When Fratboy!satoru Takes Your Virginity You Kind Of Expect Him To Be An Ass About It. He's Cocky As

Sukuna Ryomen and Soraya Montenegro have the same Villain Energy, so here are some redraws of my favourites memes! 😆 

✦.꒰ 𝔑𝔠𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔠𝔨𝔰 ꒱.✦

✦.꒰ lꪱkᥱ ᥆ᥙ rᥱႦl᥆g ꪱ⨏ ყ᥆ᥙ ᥉ᥲꪚᥱ ┊dᥱ lꪱkᥱ ᥆ᥙ rᥱႦl᥆g ᥉ᥱ ᥉ᥲlꪚᥲr ꒱.✦

✦.꒰ d᥆ꪀ't rᥱp᥆᥉t wꪱth᥆ᥙt ᥴrᥱdꪱt ꧑ᥱ ꒱.✦

~NCT127 Kick It pt.1~

That M/V is some crazy shit and I'm in love with the aesthetic now let me die in peace🥺

Hope you like it ♡

•open for better quality

pls like/reblog ♡

-Hen

That's your stinky child too now, Dragon~

You can read the first part of this comic here.

As always, apologies for style inconsistencies I just never draw anyone looking the same *lol*

(I'm also not sure how I want to draw Crocodile >w< So I'm just saying that he's not sure yet either what to do. Does he need to be someone else to put as much distance between the pirate and the parent? But Dragon isn't doing that, so does he? Etc etc.)

Play Stupid Games, Win Stupid Prizes (2/2)

Masterlist Here, Pollen Masterlist Here

Part 1 Here

Word count: 8,300+

Synopsis: Doflamingo has been sending you gifts of flowers and trinkets over your time apart, but he refuses to acknowledge you in public. Attending a gala held at marine headquarters. He attends with two concubines on his arms, and you arrive with your friend on the arm of a marine. Doflamingo attempts to make you jealous, but you decide to play his little game by using his own methods against him. You invite Sir Crocodile to play this little game with you.

Warnings: Doflamingo x f!reader, Crocodile x f!reader, kissing, yearning, pleading, crying, mentions of prostitution and concubines, NSFW, 18+, Mdni, smut, no sex - Doffy doesn't get the chance, reference to pollen in prior fic, size difference (Doffy is 10’, reader is 5’+), degradation - Doffy receiving, possessive Doffy, yandere Doffy, Doffy is pathetic, swearing, Doflamingo is his own warning, Doffy begs, toxic relationship, Doffy is infatuated, love confession, marriage proposal. ‘Mi amor,’ ‘Mami,’ 'my princess,' 'my queen,' femme titles used for reader, foot play, toe licking.

Notes: Please read the warnings before reading the fic. @ushoppu said they couldn't rest peacefully without a part 2 to the pollen fic. I said give me a couple hours, and unfortunately it took be about four. So much fun to write!

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @sordidmusings @writingmysanity

Looking up into the amber and rose-tinted sunset, you walked arm in arm with the swarve, hat-wearing marine. Your associate and confidant was on his other arm, enjoying the blushy hue his cheeks turned when she whispered scandalous flirtations into his ear. 

After you left the Donquixote palace once providing Doflamingo the kindness of aiding him in his pollen-induced illness, the king of Dressrosa decided it would be far easier to make you want him intimately if he demonstrated what that would look like to you. 

Sending you bouquets of red carnations wrapped in golden twine, ordering lavish garments and jewelry, he would attempt to woo you with his great wealth. The only turn of contention you had was the fact that Doflamingo would do these things for you while otherwise ignoring your presence in mutual spaces. 

Whether it was formal galas, events held in Alabaster, Doflamingo would neglect offering you simple and civilized conversation. Not that you minded, you hated him after all. Your hatred for him ran deeper and deeper the longer you attended the same events. You always attended alone, whereas Doflamingo had a string of concubines interlaced on his arms and singing his praises like little canaries. 

You had grown tired of this new game of contradiction: sending you gifts, only to make heavy eye contact with you while ravishing the women he surrounded himself with. He was attempting to make you jealous, and, unfortunately for the both of you, it was working. 

Partners hence since spending that afternoon in Doflamingo's dining room had not pleased you as they once did. All you could think about while in the arms of another was how Doflamingo’s tongue could reach all of those places within your pussy that this person couldn't. How his cock was so big, it protruded your abdomen with each gentle thrust he rocked into you. 

It wasn't fair. You wanted to continue to hate him, but each time you closed your eyes with a bedmate beneath you, all you saw behind your eyelids were those lengthy blonde eyelashes framing those expressive ruby globes. Those eyes looking up at you as his lips whispered his confessions into you. The soft call of: “mi amor,” his lips pressing against your skin, and his hand wrapping around your body to hold you close with his cock buried deep within you. 

Not fair at all. 

The next time you saw Donquixote Doflamingo was at an open invitation to the warlords and upper ranked marines, all permitted to bring a guest of their choosing to accompany them. Maria, your friend, was Bogard’s guest and she refused to attend without you present as a comfort to her in untested waters. 

Gently lacing your fingers in the dip of his left elbow, you walked down the lengthy red carpet towards the double doors surrounding the party. The gravel road crunched beneath the carpet with every step you took beside the gentleman. 

Only a few minutes ahead of you, Doflamingo had two of his concubines on his arms, all revealing far more flesh than you would deem tasteful. They had a job to do, and it was not in your nature to judge their profession. It was, however, in your nature to judge the tall blonde escorting them on his arms. 

As you turned the corner beneath the canopy towards the final length of red carpet, a hand decorated in a selection of fine rings and jewelry clapped Bogard’s shoulder and prompted him to halt his movements. The three of you turn to glance up at the hulking figure, dressed in a fine suit and gazing down at you. 

“Sir Crocodile,” Bogard nodded, his eyes guarded and his left arm extending with you in his elbow to join his hand over Maria’s, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Sir Crocodile grinned lazily, his eyes almost displaying mischief behind his eyes. 

“I seem to have forgotten to bring a guest to this soiree, Commander Bogard,” he informed you all, arching his brow up to his forehead, “I thought, considering you have two gorgeous women on your arms, you might be willing to part with this one.” He nodded to you, extending his right hand out towards you. 

Before Bogard had the opportunity to speak for you, Maria squeezed his firm bicep to halt his lips from moving. You grinned, unlacing your hands from Bogard’s arm and placing your left hand within his right. 

“Always a pleasure to see you, Sir Crocodile,” you spoke kindly and gracefully, nodding with a low bow in gratitude to Bogard. He mirrored your action, turning back towards the hall with Maria giving you a small wink in response. 

Crocodile attempted to place you within the crook of his right arm, but you turned away from his grip and softly draped yourself beneath his left and elevated his golden hook with your hands around his elbow. 

“You prefer the left, do you, little dove?” he whispered down with a slow rumbled chuckle in his drawl. You smiled, looking up at him through your decorated eyelashes and batting them playfully. 

“Any opportunity to be in the presence of your majesty is an honor,” you simply brushed his question aside, slowly running your fingers over his golden prosthetic, “Why steal me away from the marine?” He began ushering you towards the doors in an easy step. 

“You deserve to be showcased in your radiancy alone, enjoying the spotlight you deserve,” he whispered, in your ear as he leaned in a deep stoop beside you, “Especially in a dress that fine.” You smile warmly up at him, raking your eyes over his face and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. 

As you made it through the double doors of the marine gala, you felt eyes burn into you from across the room. Without paying the seering gaze any attention, you simply turn to Sir Crocodile and give him a gentle curtsey in gratitude of his gentlemanly chaperone. He smirks in response, pressing his lips to your knuckles before he takes his leave of you. 

Finally alone and unoccupied, you survey the room to locate Maria and Bogard already engaged in conversation with the marine upperclassmen. Not truly sure where to place yourself at this time, you finally make eye contact with the gaze you were avoiding. 

Donquixote Doflamingo’s eyes, although shrouded by his rosy glasses, never left you from the moment you entered the room wearing one of the gowns he had sent you in his array of gifts. He grit his teeth behind his lips and turned up his nose at you. 

Turning to one of his concubines beside him, he began pressing lengthy and tactless kisses over her all-too willing lips. He then turned from that one and brought his attention to the other woman beside him, pressing a kiss to her neck and raking his lengthy tongue up from her chin, up her jaw, to her ear. 

Instead of revealing your disdain for such a lewd act, not revealing the pang in your chest from the display of his attention wandering away from you, you decide to keep your face vacant. Looking him up and down, you simply turn around and wander towards the bar area alone. 

Noticing again your prior chaperone, you spare Doflamingo a final glance through your peripherals before ironing your resolve. You approach him with slow and intentional steps, almost something akin to a stalking dance with the click of your shoes alerting him of your upcoming presence on his left side. 

“Sir Crocodile,” you arch your back while placing your elbows on the bar, and look up at him through your eyelashes, “Would you be up for a little game to pass the time?” He arches his brow up, placing his cigar in his teeth before breathing in a gulping lungfull of sour smoke.

“Up to no good again are you, little dove?” He asked, the cool rumble of his voice shaking your spine in joyful anticipation. You nodded, subtle enough not to draw attention away from Doflamingo as he continued consuming his concubines’ mouths vigorously. “State your terms,” Sir Crocodile asked with a light purr.

“An exchange, sir,” you cocked your head, playfully biting your lip as you hummed at him, “I’ll buy you a glass of anything you want, if you would grant me a single kiss here and now.” Sir Crocodile’s interest peaked, his eyes widening ever so slightly as you continued your suggestion. 

“I admit to you, the King of Dressrosa has had me in his sights for some time,” Sir Crocodile listens to your confession as you utter it in a low whisper. “He is attempting to make me jealous,” you noted, prompting Crocodile to look at him from the corner of his eye, “And I simply do not care.” 

Crocodile hummed in thought, enjoying another deep drag from his cigar, nodding at you to resume your explanation. 

“I don’t want him, and I need him to know I don’t want him,” you confessed as Crocodile placed his cigar in the steel tray beside him, “I would rather chew glass than endure his attention a moment longer, so I thought perhaps if I were to enjoy the attention of another,” you drew up your index and middle fingers on the bar, playfully walking the digits atop the mahogany surface, “He might leave me in peace.” 

“And I was the easier mark to make between all those here present?” Sir Crocodile hunched down to your level, looking deeply into your eyes with his stalking orbs, “My offer as an earlier chaperone had you choose me as your target?”

“Not at all, sir,” you smirked, eyes darting between his with flirtatious mischief, “I chose you because I thought, one: Sir Crocodile would likely need something interesting to cure his boredom amongst the marines and fellow warlords,” you inched your fingers ever closer to his golden hook, looking down at it while you hovered your fingertips over the metallic surface, “And, two: Sir Crocodile is the most handsome man in this room, and it would be an absolute delight to hold his attention, even if naught for a moment.” 

A slow chuckle emitted from deep within his throat, his eyes falling half-lidded as his smile grew wider and more playful beneath his scarred cheeks. 

“A single drink for a single kiss,” he confirmed with a curt nod, his right hand collecting yours from atop his hook and pressing a gentle kiss on your knuckles, “Or a bottle of my choosing, and you would be more than welcome to continue singing my praises atop my knee for the night, Princess.” 

You snuck a look at Doflamingo. Although his eyes were shrouded by his rosy glasses, you witnessed him glaring at the man beside you intensely. Allowing a soft giggle to rise in your chest, you dart your eyes down to the lips of Sir Crocodile before returning to his eyes. 

“Please,” you uttered quietly. Your whispered plea had Crocodile's breath hitch in his throat, his jaw falling slightly slack and eyes glazing over briefly. 

Crocodile released your hand, gesturing to the barkeep for a bottle of scotch from the highest shelf before darting his hand into the side pocket of his pants leg. Withdrawing a clip of Berry, he paid the barkeep and gestured for you to pick up the twin glasses beside the scotch bottle. 

You shot him a puzzled look, prompting him to lean over your shoulder in slow and intentional movements. His lips grazed the outer shell of your ear, drawing up your grin as he uttered, “It'd look far better for me to purchase the bottle to Doflamingo’s wandering eye. Make it seem like it's all my idea. Now, react as if I've said the most scandalous thing you'd ever heard.” 

“I'll repay you when I'm on your knee, Sir Crocodile. I'll slip my Berry into your pockets,” you sigh in response, your eyes fluttering shut as you feign responding to an illusionary, sultry remark, “And why don't you just tell me a scandalous thing instead?” 

He chuckled at your comment, pulling away from your shoulder and offering his left arm to you. You placed your right arm within the crook of his left elbow, his hook brushing lightly against your breast as he led you away from the bar. Twin smiles of mischief were painted on your lips, both teetering on the edge of small snickers as Crocodile sat on the plush, studded arm-chair in the corner of the room. 

Placing down the bottle of scotch, you followed suit and placed beside the bottle the two short glasses to contain it. Crocodile tapped his left thigh with his right hand, a smirk tugging up at the corners of his lips in anticipation of what you would do in response. Hastily tucking a folded wad of Berry into your hands, you began your little show of how much you truly did not care about Donquixote Doflamingo’s unwarranted attention. 

Making a show of it, you traced the outside of both of his thighs with your fingers as you stooped in front of him. You arched your back, giving Doflamingo a clear view of your ass to distract him from you placing a wad of Berry within sir Crocodile’s pant pocket. After tucking in the notes, you roamed your hands over his waist and up to his shoulders as you sat on Sir Crocodile’s left knee. 

His left arm hung over your hip. The steely tip of his golden hook tracing dangerous circles over your thigh, threatening to split the fabric of your dress in one fell swipe. You hooked your left leg over your right, reaching towards the table and filling the two glasses of the amber fluid before offering one to Sir Crocodile. 

Taking his glass from you, you both dipped your rims against one anothers, eliciting a soft ‘clink,’ in response. Smirking, you elevated your glass to your lips, Crocodile doing the same, and tasted the bitter burn of smoked scotch over your tongue. You leant forward, placing down the glass atop the table as before. 

Instead of rising to sit upright on the table once more, you traced the angular jaw of Sir Crocodile with your index finger. Eyeing you cautiously, he sat further back in his seat to make himself more comfortable. 

“How far are you willing to go to play this game, Sir Crocodile?” you asked him, your thumb and index finger gently pinching his chin. He smiled at you, brow arched as he looked through his dark eyelashes up at you. 

“You paid me like a whore,” He chuckled in a low rumble, his eyes darting down to his pants pocket and back up to yours, “I would almost suggest that gives you the right to treat me like one.” You scrunch your nose and attempt to bite back your giggle to absolutely no avail. 

The laugh shook your body as you lean further down into his chest. He chuckled at your response, reaching behind you to place down his short-glass on the table before placing that hand on your midsection at the base of your ribcage. He tugged you into his chest further, his hook scratching at your thigh, as he waited for your lips to descend atop his. 

“Kiss me,” you whispered to him, hovering your lips over his.

“Would look far better if you kissed me,” he whispered in return, a lopsided smile beckoning you in with a playful taunt “Go on, little dove. Romance me.” 

Cocking your head softly at his challenge, your smile only grew ever wider in response. You placed your right hand at the base of his neck, weaving your fingers into his hair and tilting his chin up with your left. Pressing your lips against his gently, you began coaxing him to open up to your teasing ministrations. 

Playfully nipping his lower lip, you traced your left hand over his jaw and down to perch on his shoulder. His thumb flicked over your ribcage, carefully holding you flush against his chest. His hook collected your dress at the hemline, playfully raising it higher as your kisses turned more daring. 

Where Doflamingo differed with openly ravishing his concubines’ faces, you were gentle with your own. Always gentle and intentional with your lips collecting Sir Crocodile's beneath your own. He was a willing recipient, truly enjoying the embrace with a soft hum through his nose, as opposed to someone behaving as if they were there only for Berry. 

Where the situations truly differed in your scandalous kisses and Doflamingo's was the fact that his concubines had naught but the name they went by for the evening. Your partner was Sir Crocodile: the lord of Alabaster, and a man of high reputation and power. You were the one on his lap, a woman with a high profile and not a scratch on your history. 

Your fingertips massaged his scalp as you switched angles, parting your lips to gently brush your tongue against his. A soft moan fled from his mouth to yours, his brows furrowed and his eyes lay closed in bliss.  As your sweetness began to chip away at his resolve to not overtake your domination and replace it with his own, you traced more massaging circles against his scalp. 

Finally pulling away from his lips, your left hand rose from its position on his shoulder and cupped his jaw. His eyes remained closed, only fluttering partially half-lidded when you traced his bottom lip with your thumb. 

“More scotch, Sir Crocodile?” you hummed at him, withdrawing your right hand from his scalp and cupping his left shoulder. You brushed your nose against his, circling it before pressing a chaste kiss against his lips, that he reciprocated immediately. The soft kiss ended as soon as it began, both of you, all smiles, as the mischief returned between you. 

“Do you kiss all your whores like this?” he asked you in a breathy whisper, “And yes. Please.” 

“Unlike many here present,” you smiled, withdrawing from the embrace and reaching over towards your twin glasses, “I don't keep the company of whores often, nor am I one myself. But you?” you claimed the glasses from the table. 

He awaited your continued songs of his praises, watching every move you made with keen interest. Sneaking a hasty look at Doflamingo only seemed to draw his smile up further. Soothing soft circles on your back had his smile purr through his lips, and a soft growl protruding from Doflamingo's clenched teeth.

“You make a very grand choice of a whore to keep. A high end whore.” Crocodile released your back from his embrace, looking up into your eyes once more. “A wonderful companion for the evening, your lips and kisses are simply a bonus.” Returning with the drinks from your stoop, the slightly revealed flesh beneath Crocodile’s hook was enough to elevate Doflamingo's pulse to an alarming rate. 

Wordlessly, you raised your glasses up to your lips and sipped at the contents. He unhooked his golden limb from your dress, smoothing it against your thigh with the flattened underside and trailed it back up to circle your hip. 

“I am glad you think so highly of me, my princess,” he praised you, his hook caressing your hip, “It is an interesting experience, being on the receiving end of ‘time’ for Berry; especially with the added intrigue at snubbing the king of Dressrosa.”

“I'm glad you're a willing participant, my cunning and handsome crocodile,” you released your right hand from his shoulder, collecting his chin beneath it, “Your company and attention has also been a highlight for me.”

Donquixote Doflamingo stood transfixed on the sight that just occurred. He had not spoken, had not groped at the women at his sides, nor had he made any wordless threats towards his subordinates from the moment he saw you link arms with Sir Crocodile. 

An unfamiliar emotion swirled in the pit of his stomach, drawing up to cage his lungs in steel claws. He knew rage and anger, and was accustomed to experiencing rage and anger from early childhood. But this emotion was something that advanced the spectrum of rage and anger, becoming something else entirely. 

He was drawn back to a moment from his past; his brother playing with a soft toy rabbit with long, droopy ears. Doflamingo decided the rabbit would look better in his hands, snatching the velveteen material away from Rosinante. As Rosinante begged for its safe return to him, Doflamingo, instead, tore the rabbit in half. 

His rationale was, ‘If I can't play with it, no one can.’ The longer he saw your smile draw up on your cheeks, your hands playing with the cravatte attached to Sir Crocodile’s neck, or trailing down his chest as he looked up at you with adoration, the longer he felt this rage fester inside of him. 

But rage, he was familiar with. This rage entwined its claws with a sorrow he had not known it's equal. His body was screaming in violent fury, while sobbing in silent yearning. He wanted you out of the jaws of the Crocodile, and shrouded beneath his wings at his side. 

He wants you to stop touching Crocodile like that. He wants you to stop laughing with Crocodile like that. He wants you to stop smiling that beautiful smile, whispering those witty retorts, and arching your back to give Crocodile a glimpse of your perfect body, he loved, like that. 

Doflamingo paused, his head cocking to the side as he scrunched his eyes and clenched his teeth hard enough to nearly shatter them.

He had already made a declaration of love to you, and you had even allowed him a kiss after ravishing your body under the effects of the pollen. He wanted you so badly, so desperately. Why wouldn't you just see reason and give into him? And why weren't you jealous of the two women at his side?

Jealous. That was the word swirling in his brain and clouding his mind. He wanted you to be jealous, but instead of gathering the proper reaction from you: you fled into the arms of another. 

And he was jealous. He was jealous of the time you were sharing with Sir Crocodile, instead of him. 

The jealousy only grew as you appeared to be truly enjoying being on the receiving end of doting from the older gentleman. It should've been him, you on his lap and singing his praises. His regrets at past treatment of you only forging more resentment towards Sir Crocodile, a man he truly respected. 

Meanwhile, Sir Crocodile recounted a tale of his youth, informing you of the cultural differences between Alabaster and your own, informed you of a variety of dishes he was fond of, and asked you a variety of questions to recount your own life. Truely, you praised yourself for choosing him as your mark. He was a delightful conversation partner. 

“All of this aside, you must tell me what is going on with you and Doflamingo?” his voice darkened and lowered in his usual tone, “He has not looked away from you the moment we entered the room together. Even now, his glasses are focussed on you atop my knee, my princess.”

You sighed, pouring another two rounds of scotch and handing it to Sir Crocodile. He raised his brows, waiting for a response from you while you remained silent. He grumbled in light frustration, prompting you again. 

“Have you slept with him?” he asked, you snap your eyes over and look down your nose at him in response. His brow arched higher, a slight sneer pulling at his lips. 

“Yes,” you hissed your confession with a snarl, mostly at recounting the moment together between you and Doflamingo in his lavish dining room. Sir Crocodile had his interest peaked for a second time, leaning forward and darting his eyes between yours. 

“And how was it?” you snapped your head down at him, forcing your brows to furrow deeper with a soft pout on your lips. Taking a deep breath in, you began your harsh whisper. 

“He is egotistical, malicious, conniving, back-stabbing, and self-centered at all times,” you spat, shaking your shoulders and hissing, “How do you think it went?” 

“Ah,” he echoed a lengthy exhale, his smile drawing up his cheeks, “So it was good, then,” Sir Crocodile chuckled, reaching into his breast pocket and placing a cigar in his teeth. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” you pouted softly, leaning away from Sir Crocodile and raising your glass up to your lips, “It was very good.”

“What made you do it?” he reached into his pocket again, claiming a gold-capped lighter and igniting the end, “You claim to hate him so much, yet you slept with him.”

You huffed another sigh of defeat, attempting to continue the facade of being a content plaything atop Sir Crocodile's knee with a subtle stretch and sultry roll of your torso. He watched with interest, exhaling a breath of cigar smoke as he fixed his gaze upon your face. 

“He attempted to poison me with an aphrodisiac,” you confessed truthfully, “I switched glasses with him, and he doused himself with it. Was a begging, pleading, whiny mess.” Your lips tugged up at the corners, “Would have been cruel to leave him in such a state.

“While I am many things, my handsome Crocodile,” you whisper to him, your eyes depicting a seriousness within them, “Cruel is not one of my main attributes.”

“He has concubines,” Sir Crocodile commented with humor dripping from his voice, “Why didn't you leave to get them for him?”

“I tried,” you giggled at his voice, alongside his hook tickling at your hip and thigh, “He all but forced me to stay with his pleading silver tongue, and those pretty, ruby eyes.” 

This was the first time Sir Crocodile released an unbridled laugh from deep within the recesses of his belly. His loud laughter drew a few wandering eyes, and prompted you to laugh yourself. He gently swatted at your thigh, giving your leg a curt, playful tap. 

“So you do find him attractive, and allowed him to persuade you with a few pretty words,” his teasing prompted you to roll your eyes in response, “And here I thought I was the one you found most attractive here.”

“You are, Sir Crocodile,” you cooed down at the man, pursing your lips as you combed through his hair with your fingers, “So handsome,” you leaned forward, brushing your nose against his and pressing a sweet kiss against his lips.

He hummed into you, this time drawing up his right hand to cup the back of your head to hold you closer. A small gasp of surprise spilled from your lips as he moved his mouth slowly and lovingly against yours. His nose brushed with yours as he changed angles, his eyes fluttered shut as he enjoyed your embrace. 

Doflamingo grew livid, dismissing his concubines for the night and sculking over to the corner of the room to continue watching the two of you in a loving embrace. His scowl was intense and enraged, his gaze like his devil-fruit wires attached to pointed fingertips. 

“Doflamingo is watching more intently now,” Crocodile murmured against your lips, nudging your face up with his chin to break the kiss, “Are you certain you truly have no feelings for him?”

“He has feelings for me,” you admitted plainly, Crocodile leant forwards to claim your lips against his once more. You hummed against him, enjoying his attention and the sultry motion of his lips on yours. 

“He admitted them?” he sighed, moving his lips over to your jaw, “Made a claim on you?” He pressed a few soft kisses on your neck, gazing directly at Doflamingo, before pulling away. His eyes met yours, a soft and mischievous smirk rising up his lips. 

“He proposed to me. He called me ‘his queen,’ and ‘mi amor’,” you sighed in response, playing with Sir Crocodile’s hair at the nape of his neck, “I refused.”

“Ah, I see,” the wicked crocodilian grin drew up his cheeks, the silver scar joining the creases of his smiling eyes, “Men can act like animals when the mate they want rejects them,” he nodded, sweeping your hair away from your face, “And he did have such a pretty one picked out.”

“I should've put him down like the rabid dog he is,” you rolled your eyes, sneaking a look at Doflamingo from the corner of your eye and noticing his glasses partially drawn down his nose to pay you both unshrouded attention. 

“More akin to some diseased poultry,” Crocodile's playfulness prompted you to relax back into him, giving him your undivided attention once more. Raising your glasses again, you withdrew from his arms and sipped at your scotch. 

You both continued joking with one another, switching to more civilized conversation before it came time to excuse yourself from his lap and use the bathroom. He was pleased to find a new friend in you, truly feeling as if he had made a new ally and friendship with you. 

“It has been a pleasure being your lap princess for the night,” you complimented him, “I have never been more thankful that you attended the soiree without an escort, or me without a solitary chaperone.”

“I have enjoyed playing the part of your whore for the night,” he chuckled with a warm smile, “And I never need an escort, my princess,” claiming your right hand in his right and pressing his lips to your knuckles, “I tend to steal the pretty ones from the marines as a subtle ‘fuck you,’ to being called to attend these soirees. Truly a waste of my time.”

“I'm sorry to have held your attention for so long, Sir Crocodile,” you trailed your eyes over his face one final time, focussing on his lips before returning to his purple orbs, “Happy hunting for what comes next for you.”

“And good luck with Doflamingo,” he smirked at you, “You'll likely need it for what comes next for you,” offering you one final kiss atop your knuckles before you turned away towards the bathrooms. Once there, you hastily finished refreshing yourself, noticing you were not nearly as intoxicated as you ought to be with the amount of scotch you consumed. 

After exiting the small, single bathroom, you move to the hallway vanity and begin to wash your hands, blissfully ignorant of the looming figure rapidly approaching behind you. Toying with your lips, you fixed the small smudge on your chin from Sir Crocodile’s earlier sultry oscillations against your face. 

You looked beside your reflection, noting the pink feathers before all else over your shoulder. Shadow concealed his face, the small shine of pink from his glasses reflected was the only indication that he was truly looking at you. 

“Donquixote,” you uttered your dark acknowledgement, drying your hands on the ornate towels provided. 

“Mi amor,” he returned your tone, his cadence deep and dangerous. You drew up your heckles at that comment before choosing to make your way back into the main hall. You turned your head away from him, choosing to strut past him with no further acknowledgement of him. 

Just as you made it to the arched doorway, a strong palm and thick fingers surrounded the base of your neck, tugging you backwards against his chest. The crown of your head slotted harshly between his pectorals, your eyes and lips both scrunching tightly shut as he leaned down into your ear. 

“Where are you going?” he growled into your ear with a lazy slur in his speech as you attempt to wriggle and turn your head away in response, “I thought you said you don't usually take men twice your size, yet you chose to nibble at his face like a plover cleaning the jaws of a crocodile.” He returned you to the position you found yourself prior, using his brute strength to angle your body towards the vanity mirror. 

“Better than watching a flamingo feed his baby chicks mouthfuls of his own regurgitation,” you spat, choosing to stand strong in his steely grip, “Unhand me.” He flexed his hand, tensing the digits to completely wring your neck within his single hand. 

“For you to return to sit on his knee?” Doflamingo shook your neck lightly, “To place your lips on his once more?” he tightened his grip, “To invite him to your suite to share a private evening together?” You whimpered beneath his strength, his growl of foreboding ending your train of thought with a simple, “Not a chance.” 

“Release me, Donquixote,” you choked out, your hands clutching at your throat to break away his vice-like grip, “I am not yours to toy with. I didn't arrive with you, and I will certainly not be leaving with you.”

“You arrived with Sir Crocodile as his guest, did you not?” he drew up his arm to clutch at your torso with his vacant hand, “You're truly planning on leaving with him tonight? To take him home and continue your display of lust and passion?”

You chose to remain silent, an action that seemed to anger him more. You slammed your eyes shut, feeling how tense he was squeezing your neck with his left hand, while his right snaked down to your stomach. Scrunching your eyes ever tighter, he pawed at your dress and began to ball the material into heaping fistfuls just below your hips. 

“You were going to give to him what always should be mine,” he barked, raking his right hand over your stomach while burying his head within the crook of your shoulder, “You're mine.” His whisper cracked into a soft whimper, but you remained firm in your stance. 

You released your hands from clawing at his left hand. Arching your shoulders back, you tilted your chin up and clenched your jaw tightly closed. Doflamingo burried his face further into your neck and you felt the gentle quiver of his lip atop your skin. 

“Why can't you just-...?” he stuttered out, glancing up at your reflection. You darted your eyes from yourself to him in the mirror, noticing the swell in his ruby gaze weeping over his lashline. 

“Why can't I just what, Warlord?” you whispered, eyes narrow and dangerous. His lips parted as he pressed a soft and gentle kiss against your skin in response. He hooked his nose over your pulse and inhaled the scent against your skin. 

Snapping your hard gaze from your distorted reflection to his. Your eyes alone had the hand on your stomach and thighs immediately rip away from your flesh. The other loosened its grip on your neck, his fingers only holding you steady instead. 

“Why can't I what, Donquixote?” you uttered darkly. A soft quiver in his lips and straightening of his back away. His grip held him against you, his shrouded eyes unbreaking in their attention. 

“Answer me, Donquixote,” you barked your orders at him, “Take off those ridiculous glasses and answer me.” Snapping out of his partial daze, his frown deepened and his scowl drew over his lips. 

“You-... You can't tell me what to do-,” he began, halting as you turned in his arms and snatched the pink glasses off his face. 

“I am not some paid concubine you can take advantage of in a bathroom without a moment's notice,” you elevated your command while scowling, your lips rose in front of gnashing teeth, “Nor am I a whore for free use to sheathe yourself in. Although I may not be a warlord, a marine, or a pirate: what I am is not someone to be treated this way.”

His eyes darted between yours, his left hand still firmly affixed to the nape of your neck. You inhaled a deep breath, hardened your features and extended your chin in the air with pride. 

“Is this the way you would treat a queen, Donquixote?” your vocal cadence had Doflamingo's eyes fluttering, the ruby hue glimmering behind his thick, blonde eyelashes. He closed his eyes, only reopening them to look at your feet. 

“I do not understand,” he whispered, releasing your neck from his hand and instead reaching for your hand. You placed your right hand in his left, reaching forward and claiming his right hand in your left. 

“Try again,” you whispered in a tone lighter than air. He closed his eyes, blinking back his prior domination and succumbing to forced humility. 

“I truly care not for queens, kings, emperors, gods, nor their heirs and their titles,” he uttered his confession, his thumbs circle over your knuckles, dwarfing your hands within his own. “What I do care about is you. And I would treat you as a goddess if you would be my queen,” he stepped forward, stooping as he pressed his forehead against yours. 

As his grip lightened on your hands, you hastily snatched them away from him. Using the time to adjust your dress to a more suitable length and smooth over the material. A shudder of his hands at the absence of yours prompted him to wince back in shock. He cringed at his own admittance of adoration for you once more, knowing you would likely shoot him down again. 

You broke away from pressing your forehead against his and turned back to face your reflection. Checking over your makeup for smudges and smears, you simply turned on your heel without another word to Doflamingo behind you. A soft call of your name prompted you to slow your exit, but what truly caught you off guard was a single word from the man behind you. 

“Please.”

Hovering at the door, you paused on the threshold before exiting. Looking over your shoulder, you noticed Doflamingo was yet to place his glasses back on his face. His rounded eyes looked up at you through his lengthy eyelashes, a soft stutter in his movements prompting your lips to part. 

“Please what, Donquixote?” you attempted, his hand raising up to halt your words. 

“Please be mine. Say you're mine. Say you'll be my queen: my Reina of Dressrosa,” he rolled your name following his own family name in a breathy chant, “Mi amor, I need you by my side. Say you're mine, and I will fall on my knees for you.”

You choked on your own words, your tongue refusing to relay an affirmation or negation of claiming such a title for yourself. Blinking hastily, you redrew your eyes to the lengthy, wide corridor and back once more to the vanity behind you. 

“Mi Reina,” he serenaded you, romancing your resolution to simply leave him there, “Why can't you just give into me?” You shut your eyes and inhale deeply, holding it for a moment before releasing the tension in your breath. 

“I don't see you on your knees,” you whisper in a sneer without peering over at him. In response to your taunt, all you heard was a thud and a ruffle of feathers. You open your eyes and gaze straight ahead as you hear the shuffle of leather meeting the tiled bathroom floor. 

“If you turn, you will see me exactly how I will remain for you,” he whispered his plea, desperate for your attention, “Only for you, my queen.” After another nonchalant sigh, you finally give in and turn to him. 

The King of Dressrosa, the powerful warlord in a shroud of pink feathers, and the man who haunted your every dream with memories of the afternoon shared together, was on his knees. His knees were parted and his back was arched in a deep concave to compensate for his lanky form. He was the picture of humility and his eyes almost held the desperation and innocence of a child who was grieving a lost toy. 

“And how would you treat your queen, Doflamingo?” you whisper to him, slowly walking over and staring down at his hung head and pleading eyes. Cupping his cheek in your hand, you draw your face down and hover them over his. 

“I would worship you, mi amor,” he whispered, holding eye contact with you and pressing his lips against your palm. “I would seek to please you each morning, afternoon, and well into the night. I would do anything for you, just for the pleasure of having you at my side.” His eyelashes fluttered and his breath hitched. 

“You're pathetic, Doflamingo,” you whisper without remorse, “Attempting to make me jealous with your concubines, only to become jealous yourself. Disgraceful.” He whimpered, his pupils eclipsing his ruby eyes as his lips quivered. 

“D-Don't bully me like this,” he whispers, arching his body into the scrap of attention you're giving him as he remains kneeling on the bathroom floor, “You know it only makes me want you more.” You smirk at him, leaning over his lips and hovering your above his. 

“Despicable and detestable,” you whisper, prompting him to whine in response to your degradation. 

“Stop it, mi amor. I'm serious,” he whimpered, his blonde eyebrows raising in a peak in the centre of his eyebrows, “You know how hard your horrible words make my cock. I'll cum untouched if you carry on like this.”

“Oh,” you pout in a mocking tease, “So disgusting, Doflamingo. You are an egotistical, self-centered, horrible person who doesn't deserve to taste my lips on his.”

“P-Please, mi amor,” he stuttered, his lips parting and huffing in response, “Please kiss me. Say you're mine. Say you'll be with me always-.” You cut him off by giving in and placing your lips over his and claiming his whimpers into your mouth. 

He immediately drew his hands to the back of your thighs and tugged you into his broad chest, moaning and whining like a greedy puppy being gifted his first steak after a lifetime of malnourishment. He rubbed patterns into your skin with the pads of his thumbs, raking his hands up to splay over your ass and mould them beneath his lengthy digits. 

“I hate you,” you utter into his lips as your kiss lingers on. He groans into your lips and rolls his eyes in bliss as you finally grant him the attention he so desperately craves from you. 

“I love you,” he confessed in a breathy chant, forcing your legs apart and urging you to step over his hips for balance. You softly caress his shoulders and gather your hands at the back of his neck, tilting your chin and grinding your tongue against his in an unbridled expression of your lust. 

The truth of it was this: Donquixote Doflamingo had not experienced a single orgasm since you allowed him the pleasure of burrying himself deep within your perfect pussy. He couldn't bring himself to release his seed into his hand, nor erupt in ecstasy with his concubines forthwith. 

There was nothing he could do to usher himself within the halls of heavenly bliss, not even picturing your face as he usually did could bring him over the edge. His impotence came as a complete surprise to him, but his libido remained ever higher. He was drunk on your pussy, a curse he knew would plague him harder than the pollen ever could. 

Each time he nearly reached the end of climax, his body forced him to edge himself by simply blocking his pathway to heaven. And each time he experienced this, he would send you a gift to know he thought of you. It was a cruel game he was playing, each gift becoming more extravagant and extreme than the last. He wanted you, and he knew you truly didn't want him. 

But now as he felt you within his arms and ravishing his lips with your own, he could barely contain himself. He loved you so desperately, he knew he could only seek out satisfaction within your arms. 

You smirked into the kiss, raising your right foot off the ground and placing it over where you knew his hard cock was lingering beneath. He immediately whimpered into your mouth, nodding frantically and urging you to press harder. 

Breaking your lips away, you gazed predatorily into his eyes and sneered at him with a cruel grin. 

“You want me to be your queen, Doflamingo?” you asked him, pressing harder with your heel over his clothed and achingly stiff cock, “Prove it to me.” He nodded, his eyes looking up eagerly and desperately. 

“Please, my queen,” he whispered, removing one hand from your ass and wringing your ankle with his lengthy digits, “I'll do anything.” His eyes filled with glossy tears as he gazed up at you with nothing but devotion. 

You tested his resolve, slowly grinding the ball of your foot over his cock and collecting a high-pitched groan from him in response. You began to pick up the pace, angling your toes to curl and circle over his cock beneath his patterned leather pants. 

“Anything?” you hum your question at him with a soft click of your tongue, “Are you quite sure, Doflamingo?” 

“Anything!” he huffed and panted, his hand gripping your ankle grinding his cock into your foot while his hips began to rutt against your shoe. “Please, I'll do anything. Anything you want. Please.” 

“Oh, so pathetic,” you pout at him, looking down at him as his jaw fell slack and eyes grew half lidded. The longer he ground his cock against your ankle, the harder he pawed at your ass to withhold him from cumming immediately. He was so built up, he couldn't take another minute without you. 

“You gonna cum in your pants, pretty boy?” you taunt him. He immediately strained his release, withholding his climax by gritting his teeth and whining in response. 

“Only if you let me, my queen,” his breathy whisper had your eyes eclipse with your own lust. He continued to grind and rutt his aching cock against your shoe, his eyes crying as he withheld his orgasm from exploding immediately.  

“Go on then, Doflamingo,” you taunt him, caressing his forehead and taunting him with your gracious, gentle affection while overwhelming his senses by pressing your shoe firmer against his cock. “Cum in your pants like a misbehaving puppy. Cum for your queen.”

“M-my queen?” He stuttered rocking his hips harder into your food while rolling the flesh of your ass beneath his hand, “Can I cum for you, my queen? You'll let me cum for you? My queen? You'll be mine?” His questions flew out of his lips faster than lightning, prompting you to laugh at him in response. 

He took your laughter as a sign of your permission, immediately flooding his pants with sticky ropes of his viscous cum. He was so pent up, his thick load coated the insides of his pants and immediately moved to stain the material of his pants with the oozy dampness of his eruption. 

“Fuck-... I-I'm cumming. I'm-... f-fuck-... hhah-... fuck, mi amor. I'm cumming,” he chanted your name like a prayer, wheezing as his breath ran away from him at the coil in his abdomen snapping so harshly by such a small touch. You kept your shoe firmly pressed against his cock, clicking your tongue as you felt his cum seep through his pants into your shoe. 

“Tsk, you made a big mess of my favourite shoes, Doflamingo,” you utter in disgust before your lips spring up into an unhinged smile, “Lick it off.” 

Without further words he eagerly drew your ankle up to his face and parted his lips. Releasing his tongue out, he swirled the moist morsel over the ball of your foot and licked over your toes. He never once drew his eyes away from yours, his lips drifting from licking your heel to kissing the tips of your toes. 

“Enough,” you said, tearing your foot away from his face and looking down your nose at him. He fluttered his eyelashes at you while feeling the thick globs of glossy cum trickle down his balls and pool at his ass between his parted thighs. 

“You'll marry me, then?” Doflamingo questioned you in a low whisper, “You'll be my queen and rule by my side as my goddess? Mi Reina. Mi amor, please say I passed your test.” 

You hum in thought, feining contemplation while knowing within your heart the answer you truly wanted. 

“Yes, you greedy, detestable man,” you roll your eyes at him, caressing his cheek before bringing your lips to brush against his forehead, “I'll marry you.” He exhaled a breath he didn't know he was withholding and felt a weight fall away from his shoulders. He flopped into your touch, releasing your ankle and ass and drawing his hands up to cradle your lower back into his chest. 

Removing one of his hands, he reached into the hidden breast pocket within his pink, feathered cloak and pulled out a small, burgandy box. You place both feet beside his hips and hold firm in your stance. 

“Good,” he smiled with a shaky breath, withdrawing his head from your hands and revealing the glossy box to you. “Because otherwise I would've brought this along all for nothing.” He opened the box, revealing a soft pink, solitaire, square diamond on a golden band of rubies and garnets to frame it. 

“Really, Doflamingo?” you lull your head to the side and glare at him, “You're going to propose to me on the bathroom floor of a marine gala with your pants flooded with cum?” He nodded eagerly in response, his eyes looking up, hopeful and pleading. 

“You really are pathetic,” you utter in response, tugging your left hand away from his face and holding it out to him. He laughed, his smile genuine and truly happy as he removed the carefully selected ring and placed it over your unity finger. It slotted over your finger with ease, his lips eagerly finding your knuckles as soon as he moved it to the hilt. 

“Careful with your mean words now, Mami,” he whispered into your hand, his eyes falling half-lidded and dangerous, “Or my pants won't be the only thing leaving this bathroom with my cum painting it's insides.”

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.

law birthday doodle

They told me to put my heart in everything I do. So that’s what I did, and I poured and I poured and I poured. Now they ask me why I am so empty and confused. Drawing and illustration Felicia Chiao on instagram.