I care about you, from the bottom of my heart.

You had been born an Anouki; a species that was unique in Hyrule but not the world itself. Your tribe were nomads to a certain degree, having moved from one island to another over many millennia in search of peace and safety. Yours was a long-life species much like the Zora, as your kind didn't mature until a much older age than Hylians, so you wouldn't be shocked to learn that the other women in your convoy were all your juniors. Part of what characterized your kind was also your appearance–although one might mistake you for a Hylian at first glance, they would need only to lift their gaze upwards to spot the antlers rooted firmly to the crown of your head. Yours were especially impressive since you'd rarely had them damaged by battle, though you still possessed some nicks and notches from the wear and tear of life. But they were still sturdy, thick and dark with a layer of light, fuzzy bristles covering every inch of bone and tissue. Aside from your telltale antlers, most of your kind were soft in the belly and in the heart, and even now as you crossed the desert you still wore your signature parka made of hide and packed with blubber that matched all the others your community wore, though this one was tailor-made by your childhood friend Maru. He was one of the few in your small tribe that was comparable in age to you, and as younglings you had spent many happy years chasing each other round the snow-capped hills, learning to hunt and fish and cook and wrestle.

As Honcho, your chief, had recalled in his storytelling, your tribe had settled in this new land of Hyrule just before its infancy–you were only a youngling then so you wouldn't have remembered, but your family and the rest of the Anouki had arrived by boat on the shores of the icy region of Lanayru, and were quick to make the glorious mountain your home. The region was bigger and more fruitful than any land they'd lived in before, and so with little hesitation your people built their village in the valley between Lanayru's peak and the cliffsides that bordered Hateno Village. However, little did they know at the time, impostors had been among them. A few pairs of the Yook–a beastly race with a voracious hunger that were your kind's sworn enemy–had disguised themselves as Anouki to sneak onboard, and upon reaching the new settlement they scattered amongst the snowy hills to make roots in their own land. They were a monstrous group that had long feuded with your tribe, and over the years since your first arrival they had wreaked havoc on your lives whenever the opportunity struck. It was the Yook that had stolen your tribe's sacred Azurine stone in a time long past, and it was them that had taken your parents from you when you were far too young. Swallowed whole and eaten alive, as all young Anouki feared from the stories your elders would tell. You had no love for them nor did any in your tribe, and they had since become an obstacle in your community's appeal to be recognized by the king and queen of Hyrule as an official settlement.

That was part of the reason you were here at all, but it wasn't only for that. You almost felt as if there was something luring you here, that this admiration for the Gerudo had spun from something that simple into something that called you to this place. If you thought about it that way, really, it made the reality of your circumstances a touch easier to deal with–you had, after all, been voted for by your people as the proper representative, though they had little idea of what this trip really entailed. Of course, you hadn't been made entirely aware of why the Gerudo were looking for suitable women until you had met with the escort at the gates of Lanayru, and realized this was not simply a gesture of good faith to make contact with the others that made up Hyrule's divisive population. This was, rather, a ballot to determine a suitable wife for the Gerudo king, a man of whom you had only heard whispers of throughout your journey here.

"Get moving!" The Hylian woman hissed again, your feet now off the donkey and on solid ground as she shoved you forward an inch–fortunately not enough for you to stumble, else you'd get in much heftier trouble for making a scene in the middle of the square.

Despite not being bound by shackles or rope, you did truly feel trapped, even in such a gorgeous place. The reason for your venture wouldn’t have been your first choice, but with few other options than this the least you could do was find gratitude for being able to visit the city, if nothing else. And to be grateful for your outfit–Maru had insisted on you staying cool in such a wildly opposite climate to your own. Even now, so far from your village in the depths of Lanayru, the inner lining of your coat shivered against your skin and a wave of fresh, icy air puffed against it from within. Maru had mentioned before you left that he'd sewn ice fruit seeds into the lining to keep it cool, as they would activate with friction and body heat. It truly was a marvelous invention...yet there was a chance you may never be able to show your true gratitude for it, as tirelessly and lovingly he slaved over it for weeks before your departure.

After all, the end goal of this trip was to get married and become the queen of the Gerudo, which meant that whoever the lucky woman was, she would likely never return to her home. You had a sense from getting to know the other women on the journey that not all of them were so opposed to such a fate, but things were a bit different for you. You may not have had blood family any longer, but you had Maru, and there were still the elders and the few young ones in your village that needed caring after. As a result of the attacks from the Yook, your kind had reached the brink of endangerment and it did worry you beyond your years, not just for yourself, but for the legacy of your people that had fought so hard to live peacefully and didn't deserve the trials and tribulations they endured. The tribe was small and warriors were few and far between; yourself and Maru were the only ones adept for battle that weren't part of the older generation, as most of whom simply refused to retire their spears despite their age. You would be devastated to never see any of them again, and to have to worry about their safety if you weren't able to keep an eye on them and protect them from the dangers on their doorstep.

However, if you were being honest, you had no expectations that that would be the case and it eased your worries by a healthy degree. The Gerudo king had gone through multiple trials of finding a wife already as you'd heard from the Zora girls early in the trip, and according to the Hylian escort the king was quite picky–you had to assume she had some sort of personal knowledge of that considering how scathingly she had said it. To think that he might choose you to be his wife, out of all the women of grace, talent, and beauty in Hyrule, was simply too slim a margin for you to believe you'd fit into it. So as you stood on the hard ground speckled with warm sand alongside the others, you thought only of all the wonderful experiences you could get out of the city while you were in it. Maybe you could even make lasting friends with the other women you had made this long, arduous journey with but hadn't had the chance to really engage with. The Hylian had made sure your group was as quiet and unassuming as possible, she said for your safety as you travelled, but you suspected it was simply because she was annoyed by your very presence.

The hostess that had sent out the invitations for the gathering soon came forth, heels clicking gracefully down the steps that lead into the palace, her smile sweet and sincere unlike the escort that stepped up to meet her. The Hylian woman had been curt and rude with you and the other women in the convoy, perhaps in some way because she'd been the only Hylian there. Aside from yourself, there were the two Zoras, a Rito girl, and one of the Zonai that had travelled with the company, while your guards were made up of a few warriors from each tribe before you parted ways at the entrance to Gerudo Town. You would've liked to have had one of the members of your own tribe here for support, but it would've been quite the ask and your village was small enough as it was–you knew you would feel more at peace if your warriors were home, ready to defend against monsters or the Yook rather than buzzing reassurances in your ear all the way into the desert.

"Sav’aaq, ladies. I thank you for your patience, and your prudence–we are glad to have you here, as is King Ganondorf." The green-eyed woman extended her hands to greet the five of you, her palms as warm as the stones beneath your feet while she clasped yours like an old friend. Her smile was comforting, whether it was part of a façade or not–it was no secret that rumours of King Ganondorf's malice had spread far and wide throughout the kingdom. But they might just be that, just whispers echoing a false truth, so you pushed the thought to the back of your mind and focused instead on how happy you'd be once the escort finally took her leave…although it didn't seem like she was keen on going anywhere anytime soon.

"Mama? Are those the vai from outside?" A small, high-pitched voice perked your ears up. “Why does she have antlers?” And with a glance over to your left, you immediately spotted the girl it belonged to. She was young, maybe only a few years old, yet her well-meaning mother still urgently hushed her daughter as she hurried up beside her. She cast a quick glance towards you and grew dark with embarrassment at the feel of your gaze.

However, there wasn't an ounce of pity or disgust that bubbled up in you at the sight. Rather, that bright-eyed little girl reminded you of yourself and your own mother, however long ago it was that you would tease her in the same innocently childlike way. With a soft smile and a slight raise of your hand, you waved gently towards the little girl and felt a rush of enthusiasm when she was eager to wave back. She did so with so much vigour she might have just floated off the ground without her mother's hand gripping her own protectively. But she seemed relieved–thankful even, and with a nod and a brief wave back she scooped up her child and made a brisk trip back to their fruit stall.

A royal consort. The position could be filled by any Gerudo vai in the city, and you were sure there was no short supply of women here that would desire to be the king's lover. Power, wealth, a strong voe to bring honour to their family line and match the indomitable strength of a Gerudo woman herself…the feelings of hostility surely wouldn't stop at the feet of the Hylian who'd been making your life hell this whole trip, but at least for now, you might as well push those thoughts to the back of your mind until you were forced to deal with them eventually. You had enough to worry about as it was–you really didn't need the fear of jealousy stirring up your anxieties as well, especially not in regards to a man you'd never even met.

That is, not until you heard the telltale blaring of horns in announcement of the royal family, and turned your gaze back towards the palace's entrance. The green-eyed hostess happily held an arm out to guide you, leading yourself and the other women up the polished steps to greet the king.

"Be calm, my dear."

Your father's words echoed in your mind at that very moment, and your heart tightened in your chest at the memory of someone you loved so dearly. Without him and your mother, Maru was really the only family you had anymore, and this was the first time you'd ever been separated from him.

"...And, most importantly, be polite."

With a surge of pride, you silently puffed out your chest and blew a soft sigh through your teeth, the fuzzy hair covering your antlers starting to bristle with anticipation. As the last of your family line, you now had the task of representing the Anouki people in their entirety. Whatever the result of this consultation was, the land of Hyrule would look to you as the spokesperson for your people–this was, after all, your tribe's first public appearance since your people settled here. Most people in Hyrule weren't even aware of the Anouki settlement in Lanayru, and understandably so; it was a difficult road to get there, especially for a non-Anouki, and the threat of exposure, monsters, and the Yook were good enough reasons for people to stay far, far away. You stepped up each stair with the others in the convoy and felt the heat rise in your chest as you reached the top, but with a soft bristling of your parka the lining cooled your skin and left you feeling calmer.

Still, the moment that your eyes landed on the king at his throne, your whole body felt as though it might melt in the heat. King Ganondorf much resembled a mountain in stature, dominating the throne that seemed so small in his enormous presence. He sat with his knees parted wide, his chin perched on his hand, an almost bored expression on his face. Long, crimson hair flowed down just beneath his shoulders, and would have draped even lower were it not tied up at the crest of his head. You noticed at once the hue of his skin, how it glowed a touch greener than the other Gerudo you had seen so far, but you thought that perhaps that was simply a symptom of the historical rarity of males born to the Gerudo tribe. His gold finery and jewels glistened against those vast expanses of exposed skin, as his robe only halfway covered a single shoulder and left the majority of his muscular chest bare. At his side, a long sword leaned against the arm of his seat, its blade just barely peeking out from the sheath to intimidate anyone close enough to feel its sharpness.

In the same breath as you were enraptured by his masculine beauty, you wanted more than anything to run far, far away from him. He exuded a kind of threatening charm; like an elegantly-scaled cobra whose venom could end you in moments.

At the sudden and gentle behest of your Gerudo welcomer, you were guided to bow before the king as the other women did. You could already feel the Hylian woman's glare on the back of your head for failing to fall into line, but the king seemed unfazed by neither your hesitation nor the show of respect from all his visitors. With a wave of his hand you were allowed to stand, and following your first glimpse of each other the green-eyed Gerudo woman introduced each of you one by one. The two Zora were first, then the Rito woman who seemed quite flustered, then the Zonai, and then–

“You.” The king pointed a thick, ringed finger in your direction the moment you stood. He made a motion–come closer–and panic bubbled up in your throat, freezing the soles of your boots right to the floor. A moment passed in silent agony as your legs refused to move. Then, as if having waited for this opportunity to embarrass you further, your Hylian escort shoved you forward again with the quietest hiss under her breath, and you stumbled only a little before you hurried to approach the king's throne. One of his warriors stationed next to him held her spear aloft when she deemed you'd gotten too close, but Ganondorf reached out to subtly lower her blade with his fingers. He urged you closer towards the arm of his seat until you stood so close that all that separated you from him was the sword at his side.

“I have seldom seen one of your form before.” He murmured, looking you up and down before his gaze landed squarely on the antlers atop your head. He seemed…not quite puzzled, perhaps, but intrigued. One of his large fingers twitched as if he itched to reach out and touch them. “You are not a Zonai, nor a Hylian, nor a Zora, Goron, or Rito. From where do you hail?”

“I, ah…” You fumbled with the words at first, intimidated not just by his frightening aura but by the stares of every other person witness to your interaction with the king. “Anouki, your majesty. We–I, um–hail from Lanayru province.”

“Ah-nou-ki.” He rolled the syllables of the foreign word around on his tongue. “Perhaps you might regale me with the history of your kind, when the time comes.” In a slow, smooth motion, Ganondorf stood from his throne with measured purpose. In seconds, he suddenly towered over you and everyone else in the throne room, proving beyond any doubt that he held more power in his fingers than any of you did in the whole of your bodies. “For now, Vanna will bring you to your quarters. I will see you all for dinner.”

The king allowed you to step down, to put distance between yourself and his sword, but his eyes followed you through the side entrance of the throne room until you disappeared down the stairs with the others. Although your heart pounded in your chest with anxiety, your fellow consorts looked over at you with curiosity and intrigue. The Hylian woman, however, turned her gaze aside as if she couldn't even bear to look at you.

The towering Gerudo woman led the group of you down into the underground shelter beneath the palace, passing through a concealed door guarded by two tough-looking warriors and into a cool, dry home beneath the king's palace. Although the Rito girl looked a bit worse for wear at the much more cramped living conditions to what she was used to, yourself and the Zora women were instantly put at ease with the respite from the heat and the easily accessible fountain in the center of the main room.

“Now,” Vanna, in her ultimate wisdom, commanded your attention once more. She had beamed with pride since the moment you took your collective leave from the throne room, and her attention focused squarely on you. You hesitated to wonder whether that small exchange between yourself and the king was a rarity that spurred hope in her as his marriage advisor. “Lord Ganondorf will arrange to meet you all privately, but for now, the next few days will be spent acclimating you all to the Gerudo way of living.” She gestured down a short corridor, and you all peered over at it to see a small classroom off to the side. “I will conduct Gerudo language classes during the day, accompanied by culture lessons from a colleague of mine. Breakfast and dinner will be provided, and for lunch you may roam Gerudo Town as you please. I would personally recommend The Noble Canteen.”

With a smile, she stepped over to the wall by the front entrance opposite to the guard posted there, and unfastened the hanging curtain to display a map etched into the stone. By the small symbols and names written into every inch, you picked up at once that it detailed the many offerings of Gerudo Town itself; quite handy to familiarize oneself and to not get lost. “Please, feel free to introduce yourself to our citizens. They will be quite intrigued to learn more about the ladies who may one day be their queen.” As she passed her gaze over each and every one of you, Vanna chuckled softly. “Perhaps, to get yourselves settled in, you might introduce yourselves to one another first?”

The lot of them looked to you, and you cleared your throat a bit meekly before gathering the courage to introduce yourself, and speak your name.

“-As I mentioned, I'm one of the Anouki tribe. It's a pleasure to meet you all.” You nodded your head politely, though the customs of your fellow races were still quite foreign to you. “I hail from the province of Lanayru, but I came from a far-off land, and crossed the sea to get here.” As you stood together in a sort of half-circle headed by Vanna and the Hylian woman, the Zonai girl standing next to you asserted herself next.

“Nice to meet you!” She bared her glimmering, fanged teeth in a gaudy smile, though her exuberance–despite the rather intimidating height of her stature–was certainly something to be admired. Her ears were what captivated you the most, as long and fluffy as they were, though the soft paleness of her furry limbs drew your attention even moreso. She was quite the anomaly, though so were you. “Puri of the Zonai kingdom, at your service!” She made a cheesy imitation of a Hylian guard’s salute, and along with the others you giggled in the face of her cheerful optimism.

Next were the Zora girls who introduced themselves as the sisters Mila and Malo, whose only noticeable differences were the hues of their rubbery skin. Mila appeared more reddish-blue in the light, while Malo, the shyer of the two, took on a softer, purplish colour to her skin that apparently was quite rare in the Zora's culture. Following them was the Rito girl who was so quiet and nervous, and only upon a bit of friendly encouragement did she swallow her nerves and speak over her ruffled feathers.

“I-I'm Koku,” She practically whimpered, the tip of her pointed beak trembling as she pulled her tawny-coloured wings protectively to her chest. “I'm from, u-uh, Rito V..Village..”

“It's lovely to meet you, Koku.” Vanna answered sweetly, almost maternal in the way she smiled and the girl's shoulders lowered as the tension eased somewhat. She still didn't seem at all confident or comfortable, but it was a start at least. “I'm glad to have met all of you. The day is coming to a close, but dinner will take place in the courtyard soon. Feel free to rest in your accommodations, wash up from the journey, and we will reconvene in an hour's time.” She motioned towards the corridor where the bedrooms were, and with that, she and the Hylian woman exited out the same door you arrived through and left the rest of you to your devices.

Though you were happy to be alone, and used to ostracization–really, that was the reason why your tribe had fled their homeland in the first place–it took you by surprise to see Puri, the Zonai, grab both you and the Rito by the arms and hurry off towards the room together, her gleefulness at having new friends palpable as the Zora sisters followed close behind. The sleeping accommodations, albeit shared, appeared rather cozy and almost luxurious compared to what you were used to. The beds were bunked high and low on chiseled slabs of stone and despite the hard base, your hand sunk into the bedding itself when you grazed it and the softness lured you in with promises of a comfy, unperturbed sleep.

Rather than wash the day from your face or loosen the sand caked into your boots, you found yourself chatting the hour away with the girls, the potential competition lost among you as you giggled and shared memories of life and loves back home. Mila and Malo illustrated the sacred beauty of Zora's Domain for you, while Puri chimed in about the lands in the sky that her people called home, and her civilization that had slowly dwindled over time. Koku meekly admitted to having a crush on the village chief's son in her hometown, earning herself plenty of ‘ooh's and ‘aww's from the rest of you, though it was clearly one of many reasons why she hadn't wished to come to this desert that opposed all that she knew. When it came time for you to speak, the comfort you felt at the camaraderie caused the history of your people to come spilling out of you without realizing–until you made mention of Maru.

“Maru?” Mila echoed his name, a smile tweaking her bluish lips as she clasped her webbed hands together. “Oh, Malo, didn't we run into a ‘Maru’ last spring? With the antlers?” She splayed her webbed fingers over her head as mock antlers and her sister nodded, the girl squealing with such innocent glee that it took you by surprise. “Oh, he was cuuute! He helped us out when Malo got caught up in some fishing line downstream!” The Zora suddenly pounced and grabbed hold of your hands, her own so cool and rubbery to the touch it resembled blubber more than skin. “Hey, if I don't get picked by King Ganon, will you set us up? Pleeeease?” She begged childishly with a flash of soft, wet blue eyes. How could you possibly say ‘no’?

“S-Sure,” You stammered, a bit hot in the face at the prospect. Anouki love was simple and pure; there weren’t many mates to choose from in the first place, and with how small your tribe had shrunk since your arrival in Hyrule you were certainly privy to the idea of the chief pairing you with Maru when it came time for you to settle down. That time had been drawing closer and closer as you matured, to the point that your village’s head Honcho had already begun meeting with yourself and Maru individually to assess your readiness. Even knowing your best friend as long as you had, you really weren’t clear on his feelings about it. He, too, didn’t have much say in the matter. All you knew was that he would undoubtedly smile, laugh, and playfully poke fun at you no matter the outcome, as his focus had always been on uplifting others even at the cost of expressing his own feelings. He would do just about anything for you if he thought it would make you happy.

Just then, Vanna’s clear voice rang out to call for you to gather at the entrance, and all five of you clambered to your feet to step out into the shelter’s main room and head for the stairs. As the main road of Gerudo Town came into view again, you breathed a soft sigh at the sight of the sun dipping down behind the mountains, painting a beautiful array of reds and oranges across the clear sky. It was gorgeous weather for a picnic–even if your memories of the swirling auras of the northern lights still called you back home.

The courtyard, which was more of a smooth, stone outcrop just down the lefthand stairs to the throne room, looked out on to a sea of sand and the glimmering dusk as a breeze cooled off the oppressive heat. Though the Hylian woman–whom you now knew as Lorna–had verbally bitten your head off for keeping on your parka during your trek through the desert, the others and King Ganon had been patient and respectful of what they assumed to be your customs until now. With a meal in front of you and the air finally cooling down your skin, you’d undone your thick jacket and draped it back over your chair, leaving you in a sleeveless top that clung to your frame as you ate with both hands. As preoccupied as you were, it hadn’t even struck you yet that the Gerudo’s stare had quietly slid over to you during the course of the meal.

One of many things that separated you from the other women was definitely your appetite. Despite being in the presence of the intimidating king who sat leisurely at the head of the long table, you dove into your dinner with a fervour that went unmatched by the other suitors in your presence.

Likewise, Vanna followed her king’s gaze with mild interest before lifting her cup to her painted lips and sipping from the heady drink. She sat opposite to Ganon himself, diagonal from the Zora sisters to her right and Koku to her left. Next to the sisters was your spot, and at the Rito’s side sat Puri and then Lorna, who inched closer to the king where she'd taken up her seat. But you were too enamoured by the spread of fruits and meat to care. Your tore the skin off a voltfruit piece by piece, as Vanna had shown you, to get at the delicate white flesh within, mesmerized by the little black seeds that tasted of something almost bitterly sour. Clear juice dribbled down your chin as you bit into it, which only turned Ganon's attention further away from everything else and closer towards you.

“So, ladies,” Vanna's eyes twinkled with the starlight that started creeping out from behind the clouds. “How have you found our home so far?” She set her Noble Pursuit down on the table and the clinking of silverware quietly peppered the interim. A few of the girls piped up with compliments about the city, the skies over the desert, the hospitality–and of course, the food. At the mention of that, Lorna shot you a glaring smirk from across the table, and not a word needed to be said for you to get the picture. You bowed your head in embarrassment, lowered the chunk of fruit to your plate, and silently dabbed your mouth with the back of your hand while the rest chatted idly between themselves. Had you made that much of a fool of yourself already? It seemed so.

The conversation droned on peacefully like a family meal, with the exception of the Hylian mooning over King Ganondorf and turning up her nose at everyone else. It had certainly occurred to you why she might be so spiteful, but you wouldn't dare say it out loud and simply kept it to yourself. The king himself was rather quiet as well, observing with his chin rested on his knuckles as the table grew uproarious with talk and laughter. He could have any of the women present, anyone at all he fancied…it was humbling to consider you sat so close to someone with so much brute power and influence. He watched as you fumbled with your golden cutlery for a while, finding it too overwhelming to try knife and fork together and settling on simply carving out the fruit from the rind with a polished spoon.

You barely noticed the slices of melon slowly gathering at the edge of your plate, not until they formed a mini mountain over the rim. Glancing upwards, your breath hitched at the sight of the king with a sharp blade in hand, whittling away at a juicy hydromelon that looked as small as a shockfruit in his enormous palm. He barely made eye contact, but the gift was certainly for you–and it made Lorna seethe across from you, but he didn't seem to notice or care. Vanna did, however, and her eyes gleamed with promise at the sight of Ganondorf seemingly showing a soft side for one of his potential brides. While the others chatted away, you plucked a square of melon from the pile and slowly, cautiously took a bite. Ganon peered up at your antlers, down to your lips, then back to the fruit he was peeling.

“They're for battle?” He rumbled, his voice low and gruff in his chest but somehow…oddly tender. You swallowed and shook your head lightly.

“My antlers? No, they, um…they're a bit too sensitive for that.” While chewing your lip, you managed a soft smile. “They're mostly for decoration. Pride. Like…the shape of a Zora's fins.”

“Mh.” He hummed in reply. “Or the sharpness of a Gerudo's blade.”

“Exactly.” You nodded, found your gaze drawn to the swell of his muscles, and looked back down at your plate. Ganon swept off another chunk of melon and gestured towards your half-devoured meal.

“Eat your fill. Your kind will suffer the heat of the desert.” Somehow, he said so with a barely perceptible grin. Each piece you bit into seemed to amuse him more and more; when he'd cut down to the rind, you found yourself sharing the sumptuous fruit with the king himself, the shell offering a viable bowl for the two of you to eat out of. It certainly wouldn't go unnoticed, and you quietly feared that this gesture may isolate you from the friends you'd just made, but the rest of them save for Lorna seemed quite content to carry on the conversation with smiles and laughter abounding.

Not a few hours later, you felt your shoulder being jostled and someone shaking you awake; in the darkness you cracked open your sleepy eyes to find Lorna's blue ones piercing into you, her sneer as set as ever as she loomed over you. You opened your mouth to speak, but she shushed you before you could even try–and sure enough, you listened to the sounds of the girl's snores around you, and held your tongue until you were ushered out into the main foyer of the shelter.

As the night carried on and the lamp oil began to dwindle, the plates were finally cleared and the king quietly bid you all a good night. With full bellies you were escorted back down into the shelter, and you patted down the fluffy bed before climbing into it to tuck in for the evening. A chorus of “good night!”s echoed from the other girls, and you managed one of your own, feeling a strange sense of familiarity in the coolness of the desert's gorgeous moon.

“The king wishes to speak with you.” The woman's eyes gleamed, and they prickled you with uneasiness. “Privately. Come along.”

Although it couldn't have gotten darker than it was when dinner had concluded, it was truly dark in Gerudo Town as you made your way up the steps and followed Lorna towards the western entrance. The few torches smoked gently along the path like they'd been blown out by the breeze, making it difficult not to trip over your own feet in the dark with the sand dusting over the stone. At the doorway where two guards were usually posted, only their footprints remained in the sand. You waited quietly as your guide brought over a seal, one of the large and furry creatures you'd caught a glimpse of when you'd first trekked through the desert, with a sort of sled attached to its harness. Her voice rang out sharply as she ordered you to get in, and you did for fear of incurring more of her wrath.

How long the journey would take, where exactly she was taking you, were all questions you mulled over but didn't have the courage to ask. You wondered why the king would invite you out so far into the dunes to have a simple conversation; perhaps he had some sort of test he intended to put you through? The thought made your stomach churn, and the feeling only grew when the sled shuddered with a great rumble from below.

“L-Lorna? What was-?” She turned her head and hushed you again. But those eyes of hers had an eerie glint in them that made you want nothing more than to jump out and run back home. “Lorna, I want to go back! C-Can we go back, please?” You called to her over the wind whipping by your face, but she ignored you.

And then, as the seal approached the crest of a ridge, she dug her heels in and turned sharply to the left. Your yelp as the sled tipped over echoed when you plummeted hands-first into the sand, which gave way underneath you to send you tumbling antlers-over-feet down a massive dune. In the few seconds that followed, dizzy and shakily patting yourself down to assess whether you'd been hurt or not, the rumbling started again–and this time, you couldn't help but let out a scream at what was barreling towards you.

A great, dark fin rose out of the sand and parted it like the sea as it headed in your direction. The rumbling hadn't been an earthquake, or a sinkhole, or anything of the sort, but an enormous beast that struck the fear of death straight into your heart. Not many times in your long life had you feared the end, but compared to the fright of the Yook whom you'd been taught to fear, this was a danger that threatened to consume you entirely in terror.

In a mad scramble to your feet you whipped your head in every direction, searching, frantically scanning for anything to offer cover. Amidst the dark shadows that cloaked the land in twilight, there was nothing…until you spotted the rough edges of rock jutting out from the sand, and sprinted for it without any hesitation. You couldn't look back, for the sight of the beast was liable to freeze you in your fear, but the desert seemed to relent under your pounding feet. At the last moment before the monster opened its maw to inhale you, you threw yourself at the slab of rock and pulled your feet over the side, and your heart finally reached its fever pitch to subside when you weren't swallowed whole in a moment.

As you soon learned, Molduga didn't seem to leave their hunting grounds without great persuasion. Over the next few hours you witnessed it chase after small prey–birds that touched the surface of the sand for a moment, and a few brave lizalfos here and there–but it would always come back, and it would keep circling. If the beast slept, you had no way of knowing. It seemed to forget you were there, but when you tossed a rock or two or tried to put a foot on the sand, it would come rushing for you and stop only once it sensed nothing to bite at.

The Molduga crested over the waves of sand and swerved back into the great valley before you. Off in the distance, atop the ridge where you'd been dumped so unceremoniously, your eyes widened as you spied Lorna standing there, watching you. She bent down to unhook the sled and let it slide down the embankment, just for it to sink slowly out of sight. In the next moment, she was gone.

You would die, you were sure of that. The Hylian hadn't just stranded you out here with no hope of escape, you had no doubt that she was spinning a story to everyone that you had left of your own accord. Maybe she'd even told them you already died. A freak accident in the desert caused by misadventure or dumb curiosity. You tilted your head upwards to feel the first rays of dawn warm your face; once the heat set in, that was when you'd be done for. There was no shelter on this little outcrop of rock, just a small ledge for you to rest against that offered no real shade or warmth from the elements. If you climbed to the top of it you might get a vantage point, but even then, what would you do? You would have to get past the Molduga, and there was just…no way. Not even the fastest sledder of your tribe could manage to outrun such a creature. And you didn't even have your coat with you, it'd been left back at the shelter. It might be the only thing Maru and your tribe would have to remember you after you'd been swallowed up by the beast or succumbed to the might of the sun.

After several more hours to deliberate on your fate, your tears had plenty of time to dry in the blistering heat. You were going to die, and you would never see Maru or any of your people ever again. Now, it was just a question of whether you bore the pain of death by exposure, or just gathered your last vestiges of courage and dropped yourself into the sand to be at the Molduga's mercy. A quick death, if you were lucky. One bite, swallow, and it would all be over. To think that you would face the same end as your parents was terrifying on one hand, but also…strangely comforting. Perhaps, even if it was the Yook that spelled out their demise and a Molduga that did yours, you would see them again in some life after death. That was all you could possibly think to comfort you as anger bubbled up in your chest.

“I…I hate that woman's guts.” You spit out through your teeth, and shakily dragged yourself up to your feet as the sun rose to its highest point in the sky. One step into the abyss, and this would all be over.

“Kheee-yeewww!”

But just as your foot hovered over the edge, a sharp whistle pierced the air and startled you back on to your perch. The sky, a backdrop of bright blue and wisps of clouds, yielded nothing at first. Not until you caught sight of something gleaming on the breeze, and recognized the tawny feathers of your new Rito friend. Koku's whistling cut through the air once again as she circled overhead, and over the ridge, you watched in awe as heads popped up one by one–alongside the other girls clambering up the dune was the tall, slender figure of Vanna, who wielded an impressive spear that she used to pull herself up over the edge. Following behind were Gerudo warriors of all sizes hurrying to come to your aid, and flanking them was the massive, imposing stature of the king himself. Glaring down the valley he parted his soldiers as easily as water, and approached the top of the ridge with no fear of what lay below.

Perhaps agitated by the whistle, or by the movement in the far-off distance, the ground thundered beneath you like a violent storm. It thrashed, forcing you to stumble back and catch yourself against the outcrop, only to be faced with the awful sight of safety being ripped away from you. Cracks started forming down the middle of the rock, and you knew then. Oh, you knew you were dead. The tremor even rocked the soldiers on the ridge, and Malo yelped as she lost her grip on the shield she carried and it slid down into the sand-filled valley. You honed in on it, gleaming like a golden speck as it sped fast towards you. The Molduga let out a roar as it whipped past, just to launch the shield right at your feet with a whip of its tail. You practically dove to grab it, and once it was in your hands you felt something grab you and shake you from the inside. A memory struck you–the shrill, happy squeal of Maru's laughter as he watched you speed down the mountain on your sled for the first time. As younglings, you both watched your elders race to reach the bottom of the snowy hills and launch over crevasses, obsessing over the best tricks and fantasizing about the days you would reach the ranks of the skilled sledders you looked up to.

It didn't really register that you were taking such a risk with your life, you didn't even really notice the shouts of your rescuers as you dropped your sled and stepped on. It felt so familiar to push off the rock that it could've been snow that whipped your hair about your face, and the shaking of the earth could've been an avalanche, rather than a bloodthirsty monster of the dunes that missed its dinner.

The Molduga kicked up a torrent and you soared, barely clearing the rock you'd just been standing on as the beast's fin shattered it into smithereens. It wouldn't be long that it caught up to you, so you crouched low so your knee just barely touched the rim of your shield and gained some speed downwind. The valley whizzed by you as your makeshift sled cut through the ocean of sand, fast approaching the ridge where Gerudo soldiers started pouring over to rush the beast and intercept its attack. But you started to slow as you lost momentum off the waves, and the sheer terror in the Zora sister's cries as they hollered for you to go faster just proved that you weren't escaping your fate so easily. With one final, thunderous roar of the monster as it breached for the last time, you squeezed your eyes shut and wondered if it would hurt as much to be eaten as you imagined it might.

Then, as quickly as it began, the tremors ceased. Too afraid to look behind you just yet, you sped off and skidded to a stop with your heel only once the Molduga let out a high, squealing shriek as it breathed its last. Behind you the creature laid twitching atop the sand–crouched over it was the king himself, who knelt with the tip of his blade buried deep in its forehead. He breathed heavy and slow, sweat beading at his temples, before finally rising to his full height and ripping the sword from his prey with a flick to disperse the blood. Every movement was poised, elegant and swift as it was terrifying and deadly.

“Hey!” Suddenly you were jostled on both sides by Mila and Malo, who each grabbed one of your arms and squeezed them with worried looks on their faces. “Are you okay?! We thought you were a goner!” If anything you feared more for them, as their gills heaved and their rubbery skin glistened with sweat in the climate. They weren't meant to endure the heat just as much as you.

“I-I'm fine,” You stammered out, although you were anything but. Koku swooped down on her wings and took a running stop on her talons, while Puri slid her way down the embankment to hurry to your side, each girl more relieved than the last to see you were unharmed. Only once a shadow cast over all five of you did your group turn their heads to Ganondorf, who looked down on you with a borderline unreadable expression. The only hint of emotion he showed was in his voice as he spoke up.

“You should have waited for me.” Dread made a pit in your stomach at the way he phrased that, but he smoothed it over effortlessly with just a few words. “The beast could have swallowed you whole. I would never forgive myself if I allowed that to happen to you.”

“I-I’m okay, your majesty..” You practically whimpered under your breath, but he was so intimidating you couldn't help it. Fortunately he found it all to be quite amusing, and just let you flounder until he slid a finger underneath your chin.

“Your shield-surfing was very impressive.” Slowly, slowly he tilted your head up to look at him, and you realized just then how big he was and how easily he could break you over his knee like a branch. “I sense I am in the presence of greatness, little Anouki.”

You barely took in a breath while he held your gaze, and only found your lungs again when he stepped away and put distance between you again. You couldn't pinpoint how to feel about the king, even as the others fawned over you, giggling about how cute it was that Ganondorf praised you.

“One more thing,” He turned to glance over his shoulder at you, effectively silencing the whispers for a moment. “I will have guards posted by your quarters. For your safety, do not leave the shelter unless I am present to escort you.”

“Y-Yes, your majesty.” You nodded and bowed your head, though the seriousness of his warning seemed not to be directed at you. He paused to exchange whispers with Vanna, before urging the captain of his royal guard to keep watch as he led the five of you back to Gerudo Town. Although the walk was peppered by a flurry of steps with such a large convoy, the silence of the king cut through everything as he matched your pace step for step. He lingered so close you wondered if he was preparing to shield you all in case you got a knife in the back, or Hylia forbid another Molduga sprang up from the dunes. Granted, you also couldn't breathe a sigh of relief until you took your first step under the archway that marked the entrance to the city. And of course, your body's first reaction to the weight being lifted off your shoulders was to cry out in desperate hunger–your stomach growled loud enough to startle Mila beside you, though she seemed just as worried that you hadn't eaten as you were embarrassed over the sound. As the girls began to fuss over you again, a slow chuckle radiated off of the king like the low toll of a bell.

“Rarely have I encountered such kind women in my search for a wife.” He gestured ahead for your group to enter the courtyard, where the table was hurriedly being set with food and drinks by the palace attendants. He pulled out your seat for you and took his own place at the head of the table, the Hylian's spot noticeably empty as was Vanna's. “Your bonds appear to be strong already.”

None of you really knew what to say to that in these circumstances, except to smile and nod happily as the king joined you for an unexpected lunch. It was short-lived, as he remained just long enough to share a drink before one of his advisors was calling his attention away. But as you sat with a wedge of sugared shockfruit pinched in your fingers, you wondered and wondered still; what would you say to the king when he asked why you were out in Molduga territory, all on your own, in the middle of the night?

You would have to make an excuse, you decided as the sweet crystals melted on your tongue. With such an abundance of fruit the Gerudo certainly discovered some creative ways to serve it. You managed to put away three more wedges of the little yellow beauties before it was time to step away from the table, a little wobbly from your time under the sun, and the girls sweetly held you up to lead you down the steps into the shade of the underground shelter. Just as the king had mentioned, there were two additional Gerudo women guarding the entrance to your quarters as well as the ones already at attention at the stairs that led inside the cavern. It would seem a bit excessive…but you were nowhere near the point that you would forget what you suffered for the last half day. It left you with a feeling of unease even as you were helped into bed, and Puri picked up your beloved parka to lay it over you like a cooling blanket. Only once you felt the ice fruit seeds breathe against your heated skin were you able to close your eyes, though you feared you would see that Molduga charging at you well into your deepest dreamsleep.

But you also saw him, all those muscles rippling in the golden light as he plunged his blade into your nightmare's skull. He was brutal like none that ever walked the earth. He did not exude kindness, not gentility, not even humility, but he did instill a sense of protection whenever he was near. No ill will would reach you when Ganondorf was watching. As he said, he would let no harm befall you.

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First of all. Hi, my name is Kuja. I am a dedicated Risotto Nero centric artist and also a yumejoshi of him. Maybe you saw my art before if you like this character. If you do, maybe you also know how much this character means to me since he basically changed my life and brought me back into art and is the reason I found a wonderful community. Which is the reason I want to take my time and talk about this novel in my own interpretations and observations.

In short, this novel is exactly what I wanted to read about regarding to Risotto Nero.

It features no romance, introduces all of the members of La Squadra Esecuzioni and their steuggles, new characters and mostly is focusing on Risotto and his thought process, aka. his „observations“ which will be a reoccuring theme in this novel, which makes it a joy to read.

The short novel is timeline wise in the time around Christmas playing shortly after the murder of Gelato and Sorbet, which will also be a central theme.

Chapter 0:

A short scene where we witness Risotto Nero committing another successful assassination. As imagined, he is mostly using the camouflage abilities of Metallica to hunt down his targets. The kind of k1llingd he does keep being brutal and bloody, as we know later on also often to send an example and message from the highest of Passione.

It is interesting how peaceful the scene was written with the festive christmas music in the background which slowly fades into horror as the corpse is getting discovered by the passengers on that festive day.

Highlight of this chapter is for sure the absolutely high contrast of Risotto's deeds. On the one hand taking a life in a cold way, as expected from the leader of a hitman team. On the other we are experiencing a softer side on him, which many fans often speculated about. The target of Risotto's mission was just kicking a young pickpocketing girl away, making her almost fall to the ground and hurting her while Risotto, still invisible, catching her hand. Her only seeing iron powder on her small hands, probably wondering what just happened.

Seriously guys, this scene alone made me as a die hard Risotto Yume tremble in joy since it confirmed a lot of my own interpretations and headcanons about him, like having a soft spot for the younger generation. He did NOT have to help the girl, but he did, without ever getting anything in return since the girl could not even see him.

Risotto then sends a message of the confirmation of the hit to the boss who interestingly immediatly answers. Diavolo, are you camping your phone and computer all day?

Chapter 1:

One of the most interesting chapters for me personally because of the amount we learn about the hitman team again by observing how they interact with each other.

It is early in the morning and the hitman team is interacting not in person, but in a computer group chat, their personalities shining through.

We learn that Risotto Nero is currently residing inside a room which is part of a cheap apartment inside the outskirts of Naples. So is this only a temporary spot? It is written that Risotto brought his computer so it seems like he is only for a brief time living there. Do they have actual homes? Or do the members rather travel between short lived hideout spots from Passione? In the end, it is no luxury how they live. And this story often reminds us about this fact.

The hitman team is discussing about the most recent news recieved from the boss himself, about a new hit of a man called Rossi who plans to flee real soon and that Passione is entering the business of waste disposal. And two of their members should forcefully (a no won’t get accepted) transferred into this new branch: Formaggio and Illuso. Which causes a big uproar in the chat. Not gonna lie, it is very charming how they all are interacting and even throwing jokes in between. You see once again they all seem to have close bonds to each other. The typical duos are interacting, Pesci with his anniki, Illuso and Formaggio and once again Melone and Ghiaccio who really seem to get each other well, how they interact with each other really tells a lot about their dynamic.

Only one is not fully participating and rather „observing“, Risotto Nero, who tries to read in between the messages and how his subordinates are really feeling in this moment.

Also because of the most recent trauma they endured, the brutal loss of Sorbet and Gelato, two members who were tired of being treated like dirt and dismissively by the whole organization. Not respected, awful pay and the high risk of losing their lives on the daily. It is always interesting how sympatheticly La Squadra Esecuzioni is written, sure, they are assassins for the most dangerous Italian mafia but you can still emphazise with them. Many of us probably can relate to these feelings, not being treated and paid properly for the hard work we do and wanting to get their deserved amount. Their coworkers and close friends being sent to another occupation without their consent. Their capabilities not respected. Who wants to be treated like this? Sure, the motives are mostly motivated in an egoistical sense compared to an altruistic like some members of Bruno‘s gang do, which is one of the main differences of these gangs. But this is also why the hitman team feels more close, since they operate and think as a group, they want the best for themselves, the others coming afterwards, contrary to wanting to stop entire branches of their business for a better cause as a whole.

Even the boss is sending them more and more not so subtile threats how they have to submit and be obedient to his will. Like Pesci realizes, the messages are hidden in numbers. „Smorfia napoletana“ as it is called and we learn about which is a very clever stylistic choice of this novel which are basically numbers with meaning. And the boss knows very well what he wants to communicate to his hitman team, that he has the sole power over them.

And then we have Risotto Nero again. Who is, like I mentioned before, rarely participating in the talk and more inside his head and thoughts, trying to form plans, trying to see patterns and things. Now even more than before.

Because he feels guilty. Because he feels responsible for the death of two of his subordinates. He is angry at himself to not catching on clues of their planned rebellion against the organization. For not preventing them. For not hinder their deaths. In the end, he has to grief again. Something Risotto Nero always has trouble to deal and process. Once again there were people close to him taken away from him. By death. Something he now himself is known for. He, as the jet-black executioner of Passione. It is quite ironic.

Risotto really can’t let these thoughts of guilt go, he constantly is tormening himself about his and now decided to be even more keen on his men. To analyze, to think about their next steps, to prevent such a mistake. To observe.

It is not only that Risotto Nero is „surface“ level invested in his men. No, he „couldn't“ lose anyone else. He is responsible, as their leader. But why he can’t lose them?

Is it just because of the team itself? Do endure even more consequences by the boss and being dissolved by being useless? Is it because of the team spirit? Is it because he needs them for being able to work in the first place? Or is it actually because he can’t stomach any more losses? We don’t know anything about the lives of the hitman team outside their job. Do they have friends? Family? Or only each other? It seems they go around quite a lot, and being gangsters is not easy forming honest relationships between them and civilians. And even other teams inside Passione seem to be cautious, even hateful towards them. They don’t seem trustworthy for anyone else outside the team.

Also, this novel also confirms that Risotto truly cares about his subordinates since he is absolutely trying to analyze and insight for their mental states. He knows his team is processing trauma. They are still human. Luckily he knows as well how many of his members can deal with the stress or who of them is capable protecting themselves most efficiently. He thinks a lot, analyzes a lot and tries how to make a change and impact for their benefit and therefore a raise of the group morale. The mention that Risotto is thinking about giving Formaggio missons with a high chance of succeeding, just to improve his mental wellbeing because he alone found the corpse of Gelato…it tells so much about him. Risotto is absolutely observant and does not tolerate his own mistakes and puts on actual effort of being a good leader for his men. He does not want to any bad causality ever happen again between them. And losing them. As their leader, he needs to look out for the hitman team, they only have themselves.

After the team points out how quiet Risotto is the whole time, he tells them to take on this assassination by himself alone. He really is losing himself a lot inside his analytical thoughts.

Chapter 2:

This chapter is more revolving about the setting itself. We get to know the urgent this assassination is, putting pressure onto Risotto who usually keeps a cool head. Risotto will take out this murder of the soon trying to flee Rossi in a very crowded place, directly inside the mansion of this man who is tainted by very crude and unethical businesses himself. To put an example. Don’t mess with Passione. A job suited for Risotto’s brutal Stand capabilities.

The party being thrown in the luxurious mansion was right before Christmas, Rossi is intending to show his new adoptive son, Gennaro, another central character in this story.

This decadent luxury is a nice way to show again the difference of the worlds they live in.

By the way, it is very cute to imagine Risotto Nero inside a proper elegant suit he is wearing for this event. Sorry, needed to let this out.

In the next scene, an elderly couple speaks to Risotto about the over the top interior of the mansion. It made me actually laugh that Risotto was seriously being called „a wallflower“. I seriously can see this, he does not seem like the center of attention of a party. He also doesn't need to, he is supposed to be blending into the scene after all.

Afterwards Rossi appears into the spotlight and talking about the mystery of the „unopenable door“ and also just spewing out some meaningless anecdotes.

Also a rising and uncomfortable heat is described by the pair which is unsually also affecting Risotto Nero himself, which is surprising him. But it the reason is a sense of unease he tries to pinpoint to, until he realizes it is actually Metallica wriggling and moving inside his body and not actual nervousness about the mission itself. They are reaction to something inside this mansion which also is affecting Risotto‘s body. All this while he is planning how to cover the walls in red real soon.

Later on the party, Gennaro, a 14 year old boy is finally introduced to the story and guests, seemingly innocent and youthful, full of enthiusiasm.

Then the party guests were starting a tombola game, an Italian tradition, where we also get to know about the smorfia napoletana again and get introduced to new numbers and their meanings.

While Rossi and Gennaro are playing a farce in front of the crowd, Risotto thinks about the numbers and their meanings, as well as getting further affected by the temperature and discomfort inside his body.

The numbers are really dire and somewhat ironic when we take Risotto‘s backstory into account. 14 and 18, which are ages which his life turned around. 14 meaning „drunk“ and „18“ blood-stained. It is incredibly ironic just how these numbers describe his past, while the 90, before in his apartment room poster, is also appearing on his tombola card as well. His reaction and realizing these numbers was followed by a snort of him.

It really is amazing how much the author of this novel is taking Risotto‘s backstory into account and building onto that or referencing it. He constantly gets reminded of the cruel acts he decided to do many years ago which led him chose a path without any redemption.

Right after this, when the party and speech of Rossi is reaching its climax, Risotto plans to kill him, approaching him to close the Stand distance. It is interesting how he also is pointing on the target. It seems a bit suspicious, but the whole story is constantly describing that the others are not paying any attention towards Risotto Nero anways, he mostly blends in.

Also, Risotto seems to view himself as a „professional“ regarding his job as a hitman, not doing these murders for the fun of it. As long as they are paid and not caused by his own Vendetta. It seems like it is thrilling for him to catch up the ideal chance to carry out the murder for the most dramatic moment for reaching the biggest impact.

But right before Risotto could activate his Stand, the light faded, panic invokes between the guests and he lost track of his target who completely vanished after the lights come back to, the family of Rossi, his wife and Gennaro, worried about his absence and calling the police. But Risotto does not give up yet, further being suspicious of the unopenable door which not even the police who arrived could open.

After many unsuccessful attempts of opening the door and getting a new signal of Rossi outside the mansion, the police leaves again, making the party end.

It is very fascinating to witness Risotto Nero using his brain power to connect the dots and uncovering the secret of this unopenable door, using Metallica again to form objects like forks to the keyhole, which is also fake and therefore detecting a lie of Rossi losing its key. Risotto Nero has such an analytical and smart way to approach matters, trying to stay calm and composed. He knows this mission can't fail, the stakes are high.

Still, he fails to control his feelings once again, as stone faced as he is, a remark even his team mates are using towards him, which is truly sweet in a weird way, how they joke about this with their leader. He got a new message from the boss, who revealed how poorly Illuso and Formaggio will get paid and basically disrespected on the waste disposal branch. Succumbing to his anger, Risotto Nero breaks his phone, not realizing it until he hears the cracking sounds of the broken phone and through his Stand again inside his bloody hand, who seem to express his true thoughts and burning anger, screaming in their usual noises ordinary people can’t hear.

Metallica here in this novel acts very metaphorical as they really seem to be a vessle for his true feelings at times he has trouble expressing at the exterior. Be it the need of a leader of a hitman team, his past trauma or other reasons, but Risotto Nero often seems not in tune about his own feelings until later on. It is heartbreaking in my eyes that the unfair treatment of his men causes such reactions inside him. He does not want such a reality for them, he as a leader can’t allow to fail them again. And he is so sick of getting treated like this by the boss, his resentment growing stronger as well as his own rebellious spirit he tried to bury to protect his team, despite being treated worse every day. It is an endless circle of torment these hitmen need to endure. The boss basically told them to put their lives on the line, it is understable how enraged Risotto gets by that remark.

Risotto‘s appearance also gets briefly mentioned. He seems to have scarred lips, afding to his very rough a gruff apperance. Are these scars because of a neglect of himself of are these results of his past encounters?

But there was an even stronger reason making Metallica roar, the door seems to be connected and controlled with magnetism, also being most likely the reason for his own permanent discomfort on this place, which only faded within the power outage, which he now realized, the dots are connected now inside his head.

Chapter 3

In the end, the police did throw everyone outside before leaving but knowing Risotto and his Stand, He camouflages himself yet again and enters the mansion once more, iron will determonstion to uncover the secret and to carry out his bloody mission.

Inside he not only realizes all the stolen and proudly displayed good from Rossi, but also meets the adoptive son, Gennaro, once again, who detects the presence of Risotto despite not being able to see him. All while Rossi knocks and screams behind the unopenable door.

The mystery as Risotto figured out was an electromagnet inside the door, which is also the cause of his Stand reacting before.

Interestingly this novel confirms another headcanon I had about Risotto since a long time, as he tells Gennaro about the mechanism of the electomagnet which he read inside a book about waste disposal. He really seems like an intellectual and sophisticated person, reason he seems to be naturally curious about a lot of the world and its functions around him.

Gennaro lies about his reason being here, but the knife in his hand reveals his true intention, as Risotto observes, seeing the boy as a hindrance and thinking about peacefully assassinating him as well if he keeps being an obstacle of his urgent mission. Seeing that Risotto thinks about this dark act but not carrying out this murder of a young man, shows his hestitation despite him being a ruthless and experienced hitman. But, he is also seemingly intruiged by him, curious about his motives and the plan of the boy and realizing the benefit of unrevealing the crime of the young man. Also we can see that Risotto very well decides how „brutally“ he will take out a murder of a person.

Risotto lays out his own observations and detective work how the disappearance of Rossi was made possible during the power outage, which was caused by the extreme indoor heating and the lights of the christmas tree.

Quite funny how Risotto also uses his Stand powers to make a metal Tombola piece float in the air, it must have confused the boy to no end, not knowing about the supernatural Stands. He reveals another meaning of the numbers, 77, the devil, which was Gennaro‘s own remark against his new father. The man the young boy planned to kill himself, just like Risotto Nero.

Risotto is seemingly impressed how well crafted Gennaro is in planning his own assassination, but even the boy begins to flinch by the ghostly presence of Risotto, being called a grim reaper, which was also always part of his overall design.

He is curious about the motives of the boy, who wants to reveal the secret in front of Rossi himself, so they release him, with ordering the boy to drop the knife.

Rossi, completely out of breath, storms out of the room behind the door, questioning his son about the reasons of his hostile acts.

Then Gennaro revealed it all, how much Rossi has tormented him all these years after making him witness the torturing and murder of his own mother, just to get adopted by him again, probably making him suffer even more behind the disguise of a noble man, a habit of Rossi‘s twisted games. He even underestimated the boy to remember him after all these years, showing his arrogance and belittlement of others. All while the boy suffered in silcence and played an act, until now the time for his own assassination and revenge has come.

A motive and reason we all know defines Risotto all to well, his whole life. We get a glimpse of a backflash inside Risotto‘s head of the funeral of his cousin, many years ago. His mind turning dark just like his clothes. Full of rage and seeking justice of losing someone caused by another person. A person who will soon endure the same cruel fate, to make up for it again. But at what cost?

Risotto sees himself inside the boy. He was in he same situation many years ago, being 14 as well, his mind and spirit not able to process the loss of a family member. But choosing revenge led Risotto to a path of no redemption, a path of endless crime, just to get disrespected at the daily and putting his own life at risk, just to witness his loved ones getting erased from life again, not being able to counter the perpetrator this time and to submit.

No, this is a scenario Risotto experienced himself, he knows what this path will involve. I am very sure Risotto wants another fate for this boy, despite knowing the cathartic feeling of getting the revenge one seeked out for many years. Would Risotto chose this path himself again when he was reliving time? A scenario we will never know an answer of but here we see him protecting the boy for basically ruining his future life, a life without a real future, filled with crime, surrounded by mostly mean spirited people despite the closest ones.

So he tells the boy leave, threathening him to kill him if he refuses. He will carry out the mission, not only for the job, but also to spare the boy a life full of darkness.

But Gennaro does not accept, he suffered way too much from what Rossi has done, sleepless nights, trauma, feeling helpless, he only wants the release of revenge. The boy shows a strong will of resolve. And Risoto can relate so much, he truly understand what the boy is feeling. He knows these moments, this burning hatred and just bringing justice to end this once and for all. This is affecting Risotto even in such a way, that he lets his guard down, revealing his appearance, making the boy gasp in surprise by his dark and ghostly presence.

The moment of tension and two spitits connecting only got suddenly interrupted by the police forces, not hestitating to shoot on Risotto Nero as a quick act to save Rossi. The leader shortly needed a moment to process what just happened but decided to remove enough iron from the bodies of the officers to make them unconscious - a fairly peaceful decision for a hitman. But is it because he does not want to harm people who are not involved in his job or is it rather to spare the uproar of the corpses of police workers? Maybe a mix, still, it shows quite a new light of Risotto, being surrounded by members of his team who do not spare the lives of people close to their target mission. At least sometimes. Even tho, these hitmen seem all to have their own moral codex they act on.

After all, Risotto Nero is still cruel and cold enough to traumatize the people around his targets with his brutal and merciless killings, like he just wanted to do some hours ago with all the guests and family Rossi. I really enjoy how morally grey Risotto is written which really makes him an appealing and interesting character, and I try to say this as unbiased as possible.

While this short moment of being focused on the police, Rossi takes action and stabs Gennaro with his own knife he dropped earlier, directly into the stomach of the young man.

Now it was finally the time Risotto needed to act, bringing a gruesome end and torturing Rossi with nails made from Metallica‘s powers, making him suffer a long time before he finishes finally his assassination.

It is very symbolic that Risotto basically crucifies Rossi with the way he pierced iron nails through hus hands, it is very symbolic for a multitude of reasons and made me think.

If we think about Christian Religion, the punishment of being cruzified was reserved for the sinners. A way to show dominance and control by the upper hand instances, which is Passione.

It was often used for „low-life“ criminals and slaves back then, basically mocking the luxurious life of Rossi.

The dramatic display of the corpse for everyone to see to give off a warning: do not act like this sinner. It is an open display of Rossi‘s long life of wrongdoings and crime and how he now must suffer the consequences, caused by his sins. Since it is also a tool of enforcing and showing social control, it also fits the method of Passione scaring other gangsters and enemies. They are in control and on the top. They are showing psychological warfare and invoking public fear.

But also, does this act also is an act of mercy to bring salvation to Gennaro? Making Rossi die for his cruel sins to release the darkened spirit of the young man? It is quite interesting to think about this potential interpretation.

Risotto then rushed to Gennaro, picking him up, telling him that Rossi will now suffer for his sins. As Gennaro is seemingly dying in Risotto‘s arms, smiling, he found finally peace of his mind. His last act is showing the tombola card with the number 90 again, and we finally get know its meaning.

Fear.

This is what Gennaro wanted to overcome, feared and suffering by his past, not being able to act, not knowing if the feel of being haunted by Rossi will ever fleet away, now that the boy was adopted by him, probably even abused by new methods of Rossi‘s twisted mind.

Fear is what is haunting Risotto Nero and his team since weeks, enforced by the boss, treating them like dogs, making with the hitman team whatever he feels to, not respecting them, humiliating them. No regard for their talents, always reminding Risotto of his failure as a leader he cannot stop feeling guilty for. He needs to act. He can’t let this continue. But it is fear he also feels, not wanting to lose more of his men. But what is the other path? An endless cycle of ridicule? Risotto has enough. In this moment the brave acts of Gennaro must have inspired him to also put a stop onto all this. He can’t let fear to keep controlling him and his men.

And then, while Risotto is scolding Gennaro in an endearing way, talking to him like as if he was scolding one of his subordinates, like a mentor, he transforms the iron tile inside the boys hand and forms a staple.

Chapter 4

A short time skip. The news were talking about the gruesome murder of Rossi by a gangster and how this gangster also tortured a young boy was saved by a „skilled police officer with a stapler“

…a story wirhout any sense. Only Risotto Nero, Gennaro and the reader know the truth about what happened. Risotto did an heroic act, no one will ever know about, probably not even Gennaro himself, since he was barely left conscious when Risotto stapled his wounds with Metallica.

It is unbelievably tragic but also needed, as Risotto Nero has a reputation to hold. On this day, he took a life but he also saved another. And not only in a physical way, Risotto prevented Gennaro, who returned into a orphanage, to chose the same path as him many years ago. He brought salvation to his tormented and young spirit, finally removing his tantalizer from life. The boy has now again a chance of a normal life, a life, Risotto does not have himself.

Once again, Risotto brought success to Passione, without ever getting properly rewarded, payment as low as ever. Nothing changed. Only Risotto‘s resolve has.

He gathered his men again, this time in person, inside their usual hiding spot we know of. Which seems to be a rare occurance as the hitman team remarks, last time being the day they got these dreadful horrible packages of thin pieces of one of their members.

The waste disposal transfer seems to be on hold, Illuso and Formaggio being spared from changing teams this time, and they begin bantering again. Knowing they are essential to the team and valueing being among them.

This scene also confirms the basically fanon of the fandom that Prosciutto is a smoker - he indeed does.

Suddenly Risotto began to talk, he is resolved. The boss won’t continue to play with them like cheap and disposable puppets. The incident with the determined Gennaro and collecting his strength depsite still being scared, made him realize to act as well. Or else he and his men will keep this vicious cycle of being a team of assassins who despite carrying out the missions with success, still are only good enough to get potentially transferred to deal with garbage. It is a clear message, like the boss always does.

It is finally enough, time to free themselves from the chains.

He swears to overthrow the boss and organization. His will and decision strong as iron. Wanting to claim what has been taken from „HIM“.

This remark seems to be a direct hint on his pride, how much he personally has lost in his life and how sick he is of all this, fighting for a better future, for himself. But also for his team. To avenge the deaths of Sorbet and Gelato, to make their loss not being unresolved.

His subordinates being in silence, making Risotto questioning how they will decide, will they stay loyal to the team or to the organization of Passione? By now, they can only hold themselves only the little clues and whereabouts of the boss, events which unfold in the storyline of Vento Aureo.

Until then, Risotto Nero will continue to observe, to catch every clue to fulfill his revenge and bring dark glory and a better future for his team, them alone, against the remaining world. The stakes are high, him being the leader is responsible for the outcome of this resolve. Unfortunately, we know how this decision will turn out in the end. They were so close but it still was all for nothing, the mostly self motivated team of assassins' fate has already decided and it will lose against the altruistic motives of the gang of Bruno Bucciarati.

Okay, this was long. I don’t know how many of you really did read this. If you did,

Thank you.

As a summary, this short novel is a fantasticly written story about Risotto Nero and his team of hitmen, also shining with hints of fanservice, as confirming many ideas the fans had about them, and letting them all stay in character without ever breaking depsite all the bantery conversations, how close these men are. In the end, they are all they have.

This story really did Risotto Nero justice as a character, not once ever conflicting with the hints we knew about his personality but also expanding on them.

He is ruthless, cold and stone-faced, as we witnessed already in the original source material. But what we learned in this novel about him throws a new light on him, showing also his softer side.

He IS concerned about his teammates, he feels guilty about his failures as a leader, he can absolutely not cope with grief and has trouble managing his outbursts of anger - even targeting against himself and hurting himself. He looks after the wellbeing if his men, concerned about their mental health and respecting their trauma, not ever ridiculing them and their feelings. Risotto Nero is absolutely not emotionless, his inner world and thoughts are rich, which he just isn’t able to express for probably a multitude of reasons. He even shows compassion for strangers. There was no reason to save the girl from falling harshly to the ground, there was no reason to spare Gennaro, he even knows Risotto‘s face and could be therefore a danger in the future.

But he did help them. And the most cruel fact about this is, no one of them or the others, probably not even his men, will know about these acts and truths (only if they will maybe figure it out by themselves by the staples).

He is not a person who wants to be a hero, he knows he isn’t and he will never be, too many lives did he take by now. But, these little deeds to mercy and kindness are probably a secret of him, no one ever needs to know about. He has his own reasons to act, his own way. His own moral code and his own way to act.

This all makes Risotto Nero such a very well written character in my eyes, combining some of the worst human sins but also showing signs of compassion and protectiveness, like preventing others from a path full of pain or wanting to fight for his men, to finally get what they deserve.

I thank the author of this story, Ayato Toya, by a lot. This novel was a joy to read, which I already did by a couple of times. Also thanks to Hudgyn for the wonderful translation, which is very well and clearly written.

This novel probably strenghtened my own feelings for this character by a lot. I can’t express how happy I am this was written at all, if now this story gets and animated adaptation, my life will be complete. Come on, who does not want to see Risotto inside a suit?

Thank you for reading.

Oh yeah, here is my artwork of him again I made for this novel, I did imagine how he might look with a suit.

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.

When the jester picks his head back up, you can’t help fiddling even more with your dress, just like your husband's advisers have scolded you not to. The jester silently stares with a sheet white face, big red grin painted across his mouth. You want to shrink under the jesters stare, the blue diamonds painted over his eyes make his gaze feel piercing.

The king grins when he catches your nervous gaze.

“Do you like your surprise, my love? I thought you could use some cheering up lately. As did my advisers.”

He chuckles, looking over at the old men in the corner of the room. They smile back, amusing in a joke you're not a part of.

You just nod your head as politely as possible. You don’t know what's happening, but whatever they have planned can’t be good.

The jester skips up to where you and the king sit. He gives an exaggerated curtsy to the king, earning a laugh from him and the various nobility.

The bells jingle as he springs back up and steps closer to you. He stretches his hand out, you stare at it and then back to your husband.

“The fool wants a dance, my dear. Give him a dance.”

You try to hide the apprehension on your face and reach for the jesters white glove-covered hand. He doesn’t squeeze or pull you up like you expected, instead he holds it gently, waiting for your next move. You rise from your throne and cast one more glance at your husband, who only offers a self-satisfied grin in return. This whole time all they've wanted from you is a perfect queen and now they want you to dance with a fool?

The jester walks you to the middle of the room, encircled by leering nobility. He places your hand on his waist before dramatically correcting the mistake and placing it on his shoulder instead, looking bashfully to the audience who snicker at the joke. He takes your other hand in his and gives you a little nod before the musicians starts playing and he guides you into step.

Now obviously you know very well how to dance, you enjoyed it quite a bit when you were little although, now it’s just become another part of your queenly duties. Did any of that even matter now? Now that it’s clear the king and his peers see you as just as much of a joke as the man you’re waltzing with.

Your deep thoughts are broken when said man unexpectedly twirls you in a dizzying circle. You flail slightly in your surprise but you’re brought back into his arms just as quickly to continue your steps. You fully focus on him now and you wonder what his features look like under that gaudy clown makeup. Even in the bright chandelier lights of the ball room, you can’t make out the colour of his irises. Earlier, you thought they were hazel but now it seems they're an impossibly dark brown.

The dark pools look as if they could swallow all the colour from his face and your own. Actually, has he blinked even once during this dance, or at all for that matter?

You’re not sure if it was your mistake or the jester’s but you step on his foot and he suddenly pulls away from you. He clutches his foot and jumps up and down in theatrical pain. The room bursts into laughter, bellows and cackles. These elite men and women delight in the humiliating performance you’re both putting on for them. It takes everything in you not to cave right there in the middle of it. Why are you being humiliated when you've done nothing wrong?

While the jeering continues, you try your best to steel yourself, replacing the need to cry with spiteful compliance. If they want a dance, they can have a dance.

You curtsy at the jester, offering an apology and hold your hand out to him. He looks around and then points to himself. You can’t help but smile and nod your head.

He takes your hand and when the music starts back up again, you step in time to the beautiful melody. You try and put your full attention on the jester, not anyone else in the large room, which proves to be quite easy as he is by far the most interesting person present. You can just make out the small smile under the red painted grin, his relaxed eyebrows under the bright blue diamonds, the crook of his pointy nose.

While moving in sync, you become almost lost in trying to map out his face under the make-up. You look for imperfections in the face paint but can’t seem to find a single smudge or brush streak, in fact the paint looks impressively even, like it’s a second skin.

It truly does feel like its only you two and the music, for the first time in a long time you feel wanted by someone else.

But when the king grows bored he demands new entertainment.

He motions for the musicians to stop their music and you’re brought back to reality. The jester bows for the crowd, he gestures to you and you offer a little curtsy before being escorted back to your throne. Form there, you watch the rest of the strange performers routine. He juggles an impressive amount of miscellaneous items, he folds himself into ridiculous positions, walks on his hands and generally makes a fool of himself for the crowd.

You watch in delight, though your husband doesn't seem as interested as he was before your little dance.

You think about the jester all the way back to your courters that night. You think about him as you slip on your night dress and slide into bed, and you think of him as you stare up at the ceiling for possibly hours. There is too much on your mind, the fun of watching the jesters performance has subsided and thoughts of what this means for your reputation and position in the court remain constant. A sigh leaves you as you lift yourself up and open the doors to your balcony.

You lean on the balcony ledge and stare out at the starry night sky, not even the strange jester can distract from the humiliation ritual you were just a part of. He could have been in on it for all you know and you're just naive enough to think he was being kind to you during the whole thing.

A shuffling sound from behind you makes you turn your head and it takes you just a split second to register the very colourful jester standing in the corner of your balcony.

The screech you let out is smothered by your own hand. You clutch the edge of the balcony, staring at the slender man who puts his hands up, waving apologies while moving his chest as if laughing, nothing comes out of his mouth. You clutch your heart, breathing quite heavily as you stare at him bewildered. You look around trying to discern where he could have come from, and how you only now hear his bells jingle as he waves his hands, still apologising.

He steps closer and stands tall in front of you, he’s much more imposing than you remember him being. He holds up one finger and then mimics a waltz. His head bows low and he holds his hand out for you to take. He’s asking for another dance but is there really much of a choice at all? Has this also been planned? If you say no, will he just leave? Do you want him to leave? The dance you shared was the most delightful time you've had in so, so long

You stare at him for a good while, he stays with his hand outstretched, bent over at a near 90 degree angle, not straining even a little. The longer you wait, the more uncomfortable you feel in his unwavering presence.

Against your better judgement, you reach out and touch his gloved hand. He curls his fingers around yours and stands upright. You let him bring your hand to his shoulder, place his hand on your waist and step closer. This time is different from the last time. Now it really does feel like his attention is only on you, not with the other guests, not with the performance. It should be frightening, but you find no malice in his eyes, no ridicule in his demeanor.

As he steps into motion, you begin a slow waltz in the small space of your balcony. It's slower than in the ballroom, it's more intimate. While you dance with this complete stranger, your thoughts run rampant, you second guess your judgement again and again. Maybe the kindness you sense from him is a ruse. Maybe he is here on behalf of the king, setting up another degrading show. He could even be an assassin, come to rid you quietly in the middle of the night.

You would deserve such a fate for giving in so easily. You slowly spin in his arms and this time you don't hear the snide laughs of the nobility, just the sounds of the night. Both of you step in time and you let him guide you to the edge of your balcony. You hold your breath as he dips you over the ledge. Your eyes squeeze shut and you let out what could be your last breath ready for him to let go and let you fall.

But he doesn't let go, your grip on his shoulders never slips. You open your eyes, a bit blurry from wetness but you can make out his face, because it's right in front of you even though you're bent over the balcony far enough that your feet have left the ground. You stare back at his unrelenting gaze. In the dim light of the moon his eyes look even darker than before and something new swims in the deep black of his pupils, something sad.

They are lidded as they examine your face, your entire being. His hand on your back presses your chest further into his until you're sure he can feel your rapid heartbeat through your very flesh.

He lifts you upright again, turning you away from the ledge and out of harms way. You’re still chest to chest, he’s so close but you can’t feel him breathe. Your wide eyes stare up at him, trying to discern his expression. Your breaths are short and your grip on him hasn’t let up a bit.

He brings his hands up to your cheeks, the warm fabric of his gloves on your cold cheeks has you easing into them far too easily. His eyes examine every inch of your face while his thumbs stroke your cheeks, you can just barely see the frown on his lips behind the painted smile. He brings your face closer to his, slow and methodical, making it very clear what his next move is. You’re not sure if this was due to his own hesitation or to give you time to pull away, regardless you let him inch closer and closer until his lips grazed yours and you finally feel him breathe out one long breath.

The kiss is deep. Despite being slow and gentle, it still forces a struggled breath from you. You would’ve thought he tasted like paint but he doesn’t, he’s warm and inviting. It’s nice.

Your eyes close, surrendering all hesitation to the stranger in your arms. Fingers dig into the fabric of his puffy striped sleeves as your body melts further into his. You quickly learn to breathe through your nose, out of necessity and unwillingness to part from his affections.

You let him work your mouth open, slipping his tongue inside. The feeling is so foreign, you can’t help but whine. The backs of his fingers flutter over your throat and you shiver.

His tongue fills your mouth, sliding along yours and savouring your taste. The wet muscle reaches far into your mouth, farther than you thought normal but your experience is slim and you don’t have the awareness to fully question it. It’s overwhelming. Your knees tremble and he lowers you both to the cold stone floor. His tongue reaches into your throat, a feat you know is impossible.

You’re too lost to even think of the implications of this, as you gag and convulse around the thick muscle in your throat that no longer feels like a normal tongue. He reaches so far, your eyes roll back, your lower region warms uncomfortably and you forget how to breathe. You tap his shoulders quickly, a plea for air, and he retreats from your throat. He holds you as you cough and heave, wiping the spit from your chin.

You look at him with the an expression full of shock and fear and bewilderment and every other emotion shooting through your fuzzy mind. His expression is hard to discern but he seems both amused and sad.

He stands and brings you up on shaky legs. When he starts to back away, you panic and clutch his hands tighter. You don’t know what you were hoping for. That he would stay? That he would spend the night with you?

His face is full of what you hope is longing and not pity, you know what pity looks like. He holds you close in what you know is a goodbye embrace. He presses his forehead to yours and he places one last short kiss on your lips. Its playfull and very much not what you’d consider a proper good bye kiss. You search his gaze and you’re met with rather boyish mirth, lifting your spirits slightly. Maybe this isn't goodbye then?