nipple-pinching efforts. And you’re rocking your hips, one hand reaching up for purchase of her blouse. Something to cling to while Sylus swipes his tongue up the seam of your cunt. 

Before you can think, Emcee’s on her knees beside you on the floor, licking your nipple into her mouth, massaging your unattended breast with her free hand, gaze unyielding as she watches you like something to be devoured. A meal to be licked clean, not a morsel left to spare. 

Sylus has your panties off and flung somewhere on the stage in the room’s center. And he’s gazing at you with equal desire, drawing your thigh onto his brawny shoulder, nosing your pretty, sticky cunt. 

He breathes against your muff, the heat of his breath making you twitch and throb, and you wiggle your hips pathetically, not sure if you want his mouth on you or off. 

In hindsight, this still feels so very wrong. Sandwiched between your boss and your partner. The catalyst for your heartbreak and your envy. But is it really so wrong if they’re both here, ravaging you like a prime cut of meat, writing the most sinful words of all against your body with their mouths? With the reverent scrawl of their fingers?

“Relax, sweetheart,” Emcee coos, dragging her mouth to pay similar homage to your other nipple. “Let us take care of you for once,” she breathes around your teat, fingers sliding down your stomach to tap your swollen cunt.

Once, twice, and your hips surge off the couch. And Sylus is there with that hot, devastating mouth to catch you, groaning into you, palms cupping your ass to keep you sealed to him as he spreads you open with a sweltering, wide tongue.

Your fingers instinctively thread through his hair as you ruck your hips up, humping against his mouth, calves strained as you roll on the tips of your toes. 

A moan swells in your throat. Emcee swallows it, having abandoned your pretty tits to push her tongue into your mouth, to render you speechless. She disconnects to suck on your throat, your pulse point. Crawls back overtop you, her clothed pussy pushing into your face as she pitches herself forward to spread your labia apart for Sylus to draw your clit into his mouth.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. You’re desperate, one hand curled around Emcee’s thick thigh, quietly beseeching her to put something in your mouth. You’re eager for a taste, eager to please, to reciprocate. She peers down at you with pitying eyes, lips crooked in a smirk.

She leaves you momentarily to shimmy out of her shorts, panties sticky and kicked off, before bracketing your head with either of her legs. The earthy aroma of her cunt fills your nostrils before you bury your face in her muff, sucking, licking, and nipping to mirror Sylus’s mouth on you.

You lose it when a thick finger tests the pucker of your cunt before dipping inside. He digs a little deeper with each pump of his finger until he’s knuckle-deep inside you. And you’re remiss of the hot suction of his mouth before the sticky click of mouths fusing reaches you. Instead of Sylus’ lips sealing to the seam of your cunt, a smaller mouth wraps around your clit, wrenching the sluttiest little sound from your throat.

They work in tandem to undo you. Alternate whose mouth is on you, whose fingers are in the tight clench of pussy, before both their tongues attack your clit. They feast on you, groaning like they’re appreciative of the meal. You can’t focus, releasing Emcee’s clit to bite down on her inner thigh, eyes screwed shut, fingers tight on her thighs.

You break at the seams, that sparkling feeling washing over you. Pins and needles in your extremities, vision white, voice lodged in your throat as you cum. 

By the time you return to your skin, float down, chasing the even push of your breath, Emcee’s hovering over your legs. Hands braced on either side of your hips, face screwed up in pleasure. 

She’s so gorgeous, panting like that, tits bouncing, Sylus’ fingers bruising, tight on her hips. She’s reaching for your hand as Sylus takes her from behind, and from your vantage point, you can’t tell where he ends and she begins. 

You twine your fingers with hers, still descending, and you smile. A sloppy, enamored, tired thing, holding tight as their grunts and whimpers salt the air. The clop of wet skin to skin stains the air, breathiness, pleasure,

Your gaze slides up, blurry, body boneless, and Sylus studies you, mouth hanging open with the effort of breathing. Even long after Emcee’s fallen onto her stomach, wrapping her lips around your clit for something to muffle her voice, the power of Sylus’ thrusts too much to bear, he watches you, a reverent, hungry gleam to his eyes. It borders predatory, a silent threat: you’re next. 

You throb, smile crazed, fingers filtering through Emcee’s hair to hold her in place.

You’re counting on it.

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

 It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity. 

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony. 

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place. 

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it. 

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had  always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it. 

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way. 

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway.  Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes. 

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything. 

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness. 

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention.  The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark. 

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would. 

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter? 

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness. 

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement. 

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him? 

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is. 

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago. 

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet. 

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine. 

It doesn’t. 

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot. 

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it. 

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all. 

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating. 

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you,  arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you. 

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline. 

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure. 

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees. 

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

 “Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug. 

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants.  “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes. 

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before.  “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs. 

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you. 

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.” 

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.  

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering.  “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him. 

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.” 

You could slap him. 

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him. 

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts,  “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

 “Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long. 

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before  shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder,  caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure. 

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you. 

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to  “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own. 

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

 “Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment. 

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls.. 

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried. 

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house. 

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

*holds your hand * *holds your hand* *holds your hand* *holds y-*

don't go Nanamin don't go

Scream!AU

‘Movies don’t make psychos, movies make psychos more creative’ - billy loomis, 1996.

25.10.19           only 15 days left - ghostface

One Piece novel HEROINES illustrations by Sayaka Suwa

Hi! Love your work, you are incredibly talented! I especially liked the Shuggy piece, I think I’ve read it like 5 times lol. If you’re still taking requests, I think Jinbe with 11 and/or 39 would be pretty cool. Thanks so much for the fun reads!

Hiii!!!! I'm so so so glad that you enjoy my work.vmy shuggy x reader is also a fave of mine so I'm happy to see others enjoy it ♡. Also thanks for the jinbe request! my man doesn't receive enough love! I'm a bit in my feelings so I went with prompt 39 🤧

39 - comfort sex

cw: fem!reader, mention of jinbe having 2 cocks, size kink, husband jinbe because jinbe is so husband core, unprotected sex,

Husband Duties | Jinbe ♡

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you're feeling down after a fight so your husband helps you feel better

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Married life has always suited Jinbe. He thrives when he has someone to take care of. He's reading when you, his beloved wife, swing open the door and lay down on the bed next to him.

“I'm so tired”, you whine, pushing your face into the pillows. Jinbe puts his book down, turning to give you all his attention. You're exhausted from the most recent fight. You're mostly injury-free, but all your muscles are sore.

“Do you need anything, my love?” he asks, hand trailing over your back. You nod, tucking yourself against him. The fight was particularly rough; you fucked up severely, almost getting yourself killed and causing Jinbe to leave his post to save you. You're usually a solid fighter; your husband or one of your crew having to rescue you is a rare occurrence. Your pride is wounded, and you're wallowing in insecurity.

“My back hurts a little,” you say. Jinbe doesn't need you to elaborate. He helps you to undress and adjusts the way that he's sitting so that he can press his hands into your shoulders. He works hard to distress you. Your husband's strong hands drain your body of all the stress it's harbouring until there's nothing less but raw emotions. Tears fall silently down your cheeks as you release all the pent-up frustration. Despite your cries being silent, Jinbe notices immediately.

“What's wrong, my Dear?” he asks, turning you over. “What can I do to make it better?” Your heart clenches at your husband's concern for you, but there's a much more distracting ache in your body you'd rather deal with first. Despite your distress, massages were often used as foreplay for the two of you, and you can't help the way your mind has wandered.

“It's just all my stress depleting, which means you did a good job with your massage. There is something you can do for me though”

“And what's that?” he asks, already having an inkling about what you're going to say next.

“That massage got me all worked up. I want you to touch me.”

When you first started dating, your straightforwardness had flustered Jinbe, but now it just makes him hard. Your mouth is dirtier than his, and he's obsessed with it. He nods, returning to his massage. He moves his hands down to your thighs, rubbing at the skin there. He's so close to your pussy that it makes you squirm. He chuckles at your movement, causing you to groan. “please don't tease me; I'm so wet.”

Jinbe can't say no to his little wife. He moves his massage between your legs, rubbing at your clit. He pushes a finger into your soaked hole, and you moan out at the feeling. Your husband is huge. He has to work you up to his cock. It's been a few years since you married, yet you still struggle to take him. He adds another finger, curling and scissoring them inside you. You need him so badly. He eagerly fingers you open. He whispers praises as your pussy pulses around his thick fingers.

You cum on his fingers, legs clamping shut around his hand. He works you through it, keeping his fingers moving as his gaze remains locked on your face. You can feel the love in his gaze as your chest heaves in exhaustion. Your orgasm does little to quell your weary mind, and in desperate need of further distraction, you claw at his arms.

“Please, Jinbe, I need your cock”, You say. He nods, fully undressing himself to match you. You feel your mouth watering at the site of his cocks. Being a shark fishman, he has two. Though you've only been able to successfully take both twice in your relationship, one of those times being on your wedding night. He knows you wouldn't be able to take both right now, so he settles on flipping you onto your hands and knees and lining up one of his cocks with your hole. He slowly pushes in, working himself inside you with shallow thrusts. He gently covers your mouth with his hand to stop your moans from waking up the rest of the crew.

Jinbe finally bottoms out and pauses inside you, relishing in how you feel around him, also giving you time to adjust. He drapes himself over, and you whimper at the realisation of how big he really is. Your husband is so sweet to you that it's easy to forget he's a former warlord of the sea. It isn't until he's got you trapped beneath him that you remember how powerful he is. While scary to others, it makes you feel safe and secure to know you have him lingering around you at all times.

“ What happened earlier wasn't your fault, sweetheart. You don't have to be so worked up over it,” he says as he starts to move his hips. Of course, he saw through your white lie. Jinbe is both patient and observant; nothing gets past him. “You're so strong.” His voice is as sure as ever as he squashes your worries with each heavy thrust. He reaches around you to press against your lower stomach. “can you feel me in there?” he asks. The sensation of him pressing against his own cock through your tummy is weird, but it feels so good. You're all but screaming into Jinbe's hand when a well-angled thrust sends you head-first into your orgasm. It crashes over you in waves, making your whole body tremble. Jinbe can't keep himself together anymore and cums too, filling you up with his seed.

“Thank you”, you whine as he rolls off of you and grabs tissues from the bedside table to clean you up.

“Do you feel better now?” he asks, laying down beside you and pulling you on top of him to rest. You nod, too exhausted to give him a response. All fucked out and cuddled up in your husband's arms, you fall asleep in minutes. Jinbe smiles, knowing he'll be there to chase away all the nasty thoughts clouding your beautiful mind.

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tag list: @bloodfixnd @sexysapphicshopowner @beachaddict48 @lem-hhn

thank you so much for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡♡♡♡

some one piece tributes ~ which character should i do next??

seventeen as texts posts!

bonus minghao! mostly because I couldn’t fit it on this post

First love never dies 🥺