#gambling id pack

[hellish-npts]

Gambling ID Pack

Pt: Gambling ID Pack /end pt

Names: Ace, Blackjack, Caecus, Cecelia, Cecillia, Celia, Chance, Chip, Club, Célia, Diamond, Dice, Glutton, Greed, Heart, House, Jack, Jackie, Jackpot, Joker, King, Lights, Luck, Lucky, Mammon, Neon, Odds, Queen, Roulette, Ruler, Seven, Sin, Spade, Tyche, Vegas

Pronouns: a/ace, ace/aces, blackjack/blackjacks, card/cards, ching/chings, clu/club, club/clubs, di/dice, dia/diamond, diamond/dimaonds, dice/dices, gamble/gambles, gambler/gamblers, gold/golds, heart/hearts, house/houses, jack/pot, jackpot/jackpots, jester/jesters, king/kings, luck/lucks, poke/poker, poker/pokers, queen/queens, rich/riches, rig/rigged, rigged/rigged, rou/roulette, roulette/roulettes, royal/royals, ruler/royals, silver/silvers, slot/slotsa, spade/spades, ♠️/♠️s, ♣️/♣️s, ♥️/♥️s, ♦️/♦️s, 🃏/🃏s, 🍀/🍀s, 🎰/🎰s, 🎲/🎲s, 👑/👑s, 💎/💎s, 💰/💰s, 🪙/🪙s, 🪞/🪞s

Titles: a frequenter of casinos, a[n un]lucky man / woman, prn that spends too much / gains too little, prn that stacks the chips, prn that the tables, prn who bets [against the odds], prn who folds the cards, prn who is blinded by money, prn who is favored by lady luck, prn who wages their bets, the gambler, the gambling man / woman, the only one to beat the house

Genders: Dicerollgender, Castokentarotaesic, Croupian, Casinoaesic, Luckgreenjackpot, Genderdice, Vegasgender, Reddicegender, Blackdicegender, Clearedicegender, Lucklexic, Pokerial, Luckflipic, Unluckylexic, Luckything, Unluckything, Luckydoxthing, Genderjackpot, Goldjackpot, Silverjackpot, Bronzejackpot

Other id: Casino Conceptkin, Gambelier Attraction, Gambling Xenoscent, luck/lucks, 💎/💎s, ♠️/♠️s, Dissohiluck, Dissololuck, Metal Scented

Text in bold is: Name, Pronouns, Titles, Genders, and Other ids respectively

All term names are links

Requested by Anon

Tagging @id-pack-archive

[yoonmetogether]

Not In the Cards Prelude pt. 1

pairing: gambler!Yoongi x !fem reader genre: strangers-to-lovers, age gap, intro to mafia/bodyguard au summary: how it all started. you won all of his money at poker, he hates you for it, but you find yourself hiding in a closet with him. (This is rlly e2l2e2l lol) warnings: alcohol, mild derogatory language, yoongi's an asshole, reader antagonizes him, motorcycle riding, gambling, smoking, drinking, smut, quickie in a janitor’s closet 🥴, insane bickering, usage of sl*t, yoongi and those red chopsticks from haegeum, a smidge of violence (not towards each other), implied parental absence, scars, reader mentions a minor injury from a car crash wc: 10.2k minors dni. 18+ only thanks to my beta reader @yoonglesyeobo and also to @syllviere for their help and support! <333

prologue l ch. 1 play nice l prelude. strangers 1/3 l prelude. 2/3 l prelude. 3/3 l ch. 2 l

You picked a great time to fly back home - smack dab in the middle of monsoon season. Of all the light things you packed in your backpack and duffle bag, you forgot an umbrella.

And the first thing you did once you set foot on the mainland soil of your Jeju pit stop, was ask your driver to take you to the Sehwa beach on the east coast. But the cash you had got you only about three-quarters of the way there, so you were dropped off into the one part of town you’re familiar with. Memories of happier times dance around the streets as you walk down them, on your way to the place you know best. Even though it will remind you of how things once were and never will be again, you go because it’s the only place you know where you can earn money without really having to work for it.

You’re soaked to the bone when you walk into the bar. The lights are low and dimmed with a green hue and floating smoke. It’s loud with banter as men get drunk on this gloomy Friday night.

You find an ATM near the bathrooms and withdraw 700,000 won.

“Hi, sweetie. Are you lost?” one of the pretty waitresses asks as she approaches you in a short apron and even shorter skirt, lips painted a vibrant ruby. Her silky bob is curled just above a black choker around her neck, and she glances down as you slide your wad of cash into your wallet, sliding it in your jacket pocket.

“Uh, no. Can I get a drink and a seat please?”

She looks at you with apprehension laced in her polite expression. “There’s a much quieter bar a few blocks down the street. You might have a better time there.”

“I appreciate that, but I’m actually looking to win some money.”

“I see,” she says after a pause, giving you a onceover. “Are you old enough?”

Yeah, an illegal gambling ring probably wouldn’t want to get tacked on with another charge of hosting minors if the cops were ever smart enough to come snooping around a place like this. You pull out your ID and hand it to her, watching as she holds it up and you know just what she’s looking for because you’ve used a fake to get in here before.

The corner of her mouth lifts in a small smile as she passes it back to you. She turns around and beckons you forward with two fingers in the air, leading you through the bar and as you trail behind her, nostalgia walks with you.

At the bar was where you took your first shot, had your first cigarette, in spite of your brother’s protests, and the den downstairs that you’re heading to was where you won your first real hand at poker. It’s still the same old musty, dusty, probably moldy basement that you remember, but now the ghosts of your past linger in the air so it’s hard to go through without getting a little misty-eyed.

As you step off the stairs, the waitress is surveying the room. It’s much more crowded and loud than upstairs since there are high stakes all around. You strain your neck, looking for an empty chair but they’re all occupied by men with too much time and not enough money to lose.

“Well, all of the tables are full right now, but I can set you up with a drink at the bar while you wait for an opening.”

“What about the table in the back?” Her eyes narrow.

“That’s for more experienced players.” Leaning against the railing, you hum, check your manicure.

“I’ll cut you twenty percent of my win if you get me in there.”

Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “You’re that confident?”

“This is where I learned how to play pro. I win more than I lose.”

She looks you up and down again, like she can’t figure you out.

“Make it twenty-five.”

“Deal,” you grin and she mirrors you, flashing her teeth.

“Follow me.”

You pull your damp hoodie further over your head in an attempt to shield your face as you follow her through the maze of tables towards a door in the far corner of the low-ceiling room. It’s slightly obscured by the counter and sheer, moth-eaten curtains that match the shitty wall color, and you thank the waitress when she pulls them to the side to direct you through. She then leads you into a small hallway but pauses right before the second door frame.

“I have to tell you, these men aren’t exactly their mothers’ favorite.”

You shrug. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

“Alright, well if you change your mind…”

“Thanks, but I won’t. I owe you that big tip.”

She smiles. “Don’t let me down, girlie.”

“Is there room for one more, gentlemen?” Her voice carries over the cocksure babble of the middle-aged men surrounding the round, green-felt table, littered with scattered poker chips, worn ashtrays and crystal glasses of whiskey. You’re met with a thick cloud of smoke as you approach an empty seat at the table. They all fall quiet as you pull down your hood, revealing your wet hair and the fact that you are not one of them.

A collective muttering of derision rises as you pull out the chair but you act completely unbothered, unzipping your drenched coat and shrugging it off. You fish your wallet out of your jacket and pass all of your cash to the attendant who exchanges it for chips.

“What do you know about poker?” one of the men prods.

"Plenty. Deal me in. What’s the ante?”

“I think you’re wasting your time,” another cuts in. “You should go see if they have a kiddie table.”

The men shove elbows into each other in raucous laughter at your expense but it doesn’t affect you at all.

“Let her play.”

You look up at the new voice. Gravelly. Gruff. Tempting.

Shit. How did you miss… him? The youngest man in the room, the one with parts of his face shadowed by the god-awful, dim lighting, has not taken his eyes off of you since you walked in. You can tell by the way the bumps on your skin prickle every time your attention flickers in his direction and your eyes catch. His hair is orangey, as much of it that pokes out from under his black beanie, and he’s wearing a black varsity jacket with white stitching on the front that makes him stand out among the rest of the men’s unflattering suits and loose ties.

He lifts his cigarette, takes a drag, and blows it out, blinking between you and two black poker chips he taps on the table.

You glare at the subtle smirk on his lips as he says, “Easy win.”

This will be fun.

The first few rounds you do get shit hands, but you bet on them anyway, enduring the condescension that leers from the entire table each time. The only one who doesn’t laugh is the one you can’t stop stealing glances at, the one who just nonchalantly smokes and places bets and looks at his cards, and occasionally stares right back. Makes your heart flip. You’ve noticed, though, from watching him a few times, that when the flop is laid out and it’s time for the first bets, if he blinks a little erratically while staring at his hand, he folds soon after. You fold on a two-pair after checking, and the players get a kick out of that when you reveal that you had a potentially winning hand. You pretend to be super bummed. But now you’ve got them right where you want them.

So far, you’ve bet the majority of your money but you’re fairly certain that won’t matter in a few minutes. In your hand, you hold an 8 and 2 of Diamonds. On the table, lies a ten of Spades, six of Clubs, 4 and Queen of Diamonds, and three of hearts. You school your expression. One more diamond card and it’s a flush. You look up and it seems the majority of the table has folded, but ‘kiddie table’ man and ‘beanie with a mean stare’ man are still in the running. Both of their hands have been good so far, but ‘beanie with a mean stare’ has won most of the rounds. This is the last one and you’re running out of time to win all of it back. You feign a nervous glance around the table before you check. ‘Kiddie’ checks as well and you wait for ‘mean beanie’ to follow suit but instead, he scoots the rest of his chips in to raise the bet. Huh. He’s getting cocky, going all in. He only blinked once when the dealer laid down the flop, so you suspect he has a good hand. But not a great one, so you’ll raise the stakes. The men mutter in amusement when you match his bet and he lifts a brow, but the rest of his expression remains neutral. The dealer asks if that’s the final bet, and when no one responds, he flips the fifth card. Your heart jumps. 

A nine of Diamonds.

‘Kiddie’ goes first and displays his three-of-a-kind. Hm. Not bad. You glance over to ‘mean beanie,’ waiting for him to make the next move but he only stares at you, unblinking, a thin line between his lips. You take a deep breath and put on a sheepish smile while flattening your cards near the center of the table so everyone can see.

“Is this a flush?” They all still, and you fail to fight off a grin when their many pairs of eyes go back and forth between the river and your two low rank cards that add up to a high rank hand.

‘Mean beanie’ is now staring at his cards, a noticeable tick in his jaw and you know you’ve won. He tosses them down with a quick flick of his wrist and you can’t help your smirk at his obvious dejection. You observe his 5 of Hearts and 7 of Spades.

“Oh, a straight? How nice.” Your head tilts mockingly. “You almost beat me.”

He frowns and you feel enthralled, resisting the urge to blow him a demeaning kiss. With a content sigh, you lean forward to scrape your scored chips towards you, holding your arms out like a hoop to move them all because there’s just that many. You stand as an attendant appears to retrieve your chips to count and trade for the table’s cash. You think you’ll get a nice hotel room to shelter from the storm.

“It was a pleasure playing with you gentlemen,” you say politely as you stand. “I’ll enjoy spending your money.”

The devilish grin you send to all of them lingers on ‘mean beanie’ who is now refusing to look at you. There’s a pep in your step as you stride up to the attendant behind the counter near the door, waiting for him to cash you out.

You watch as the men file out, glaring at you and muttering bitter curses amongst themselves. You shrug it off. Serves them right for underestimating you just because you’re a young woman. You may have been putting on an act, but men run the world.

Shouldn’t they have been smart enough to pick up on that?

‘Beanie’ is the last one to go, head ducked as he pulls out his phone. He’s still in the hallway when you exit, backpack stacked with 10 million won. His foot is on the bottom step as he types furiously on his device.

“Hey, good game,” you say in a light tone as you pass him, but there’s too much sass in your smile to seem genuine. “And you’re right. That was an easy win.”

He lifts his head slowly, eyes narrowed in a vicious glare, pockets his phone and takes a step up. It makes your heart speed when he comes nearly face to face with you, and you can see him in this mildly better lighting.

“How’d you pull that off, huh? You count cards?” He’s pretty much seething but fucking hell, he's attractive.

“No,” you blink innocently, living for the ferocity in his darkened eyes. “I just count on men to be dumb enough to believe a pretty girl like me doesn’t know how to gamble. Thanks for being so full of yourself that you can’t see through a sham like that.”

His jaw ticks as his glare rakes up and down your form.

“You’re full of yourself, too. You’re not that pretty.”

It’s a cheap shot, but it’s obvious he’s just trying to make himself feel better by hurting your feelings because he has nothing else.

“Aww, you sound like a sore loser. Do you want to go back in there? Try to win some back?”

“I’m done playing for the night.” He still hasn’t gotten out of your face and the scent of his earthy cologne with traces of cigarette smoke is doing unhealthy things to your blood pressure.

“Understandable. It would suck to get your ass beat by a girl twice in a row.”

He's radiating with vexation but it doesn’t intimidate you in the slightest. If anything, it’s making him more attractive, which makes you think you should do some deep, serious internal reflection. His nostrils flare just before he swivels on his heel to face the steps.

“Oh, by the way, I noticed that you blink a lot when you get a bad hand. You should work on that.”

His head jerks to you, seeming to take offense to that. He looks you up and down again, scowls, and starts up the stairs.

“Maybe with your money, I’ll buy some expensive makeup to doll myself up better!” You call up.

“You’d need a lot!” 

Fucking liar. You cackle as he jogs up the rest of the way.

******* Upstairs, he’s already out of sight. You relocate the waitress who greets you expectantly, an enthusiastic grin breaking out on her face when you pull out your winnings. She gives you a small cheer and while you sit at the bar to count out her cut, she makes you a drink on the house.

Once you finish it, you check the time and realize you shouldn’t hang around here for much longer. And you’re starting to feel the effects of jet lag now that you’ve got your money problems squared away. But of course you left your jacket downstairs. You ask the waitress if you can go get it.

“Sure, but come right back.”

In the hallway, you falter when you hear a one-sided conversation, spoken by that low stony voice that tickles your brain. You peek your nosy head around the corner, pulse spiking with a thrill when you see ‘beanie’ standing on the other side of the room, next to another hallway.

“The fuck do you mean it didn’t go through? 

As he listens on the other line, he hangs his head, fingers digging into his eyes in what appears to be frustration before dropping them on his hip.

“Shit, are you serious?... Can you just send me some for a plane ticket? I’ll pay you back...” He sighs dejectedly. “Fine. See you back home.”

He curses again, louder this time, and you take that as your cue to saunter into the room, pretending you don’t notice him as you head for the table.

“You stalking me?” You blow a raspberry, leaning down to grab your jacket from the chair and hold it up for him to see.

“As if. You’re not that interesting. And you’re a sore loser,” you tack on. “Not my type.”

(Straight up lies.)

“Well, you’re fucking annoying.”

“Thank you!” You exclaim, hand on your chest like you’re honored. “I’ve worked so hard to be.”

He glowers at you and you really want to laugh. Why is he so angry? It’s not like you stole his money. Tricked him? Maybe, but you can’t exactly be fair in a place like this. His head shakes as he passes by you for the exit.

“So I really won all of your money, huh? And now you’re strapped for cash?” He pauses, slides narrowed eyes your way, and stuffs his hands in his jacket.

“Mind your business.”

“What? It just sounds like you’re in a tough spot, especially with the big storm coming later. I’d hate to think that you’re stranded in torrential downpour with nowhere to go all because some mid-looking girl took your money.”

“Don’t patronize me,” he snaps.

“How is that patronizing? I’m just saying, I’m sorry you fell for my dirty little trick, but I can help you out if you want.”

He strides into your space and you step back, heart pounding when he gets in your face again. There’s a dangerous look in his eyes but you’re not at all threatened.

“I don’t need shit from you.” You tip your head up and bat your eyelashes, sneaking a glance at his lips, pink and plush and enticing. 

“Okay,” you shrug nonchalantly, failing to fight off a small smirk. Warmth creeps up from your cheeks to your ears when his blown out pupils flash down to your mouth. And the tension in between you transforms with a feral magnetism.

His tongue darts out to his bottom lip and your eyes widen a fraction at the sight.

“You’re really aggravating, you know that?”

“You can walk away.” His head tilts at your challenge and the magnetism grows when he doesn’t move.

Just then, your heads turn towards the stairs when voices and footsteps start to descend.

He grabs your arm and tugs you around the corner and to the end of the hallway, whipping open a small door and stepping inside before pulling you along with him. Your nose wrinkles at the odious smell of industrial cleaning agents.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” he hisses, tugging you away from the door to the adjacent side of the small and dark closet. “No one’s supposed to be down here now that they’ve closed things up.”

“Oh,” you whisper, settling against the wall. “You don’t really strike me as the type to follow the rules.”

“I’m not,” he grits, voice deep enough to not be heard easily. “But I know that consequences still apply if I get caught.”

“Well, this isn’t how I expected to spend my Friday night,” you huff with a cross of your arms. “Holed up in some janitor’s closet with a common criminal.”

“You’re one too, y’know. You committed a felony just by stepping foot in here. And then another, when you won all that money.”

You mimic that last sentence in a childish tone and his chest heaves in a huff.

“Will you be quiet?”

“Am I pissing you off?”

“You have been since the first goddamn minute you walked in.”

“If I annoy you that much, you could’ve just hidden in here yourself and left me out there to get in trouble.”

“I still have time. I could push you out now.”

“Do it then.”

A silence follows, like he’s contemplating. Hesitating. That magnetism comes back to buzz and burn.

“Or maybe, and I’m just spitballing here, you wanted an excuse to get me alone in this dark, tight space?”

He scoffs. “You’re delusional.”

“Hm. Then why are you so close? There’s more than enough room for the both of us to have space.”

When he doesn’t say anything, unease pinches your gut as you think you’ve gotten ahead of yourself and misread things. You can’t help that his whole broody, pissed off vibe turns you on for some reason. So you move to get away from him, create some space now that you’re embarrassed but his hand finds the crook of your elbow and stops you. Heat floods your cheeks for a whole different reason.

“What are you trying to get at?” You smile, heart pounding with nerves because you know his rejection would sting like hell. But you’re not about to let his attitude shit on your confidence.

“C’mon, you’re not that dumb.” His fingers dig into your arm, not enough to hurt but enough to feel that you’ve pinched a nerve.

You gasp when he pushes your arm until your back hits the wall and you stare at the silhouette of his face, his hand lifting above your head. Blood rushes in your ears when he leans in so close that his warm breath fans down to your chin.

“You wanna be fucked in here like a slut? Is that it?”

Holy mother of fuck. The way he said that - husky, dark, low but so intense has to be a sin.

“Can you even get it up this late at night, old man?”

“Who the fuck are you calling old?” He snaps. “You’ve got to be at least 30.”

He better be joking! “What does that make you, then? 45? 50?” 

“Try 27.”

“Huh. You’re still a lot older than me.” You don’t find that hot.

“By how much?” he queries, a bit of apprehension in his tone.

“5 years.”

He exhales sharply, a breath of relief. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Keep telling yourself that. Is almost 30 too early to have ‘dysfunctional’ problems?”

Large hands on your hips force you to turn around and face the wall, and you plant your palms on it with a gasp when he grinds his clothed erection on the swell of your ass.

“Does this feel ‘dysfunctional’ to you?” he growls, grinding against you again, slower this time but harsher so you can feel all of what’s swelling in his pants. He’s big, because of course he is, and you figure by the end of this, you’ll be the dysfunctional one.

“I-I don’t know,” you stutter, throat suddenly dry. He chuckles, and it’s like a jolt of thunder worthy of a hurricane storming through every seed of your nerves.

Sighing, he leans into you, chest barely brushing your back, and returns his hand to the wall above your head, ducking his chin to breathe down your neck and you gasp again as he rolls his hips once more while muttering darkly into your ear,

“Do you want to find out?” A shiver bolts down your spine, and your center starts to throb with sinful desire.

Getting fucked on a Friday night in a cleaning closet by a common criminal is definitely not something you expected to be doing on your trip back home. But you don’t want it to go in any other way.

“Mhmm.”

“Is that supposed to be a word?”

“Yes!” You whisper yell.

“Yes, what?” he emphasizes, tone gritty and dominating.

“Yes, I want to find out.”

Quiet passes for a minute and you think he’s in the middle of rethinking things, but then he manhandles you to the side of the closet opposite from the door, and you put out your hands to feel that you’re pressed into a set of shelves holding big ass rolls of paper towels or something.

He tugs at the hem of your pants. “Take these off.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“Because I’m giving you a chance to change your mind,” he mutters.

Huh. You hesitate only because that was unexpected. But you weren’t planning on changing anything. Without a word, you undo the clasp on your jeans and reach back to find his hand, taking note of the insane electricity that surges through you once you touch him, and bring it back to your waist, silent permission that he can continue. Nothing is said as he slides your pants down your ass, and you wait for him to work on his own jeans but instead you feel his fingers trickle on the inside of your upper thigh, breath hitching as he inches closer to your heat. You spread your legs and arch your back to give him indication to touch you. He cups your mound, and you lurch forward with a moan, grabbing the shelf to hold onto for dear life.

“You better stay quiet,” he grumbles. “Because if you get us caught, I’ll tell them I found out you were counting cards.”

“And you were fucking me as punishment?” you challenge over your shoulder, but the vitriol in your sneer is extinguished when he glides a lone finger between your folds.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re already wet. Being a dirty slut like this turns you on?”

You don’t answer, brain malfunctioning when he starts rubbing circles over your clit, and you duck your head as it increases your arousal. A whiny moan floats out when he teases your hole and hums to himself. Your shoulders tense when he slips a digit in, shushing your louder moan as he adds another and pumps in and out to work you open. You have to hold your breath every now and then to keep your noises to yourself.

As he keeps finger-fucking you, there’s some shifting and then a slap of something falling on the floor, followed by the sound of foil tearing.

“Did you just get a condom out of your wallet?” you manage to croak.

“No, I pulled it out of thin air,” he deadpans dryly.

You roll your eyes. Men. Always staying locked and fucking loaded. And he called you a slut? You open your mouth to convey this to him, but you figure one more smart-ass comment will deny you of what you’re craving.

You salivate when you hear him undo his belt and unzip his jeans. He steps back with a faint moan, and you imagine him finally pulling himself out to roll on the condom. Shit. You know you’re in for it.

His hand finds your waist again, and he spits, loudly, before tapping his tip on your center, gathering your arousal. Your body jerks at the sensation of his head dragging through your folds and over your clit before coming back to prod your entrance, making you tense up in anticipation.

“Are you going to back out? Last chance.”

“No, I’m good.” There’s a lapse in movement and in words but then he pushes in and- fuck! It’s a stretch. You moan over a bitten tongue as your eyes squeeze shut, urgently trying to adjust.

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not up for it,” he mutters quietly when your cunt refuses to cooperate, thanks to a mix of nerves.

"I am, damn it!”

“Then fucking relax.”

So you deflate your lungs, using the idea of just how good it’ll feel once he fills you up for motivation to do as he says. You let your body go almost entirely limp and he must notice because he digs his fingers into your waist and guides himself in, agonizingly slow, expanding your walls with girth so fulfilling.

A low growl resonates in his chest when he sinks in all the way, fingers flexing on your naked hips as he gives time for you to adjust. His hard dick twitching within tells you that he needs a second too. Then for a few minutes, he fucks you at a snail’s pace while you try not to lose your shit. He pulls out to bend his knees, and thrusts back up into you, breathing shakily as he increases the pace.

He doesn’t take his hands off of your waist. Doesn’t grope your tits, or cup handfuls of your ass, just holds onto your hips to keep you in place, occasionally uses them to adjust his stance behind you. A part of you wishes he would because you know his large hands could work wonders on your skin, but at the same time there’s a modicum of respect coming from his restraint. You don’t know if that’s what he’s going for or if he just genuinely doesn’t want to touch you - which, ouch - but you’re pretty sure most guys would take you letting them fuck you in a closet as automatic permission to touch all parts of your body whether you asked them to or not, but apparently he’s not one of them.

There is one place, though, that you desperately need him to put his hands on and for whatever reason, he’s not.

“Are you gonna play with my clit anytime soon? Or did you, in your old age, forget where it is?” He huffs, dark and indignant in your ear.

“It’d be nice to get off at some point ton-” A hand slides over your cheek and a pair of fingers gets shoved on your tongue, cutting you off.

“Shut. Your. Mouth.” Your eyes roll back at the rigid and domineering grit in his tone, and your back arches to press further into him, needy, wanting. His other hand rises to replace his fingers with a balled-up piece of fabric, and then he snakes down to in between your legs. You have to bite down on whatever fabric he used to muffle you when he easily finds your aching nub and spreads your saliva over it before stroking in agonizing circles. Your teeth clamp down harder on the mysterious material to barricade a whimper.

His hips, on the other hand, start to smack against your ass with animalistic determination, like he wants to fuck you as fast as he can so he can get this over with. Which is fine by you, because it feels so fucking good. The force of his thrusts paired with the tips of his fingers rubbing your clit in rough, calculated strokes has your nails scraping on the wall due to the overwhelming pleasure building within you.

He starts to fuck you at a different angle and you almost cry out when he spears against your spot.

“There?” he asks, rocking in the same place experimentally while you clench around him. Your thighs start to shake.

“Mhmm!” you exclaim. He doesn’t stop fucking you there until you come, and even though you already can’t see shit, you definitely black out for a second. The material in your mouth isn’t helping your breathing situation but it’s preventing you from crying.

He hisses and then yanks out, lets go of your waist, and you involuntarily drop to your knees.

“Shit, my fault,” he mutters, but you’re focused on plucking the cloth out of your mouth, scrunching it in your palm. You weakly pull your jeans to your hips and turn around when he curses again, reaching out to find his dick as he jerks himself to completion. He stops and rips off the condom, thumb sliding up your chin and into your mouth to force it open.

“Gonna come,” he grumbles. You nod and stick out your tongue, and using his thumb as guidance, he slides his thick mushroom head past your lips, filling your mouth with hot ropes of cum. He emits some kind of purring sound as you swallow it all down and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

After allowing a moment to accept what just happened, he steps back again and sighs heavily as he tucks himself in, fixing his belt while you wipe your mouth with the inside of your shirt. When he bends down to pick up his wallet, you wait for his hand to offer you help up off the floor, but he just turns around, leaving you to stand up on your own with shaky legs.

That’s not the vibe you were starting to get from him, but okay?

Swinging on your jacket with a bit of shame, you walk up behind him where he’s listening at the door for anyone outside, and realize that you just let this guy fuck you in a weird-smelling closet and come in your mouth before you even got his name.

“I’m Angel, by the way.”

“That’s nice," he says flatly, tone withdrawn.

“Did you flunk preschool? This would be the part where you tell me your name.”

“I'm good.” You scoff, taken aback. 

"Geez, dude. After all that, you can’t even tell me your name?”

"Nah. Not like we’re ever gonna see each other again, right?” That stings. He doesn’t have the courtesy to do something normal after doing something so unorthodox?

“Whatever, prick.”

When he opens the door, you toss the fabric at him and shove into his shoulder, not looking back as you hurry towards the stairs, taking two at a time to get away from him.

The waitress gives you a wary look as you stomp towards her, and you offer an embarrassed apology while you gather your bags. You thank her, pass her a few more bills, and make an escape to the bathroom. You refuse to look in the mirror as you get yourself together. What the fuck were you thinking?

But as the universe would have it, he’s outside under the awning because of the rain, scrolling through his phone and smoking a cigarette with a foot propped on the wall.

Without slowing down, you walk by him, pluck the cigarette from his fingers and continue down the block. At the corner, you stop abruptly, and lift the stick to your lips, take a drag, then toss it into the street, staring right at him. He frowns and with the hand not stuffed in his jean pocket, raises his middle finger and you shoot him one right back, blowing out smoke and holding back a cough. You flag down a cab with a heavy weight in your chest that crawls up to your throat and threatens to imitate the storm pouring from the clouds above.

The rain follows you into the crowded restaurant and you do your best to shake it off of your clothes and shoes before you go in. An older male server rushes by carrying a tray of soju and shot glasses, beckons you further inside and gestures over to the far end of the room where a small empty table sits in front of the window. As you weave your way towards it, you pass by groups of friends, some couples, others colleagues, all having a good time staying out of the storm together. It makes you a little bitter and a lot lonely.

You sit down with your back facing away from the reminder that you’re the only one occupying a two-person table and order a bottle of soju and a hot bowl of noodles that will take away some of the wet chill clinging to your skin.

A motorcycle zooms by. The engine sounds like a single-cylinder with a good torque. A Ducati maybe?

As you wait, you lean back in your chair, arms crossed, and stare outside, reminiscing about old times. Old friends. All a part of memories now.

A few minutes after the server delivers you a bottle of soju and you take a shot, you head to the bathroom to wash up and finally acknowledge the shame lingering in your appearance. When you emerge, passing by the bar, you’re stopped in your tracks by the face of the man who is the reason for that shame. Your heart pounds abnormally. He’s sitting a few barstools away from you, beanie gone, unveiling orange hair and roots that could use a touch up, with a black and white bandanna tied under his chin, like it was being used as a mask. Was that what he stuffed in your mouth earlier?

You stare at him as he sips some clear liquor out of a whiskey glass and when he finally notices, he, for some reason, doesn’t look that surprised to see you.

“You again,” you scowl. “Who’s stalking who now?” He shrugs.

“This is a small island.”

Your eyes roll at his shit logic.

“Well, sorry to have ruined your whole ‘we’re never gonna see each other again’ bullshit.”

He doesn't reply, just frowns into his glass. Feeling hot all over, you stew as you stomp back to your table to retrieve your wallet, fishing out a large bill that you slap on the counter once you return to the bar. The bartender comes over and you make a point of looking over at the prick while you say,

"His drinks are on me." You prolong your vengeful gaze on him, fighting your tongue when his jaw only clenches in response, and head back to your table in a huff.

You try to let it go and not sear holes through his back, instead focusing on your wonderful meal and full glass of soju. He can go to hell.

It seems that the universe has other plans in store when mid-bite, you feel a presence approach and you think it’s the server coming to check on you, but when you look up and the presence stops at your table, your heart skips at the musk that pummels your lungs and puts you in a chokehold. Because it’s the same one that enveloped you from behind not too long ago, strong enough to mask the stench of cleaning supplies. And the source of it slaps a familiar lone bill in front of you under a veiny, slender hand. He stares down at you with an unreadable look in his eyes. Glancing at the bill, you make no move to take it back or acknowledge the fact that he didn't let you pay, even though you just won a bunch of his money. What is this guy playing at?

"Take it."

"No," you shoot back, resuming your meal for an excuse not to look at him. 

He sighs and you think that's the end of it.

But then he scoots into the seat across from you. Your heart flatlines when he glances at you, barely acknowledging you or your shocked expression, and cards a hand through his hair, flipping his bangs away to showcase his forehead, clear of blemishes. Isn’t that fucking typical.

“Um, can I help you?”

“The kitchen’s closing soon and I want to order something,” he says casually as he gets comfortable.

“And you’re sitting at my table because? I thought I was annoying.”

“You are,” he replies, still not looking at you but at your bowl. “But all the other tables are full.”

You scoff and take a sweep of the restaurant, desperate to catch him in a lie - surely people have left and freed up spaces since you got here. Nope. The seat across from you was the only one empty. But why does he have to be the one who fills it?

“You could just go somewhere else.”

“It’s pouring out there.”

“Afraid you’ll melt?”

He flickers a small glare your way, then moves it behind you when the bell over the entrance announces a customer’s arrival. He’s acting indifferent, like he wasn’t just a complete dick, and you don’t know what to make of it.

“So does this mean you're done being an asshole to me now?”

“You think I should be nice or something?”

“That would be a start.”

“Aren’t you not supposed to be nice to strangers? Didn’t your mother ever teach you that?”

That draws a cloudy expression over your face. “I’m sure she would’ve if she was ever around.”

He looks at you and you can see a smidge of his hostile demeanor fall away. Your attention drops to your lap, waiting for him to give the little pity party you’re used to people throwing you when they find out you have an absentee parent. But he doesn’t, just shifts in his seat and lets a little tension out of his shoulders.

“Yoongi.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you look across again, thrown for a loop. “What?”

He shrugs, juts out his bottom lip in what you think is a pout. “You wanted my name, right?”

He looks shy and, dare you say, cute saying that. 

“Was that so hard? You know that makes us not strangers anymore,” you point out with a widening smile as he glowers at you.

You reach for the soju bottle but he leans forward and snatches it away. Puzzled, you withdraw your hand, but he gestures to your glass and mimes a pour. There’s uncertainty stitched between your brows as you pick up the glass and hold it out with two hands while he pours a shot. You can’t help but notice the scar etched in a jagged line across the back of his right hand turning the bottle, and you look away from it so you don’t gawk. But you’re curious.

Even though you don’t yet fully respect him, he is still 5 years older, so you turn to the side to knock the shot back. When you’re done, you silently offer to return the favor but he shakes his head, fills your glass once again and sets the bottle down, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest, glancing between you and the table with a dart of his tongue over his bottom lip.

You stare at the liquor, tips of your fingers dancing around the rim of the glass as you debate how much of your sobriety you should hold onto for the night.

“You’re not drinking?” you ask after you down the shot, wiping your chin.

“I’m driving.” You hum in acknowledgement.

“Are you gonna eat?”

He shakes his head. “I’m good.”

“I thought that was the whole point of sitting at my table.”

“I changed my mind.” Liar. He’s been eyeing your bowl ever since he sat down.

“You’re a shit liar. No wonder I cleaned you out.”

He flips you off and you just sigh. A lost cause. You catch the scar on the back of his hand again, the skin raised but healed.

The atmosphere between you since his gesture has slowed things down, setting a new pace that’s strange but not entirely unwelcome. The liquor spreading warmth in your chest loosens your inhibitions, bringing forth your curiosity.

"What happened to your hand?”

"Bar fight,” he replies a little too quickly. You don't believe that.

"Some bar fight." He rolls his eyes at your sarcasm but then his attention flickers back with a tick of his eyebrows when you lower the collar of your sweater, exposing the skin just below your right shoulder that displays your own gash.

“I got this when I used to race during my first couple years at university.” You smirk when both his brows shoot up, clearly not expecting your story. “I was drifting and my component spun out and drove me off the road and I smashed into a guardrail. He was fine, but my windshield shattered and a big piece of glass just wedged in right here.” You press a finger against the very visible healed stitching. “It hurt like a motherfucker, dug into my bone and all that, but the scar came out pretty bad ass, don’t you think?”

He tilts his head with an amused expression, as if not expecting you to sound somewhat proud of your preventable injury.

“I’m sure you were smart enough to stop racing after that.”

“Yeah, but I still went to functions and stuff. And then one night, cops busted our spot and a bunch of us got arrested. I spent a couple days in jail and my brother had to come bail me out.” You pause to think about how irate Jin had been, flying halfway across the world to pay your bond, dragging Namjoon along to fight for you not to be charged. Jin chewed you out the entire time, about how dangerous that was and how you could’ve killed somebody and yourself. Of course you knew that, but you’ve always proved to be a damn good driver, only racing on empty roads after memorizing every wind, bump, and bend. You never let him see your scar because he would find a way to never let you see the light of day again. But then he made you transfer schools and you lost touch with your racing friends. You made sure your brothers never found out your accident didn't deter you from speed racing. You were just too good and made money off of it that you couldn't give up.

“And what was that you were saying earlier about being stuck alone somewhere with a felon?” He muses sarcastically, snapping you back to the present.

Glossing over that snide remark, you launch into another anecdote, regaling him in the story of the first time you ever raced when you lost horribly to your brother and he never let you live it down. And the time you were the getaway driver when your brother and your friends decided to add to the graffiti collection under a bridge near boarding school.

“I think you’re oversharing,” he intervenes when you bring your spiel to a close.

“Would you rather sit here and talk about the weather?”

“I’d rather not talk at all.” He looks down as soon as he says it and your eyes droop into a frown. Well, so much for that. Leave it to a guy to pull stupid shit like that.

“Right,” you mutter, leaning down to pick up your bags. “All I’m good for is a fuck.”

You get out your wallet and a large chunk of the cash that you won, leaving a sum for the bill on the table. As you rise, you fold a larger wad in half and slam it down next to his hands. He glances at it before dragging his gaze up to you, blinking a few times as you harshly stare him down. You sniff, swing your bag onto your shoulder, and turn your back on him.

“Stop.” You do and turn, slowly. “I know I’m an asshole, but I wasn’t implying that, okay?”

Blinking at his response, you step up to his edge of the table. You tilt your head, waiting for him to elaborate but when he doesn’t, a mildly disappointed sigh leaves your lungs.

“If that’s your idea of an apology…” He stares up as you hold him in suspense. “Then I’ll take what I can get.”

The tiny quirk of his lips has you plopping back in your seat, albeit a bit reluctant. As you set your bag back down, he slides the cash back over.

“Well, I’m not taking your money.” You frown.

“Well, at least order something to eat, I don’t mind treating. Unless you have that weird masculine thing where it’s offensive if a girl pays for food.”

A light smile threatens to break out on his face and you think it could be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

“Nah, I’m never one to turn down a free meal.”

He finally orders and you try not to watch him eat, finding it endearing the way he rests his fingers holding chopsticks against his cheek while he chews. So you just return to quietly sipping your drink and watching the rain beat down on the pavement, illuminated by the street lamps. Occasionally, bumps rise on your skin like they did earlier when you feel his eyes on you. You just let him stare because it makes you feel warm.

The bowl slides to the middle of the table and Yoongi sits back with a satisfied sigh. You look over and smile, getting ready to tease him about his appetite but then the bell rings and Yoongi’s expression drops completely. He straightens in his seat, pulls the bandanna up over the lower half of his face and a dreadful feeling sinks into your gut when he grabs the chopsticks and holds them with a tight grip, veins popping and knuckles paling. You look over your shoulder, blood stirring with anxiety when you see a few men from the poker game heading straight for your table.

“Get your bag,” Yoongi mutters, shifting so his feet are turned to the side. Swallowing thickly, you bring up your backpack and wrap your arms across it, pressing it into your chest.

“So you decided to catch up to her before us. Well done, my friend,” the man says, clapping Yoongi on the shoulder. A cold front moves in on the tips of your fingers, settles a tundra in your gut and freezes you in your seat when Yoongi doesn’t look at you, just stares at the man above him.

Was this all just a ruse? He was just keeping you here so his friends could come and mug you? You’re not that naive.

Right?

Just when you start to doubt all of your life choices, Yoongi smacks off the man’s hand, leans forward with his eyebrows furrowed at you.

“I’m not with them.” Your heart races as you look between them. For once, you feel backed into a corner.

“Yes, you are, pretty boy. Because if you’re not, then it seems to me that you both plotted to set us up and that means you’re both in trouble.”

“No one plotted anything. I’ve never met him before,” you declare, catching onto their lie, washed over with relief that you haven’t been duped.

“You just underestimated me and that’s not my fault.”

The man looks at you with an ugly lip curl.

“Oh, yes it is. You never should’ve been there in the first place, so hand me and my friends back our money and this all goes away. No one gets hurt.”

Yoongi’s jaw moves like he’s grinding his teeth. “That’s not what I heard,” he mutters.

Your clutch anxiously onto the sides of your backpack, not wanting to know what he means. You slowly reach under your chair to grab onto your duffle, ready to run at a moment’s notice.

The stranger bends down to lean towards you. “Give me the money. Now.”

“Get out of her face, man,” Yoongi spits, standing with a hand on his shoulder to push him back. You stand as well, holding tightly onto both of your bags as you look back at the door, but for all you know, there are more men out there waiting.

You jump when the man attempts to snatch your bag but promptly withdraws with a shout in pain, and you don’t expect to see Yoongi piercing his shoulder with the chopsticks. As your heart and mind race, he yanks the utensils with added red out, keeps them in his fist, and shoves back the two men who crowd him, sending them into the tables behind. Dishes crash and customers leap up in exclamations of surprise, and Yoongi takes the opportunity to push you away and get behind you, hand flattened on your spine to compel you in the direction of the kitchen.

He seizes your duffle bag so you have an easier time moving, and you both ignore the protesting shouts from the chefs and servers as you run through the hot kitchen. As you stumble outside, the rain cascades over you, and your heart stops for a moment when you realize you have no plan to escape. But then he wraps his free hand around your forearm, glancing up as more shouts echo from the restaurant. He pulls down the bandana. His face looks radiant in the blurred street lights.

“This way.”

You both take off down the block, and in the midst of the sprint, Yoongi slides down his hand to instead curl his fingers around your wrist and leads you across the street. It’s not the rain that makes you shiver.

The scent of the storm washes over you as your feet hit asphalt, a few honks blasting from cars you dart past. Yoongi puts himself between you and the vehicles that shout profanities at him and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you when he shouts right back and throws up a middle finger. You slide your hand into his palm to give him a good tug so he won’t end up in another squabble with an irate driver and he turns back to you. For some reason you’re smiling and when he looks at you, your heart pounds, but it could easily be mistaken for exertion. But when you spot the crinkle at the corners of his eyes that tells you he’s smiling too and your pulse skips a beat, you know it has nothing to do with running.

You have no idea where he’s taking you and it’s freeing. And nothing like you’ve ever felt before.

You run until you reach the end of the block where a black Ducati motorcycle is parallel parked in between a stretch of cars and he picks up a matte black helmet from the seat and holds it out to you.

“Here, put this on. Hurry up.” The fiberglass is covered in droplets of rain. It means safety, but from this man who gave it to you? Who keeps confusing you?

A dilemma.

“Why did you come after me?”

“What?” he half-shouts over the loud pattering of downpour. “We don’t have time-”

You step up to stand face-to-face with him and he blinks confusion down at you, mouth open as his chest heaves, panting, orange hair darkened and drenched. You glance down at the chopsticks still trembling in his hand. Adrenaline. He snaps them in half and throws them into the street where they get carried into the storm drain.

It’s raining, but there’s a fire. You repeat your question, keeping the helmet down at your side so there’s not more than an inch between you. He holds your gaze - doesn’t blink or look away. Darkness surrounds you, but there’s none in his eyes.

“I just did.”

He gives no reason, so neither do you when you bunch the front of his soaked black crew-neck and yank him into you, into a kiss that will be seared into your mind like a core memory. He doesn’t lean into it for a split second, like you caught him off guard, but when he does, grabs the side of your face to take over and opens your mouth with his tongue like he’s always meant to taste you, it’s messy and desperate, teeth clacking and mouths moving uncoordinated. It’s the hungriest you’ve ever been kissed. Drinking in the rain, drinking in each other, the helmet slips from your fingers and you don’t notice for a second until he breaks away from your swollen lips and holds it up to you.

“We gotta go.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, regret taking over. He shakes his head and places the helmet into your hands. You frantically look over your shoulder where a few men are catching up, pointing their fingers and shouting as they spot you.

“Come on,” he urges and you slip on the helmet, facing back to see him swinging his leg over the bike and starting up the engine. He sits with your duffle slung around his neck in front of him, chin on his shoulder as he glances back just as you slide behind him.

“Hold tight.” He barely gives you enough time to circle your arms around his waist before he kicks off the curb. The bike roars to life and he speeds it away from the pavement, taking off down the street and into the night. Full of possibilities. You rest your head between his shoulder blades, unable to see the way his fingers tighten around the handle bars. Staring off to the side, you watch the night go by, road illuminated by street lights filtered through the rain, and your heart hammers at the adventure of it all.

The engine still purrs when it comes to a stop, now far enough away from danger. The rain has reduced to a drizzle and your heartbeat thunders within the fiberglass. You flip up the visor so he can hear you marvel,

“You stabbed him.” For you. He stabbed a man for you. And you think that’s why you kissed him.

“I know.”

“That was fucking metal.” His chuckle travels through his chest, so you can feel it in your own.

“I’m glad you think so.” ******* “So, where you headed?” he asks once he comes to the next stoplight. The smell of salt wafts in the air, tell tale sign of the beach.

“My hotel.” “Do you know the directions? I’m not google maps.”

You laugh against his back and tighten your hold around him. His muscles tense up beneath you. At this point, you think you’d let him take you anywhere, but you’re feeling bad about the kiss.

“You don’t have to take me all the way there. Just drop me off at a bus stop, it’s around here somewhere.”

“Buses don’t run this late.” You know for a fact that they do, but you don’t want to dispute him. Especially if it means you can hold onto him like this for just a little longer. Damn. You hated him just a little bit ago. Crazy how fast things can change in the blink of an eye.

“I’ll take a cab then.”

A rev of the engine fills a pause. “It’s late.”

“What?” He clears his throat, talks over his shoulder.

“I said it’s late. And it’s raining. I’ll just drop you off.” A spread of heat in your chest makes this chilly night a bit bearable.

“I thought you’d be itching to get away from me.”

“Yeah, you’d think,” he mutters, hanging his head, sounding dismayed. Or bitter.

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Trust me.”

“You just want gas money, huh?” He huffs and tosses his head back, strings of wet hair allowing you a glimpse of his undercut.

“Just give me the damn directions.”

******* All too soon, the venture comes to an end when he pulls into the lot of the beachfront hotel. Quietly, he parks and shuts off the engine and it takes you a second to come down from your rush and realize you’re still holding onto him when there’s no reason to anymore. You snap yourself out of your daze of wishful thinking that this night will never end and remove your arms, immediately missing his warmth and touch. A little too quickly you move off of the seat and he straightens as you stand, removing the helmet and you miss the way he watches you shake out your hair. When you meet his gaze, your heart starts racing again, butterflies multiplying beneath your diaphragm as he stares at you for a moment before glancing down to the helmet you hold out to him. He accepts it with a subtle nod and rests it in his lap while you internally panic, trying to find something not stupid to say so this whole ordeal with him doesn’t end.

“Well, thank you. I half-expected you to ditch me on the side of the road and ride off with my money.”

He leans forward with a soft snort, resting his wrists on the center of the bars, and your heart starts to do gymnastics at the notion that he finds you amusing because it gives you hope that he’s interested enough to not leave yet.

“I’m not that much of an asshole.”

“No, but you’re pretty close.”

“And yet you got on my motorcycle.”

“You told me to trust you and I do.”

“You just said you expected me to ditch you and take your money.”

“Half-expected,” you emphasize. “There’s always room for doubt.”

Just the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile and you don’t want to see it leave.

“Speaking of room, do you have a place to stay?”

“Not around here,” he shakes his head, leaning back to stuff his hands in his jacket pockets. “But I have a friend across town who’ll let me crash, so I should probably get going.”

Tonight, with this man, has been an entire amusement park of emotions. From obscene attraction, to utter loathing, to being enlivened and now to just being plain disappointed. You don’t want to get off this ride just yet.

You squat down and drop your bag to the ground, digging into the front pocket for a pen and notepad. After you find one and rip out a page, you straighten and stride up to the bike without looking at him, writing down the number of your room. You fold it up once you’re done, passing it over, and watch him hesitate before accepting it.

“In case you change your mind,” you say, pointing at the page with your pen as you cap it. “Or if your friend doesn’t want a felon crashing on their couch.”

“And you wouldn’t mind a felon crashing with you?”

“I let a felon fuck me in a goddamn closet. What do you think?”

He holds your stare for a moment before a subtle smile breaks on his otherwise unreadable expression.

“Well, that’s good to know,” he says, shaking his head, and looks at the note for a second longer, then stuffs it in his jacket.

You sense an impending ‘but.’

“But-” You hate being right. “I think I’ll be okay. You should head inside, it’s starting to rain again.”

Not knowing what else to do besides stare at the ground and contemplate if you should write down your number too, you awkwardly hold out your hand, and then upon realizing how weird that is, quickly change your mind and retract it. Embarrassment flooding your cheeks, you reach down to snatch up your bag and turn around. You don’t wave, don’t say anything because what else is there to do? You don’t want to say it was nice to meet him because you’re still trying to figure out if it was, nor do you want to say ‘see you’ because you’re not sure if you ever will after this. 

You don’t look back, and as you head towards the main entrance where you can pick up your room key, the sound of the motorcycle revving into gear echoes around you and it’s only when it disappears in the distance do you turn around, wishing you weren’t watching him go. More like you were still on the back.

.

.

.

thanks for reading!! let me know what you think! i love to yap!!

xxx - claret p.s. i wrote the poker scene after watching a ten-minute wiki-how video on how to play texas hold 'em lmao

masterlist

taglist: @rinkud @taegijns @viankiss @polarnightmyg @futuristicenemychaos

@busanbby-jjk @lixies-favorite-cookie

[splattergai]

would you mind doing an id pack based on gambling and casinos? especially with a lot of xenogenders and terms relating to it? and maybe some usernames

Names: Casino, Jack, Jackpot, Blitz, Roulette, Velvet, Seven, Gold, Silver, Royal, Lucky, Vegas, Bingo, Ace, King, Spade, Baccarat, Poker, Queen, Chip, Platinum, Clover, Strike, Palace, Neon, Diamond, Heart, Sin, Chance, Oasis, Triumph, Red, Token, Domino

3rdpp: luck/lucks, gamble/gambles, rou/rous, roulette/roulettes, card/cards, game/games, win/wins, cash/cashs, spin/spins, bet/bets, cas/casino, neon/neons, light/lights, noise/noises, ca/ching, dice/dices, deal/deals, money/moneys, coin/coins, seven/sevens, king/kings, black/jack, blackjack/blackjacks, black/blacks, red/reds, spade/spades, heart/hearts, diamond/diamonds, queen/queens, ace/aces, shuffe/shuffles, vegas/vegas', ve/gas, ve/ves, suit/suits, chip/chips, token/tokens, to/ken, club/clubs, $/$s, 7/7s, 👑/👑s, ♠/♠s, ♦/♦s, ♣/♣s, ♥/♥s, 🃏/🃏s, 🎰/🎰s, 🎲/🎲s,

Genders: Casinoaesic, dicerollgender, castokentarotaesic, croupian, luckgreedjackpot, vegasgender, genderdice, casitgender, lifegamblic, aceofspadescardic, facecardic, casitopic, arcardian, cardshufflix, cardeckaesic, dicegender, spadesgender, reddicegender, dicething, trickgender, phoscardial, acespadegender, aceheartgender, jokercardgender, casinosoulic, casinocoric

Titles: prn who wins, prn who deals [the cards], the card dealer, the gambler, the one who gambles, prn who gambles, prn who plays games, prn who rolls [the dice]

Usernames: cxrd-dex, casinocxrd, cas1no, lxs-vegas, las-oasis, neon-nevada

[headmate-gambling]

This blog specializes in alter packs, pk templates, the occasional sp temp, and banners / pfps! This blog will have a heavy focus on alter packs, though!

My leveling system will consist of:

"Placing bets on red." - A basic alter pack, consisting of the normal section of the template.

"Placing bets on black." - A banner or profile picture of your choice, decorated by me!

"Half on red, half on black." - A medium length alter pack, including a pfp.

"All in on red!" - A maximum length alter pack! Will include some extra things depending on my inspiration / creativity for the request.

"All in on black!" - A medium length alter pack, with both a banner and a pfp!

"Deal me in." - A sp or pk template, long templates may take a while. Please keep this in mind when asking for length.

"Dealers choice!" - Creator's choice of an alter pack, will include a banner and pfp by default.

（⭒ ˘ ˘） the crimson dealer has dealt your hand. Let's see..

🩸 ᛝ Names ┈

♠️ ᛝ Pronouns ┈

🩸 ᛝ Genders ┈

♣️ ᛝ Source ┈

🩸 ᛝ Age ┈

♦️ ᛝ Cis IDs ┈

🩸 ᛝ Trans IDs ┈

♥️ ᛝ Para(s) ┈

（⭒ ˘ ˘） Half red and half black? Interesting choice..

🩸 ᛝ Roles ┈

♠️ ᛝ Likes ┈

🩸 ᛝ Dislikes ┈

（⭒ ˘ ˘） Ah, all in on red? Very well then..

♣️ ᛝ Personality ┈

🩸 ᛝ Possible Triggers ┈

♦️ ᛝ Interaction ┈

🩸 ᛝ Description ┈

If you couldn't already tell, I am a c! Quackity (dsmp) & Vincent (Dead plate) mixtive. Though, I stem mainly from a personal au rather than anything else. Perhaps one day I'll make a personal blog, perhaps not. I prefer to be called The Crimson Dealer or The Gambling Vampiress. I use all pronouns, including vamp/vamps, rot/rots, and shi/him.

Ahem. I refuse to do anything N@zi related. That's about it. All sources are welcome, though I am most knowledgeable about Hannibal, DSMP, Some Lifesteal, a good chunk of horror games, Last Life, Double Life, and Secret life. I will do research on any sources I am unfamiliar with.

[acronym-chaos]

Gambit (X-Men) ID Pack

[PT: Gambit (X-Men) ID Pack].

[ID: A purple thin line divider shaded at the bottom. End ID].

Names

[PT: Names].

Ace, Bastien, Bastile, Callem, Card, Chancé, Charm, Colette, Cèdric, Dahlia, Darion, Deck, Eligius, Elysia, Felicia, Flareaux, Harlequin, Jackroy, Kardell, Lavaux, Loraine, Louveau, Lysandre, Marcel, Margaux, Mistral, Nivelle, Noelle, Parlay, Roulé, Rémy, Serenne, Stiletto, Tempête, Valence. Annette, Vieux, Vivienne, Volance, Vérité, Étienne

Pronouns

[PT: Pronouns].

Ace / Aces / Aces, Blu / Bluff / Bluffs, Ca / Card / Cards, Cha / Char / Charm, Clu / Club / Clubs, Da / Dare / Dares, De / Deal / Deals, Dia / Diamo / Diamond, Ed / Edge / Edges, Fla / Flar / Flare, Gam / Gamble / Gambles, Glo / Glow / Glows, He / Heart / Hear, Lu / Luce / Luck, Rie / Risk / Risks, Spa / Spar / Spark, Spade / Spades / Spades, Swipe / Swipes / Swipes

Titles

[PT: Titles].

[Pronoun] Who Holds a Loaded Deck, [Pronoun] Who Lights Up the Night, [Pronoun] Who Smiles When the Stakes Are High, A Gambler’s Charm, A Risk-Taker with a Plan, The Ace of Hearts and Trouble, The Dealer of Fate, The Exploding Bluff, The Gambler Who Plays to Win, The Jack of Many Faces, The Wild Card of [Pronouns] Team

[ID: A purple thin line divider shaded at the bottom, End ID].

Requested by anon!

Also tagging: @id-pack-archive

[koisplosion]

★ Qingque Id Pack ★

Names:

Aqua, Algae, Aquamarine, Avocado, Amulet, Augury --- Blue, Bamboo, Bice, Beryl, Bird, Birdie / Birdy, Bagua, Bowenite

Cloud, Cyan, Cobalt, Chartreuse, Cod, Charm, Cajole, Clair / Claire, Clarvoy, Clarvoya, Clairvoyant, Clairvoyance, Clairvoyancy, Chade

Divine / Devine, Divina / Devina, Diviner / Deviner, Divinia / Devinia, Delight

Emerald, Erudite, Enamor --- Fish / Fishe, Fishie / Fishy, Fortune, Fortuna, Fulu

Green, Gamer, Glaucous, Gamble, Gyoku, Goku --- Horo, Horoscope, Horoscopy --- Indigo, Ilia

Jade, Jadeite, Jalda --- Khaki --- Lime, Lincoln, Librara, Libraria, Librarian, Luck, Luckie / Lucky

Mahjong, Moss, Malachite, Marine --- Nephrite --- Olive, Oliver, Olivia, Oliveira, Omphacite

Player, Plantile, Planchet, Peacock, Pine, Pea, Pendulum, Palm --- Qing, Qiang, Quang, Quantum --- Rite

Sparrow, Surf, Sea, Sage, Scroll, Sooth, Soothsay, Script, Serpentine --- Turquoise, Tile, Talisma, Talisman, Trinket, Taois, Taoi, Taoist, Tama

Vert, Verta, Virescent, Viridescent, Viridian, Verdigris --- Willow, Whimsy, Ward --- Yaud, Yu

1st p prns:

I / me / my / mine / myself

Bli / blue / bluey / bluine / blueself

Di / de / divy / divine / divinerself

Gri / gree / greeny / greenine / greenself

Ji / jade / jady / jadine / jadeself

Ti / tile / tily / tiline / tileself

Qi / qinge / qingqy / qingqueself

2nd p prns:

You / your / yours / yourself

Blou / bluer / bluers / bluerself

Do / diviner / diviners / divinerself

Gro / greener / greeners / greenerself

Jo / jader / jaders / jaderself

To / tiler / tilers / tilerself

Qo / qingquer / qingquers / qingquerself

3rd p prns:

They / them / theirs / themself

Blu / blue, blue / blues, blue / jade, blue / tile

Di / vine, di / divine, div / ine, div / divine, divi / divine, divine / divines, divine / diviner, divine / divination

Gre / en, gree / green, gre / green, green / greens, green / jade, green / tile

Ja / de, ja / jade, jade / Jade's, jade / jaded

Ti / le, ti / tile, tile / tiles

Qing / que, qingque / qingques

Titles:

The young diviner, the gambling diviner, the lucky diviner,

the divining gambler, the diving lybrarian

The divination commissions librarian

The lucky gambler

(prn) who exceeds in tile games, (prn) who reads fortunes by tile pieces

Coinings:

Astromancic

Crystamancic

Divine Lesbian - DissoGambler

Gendermancic

Jadigem - Jadedlexic - JadeBloodStelic - JadeMineric

Qingquecharic

Runeomancic

Sigilmancic

Tarotmancic

Requested by anon

Tagging:

@sanguinaryfreaks , @hewasanamericangirl and @the-church-of-strabismus

Please read the byf linked in fox's pinned post

[blackcatruse]

𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔞𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔰

«prev. ❃ next» ❃ first chapter ❃ m.list ❃ ao3 pairing: r. haitani/fem!reader ↳ she/her, fem descriptors, nickname ❃ chapter synopsis: maybe you shouldn't have told your boss you were on Rokuhara Tandai territory. something about the failed deal is bothering you... word count: 1.3k chapter cw(s): swearing, (implied) death jokes, description of injuries a/n: i will try to update links as best i can. a masterlist will be posted later on! please let me know if any formatting gets wonky, the tumblr post maker doesn't like me :(

The ice pack on your face had melted about an hour ago. Most of the swelling had gone down. You were pretty sure your nose was broken and your face was decorated with colorful bruises. After you had cleaned up and tended to the worst of your injuries, you’d flopped down on your couch and hadn’t moved since. You lifted your arm and stared at your hand. Sunlight dashed across the ceiling and you chuckled bitterly to yourself, thinking about how it looked like you were reaching for hope.

You dropped your arm and looked around at the empty takeout boxes and cans scattered across your living room. How long has it been since you cleaned again? You weren’t really sure. On the coffee table, your phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, you saw that it was from an unknown number. You had to take this call.

“Hello?”

“Where are you? You were supposed to report to the warehouse thirty minutes ago.”

“Good afternoon to you, too, Suzaku,” you replied.

The silence on the other end of the line had you imagining the irritated twitch of your boss’s eyebrow and the clenching of his jaw. You had that effect on people. Being annoying was your specialty.

Your boss said your name, your real name, tightly. “What the hell happened? Yon is demanding another representative. You’re our best shot at this deal. How did you fuck it up?”

“I didn’t,” you said plainly. “You did when you set the rates at what they were. He said his boss would only do business if we lowered our fees and brought our cut down. I wasn’t going to stand for that, but Yon didn’t think I was very persuasive.”

Suzaku sighed. “What do you expect me to tell Kirin?”

Ah yes, your boss’s boss and the head of Wuxing. He only went by his alias and you were sure nobody knew his real name. He had a few gambling dens open in China before he fled the country and tried to take root in Japan. Kirin wasn’t a good man, and you didn’t have to meet him to know that. All you knew is that your brother got into some shit with him, and now you’re here.

“I really don’t expect you to tell him anything,” you said with a shrug. “But where else are they going to go? Our whole specialty is smuggling and keeping things off record. They’d get their asses handed to them if they went to anyone else.”

You’d seen it time and time again. Lower gangs like your own needed to pave their way into the big boy arena, and they could only do that with money. It was how Kirin managed to get in allegiance with Brahman and pay off an executive to not rat out the illegal activities going on under their noses. If the other gangs tried to use someone else or tried running things through anything that wasn’t their territory, you would see neither hide nor hair of the men within a month.

“You worry too much, Suzaku,” you continued. “You’re going to get wrinkle lines and I don’t think your wife or mistresses would like that. Yon said that they were still interested in doing business, just not with me. You could get someone else to do it. Maybe someone from another division?”

“You know you’re the best runner we have.” Suzaku sounded like he was getting teeth pulled. “You’re the only one who can make this work. You know what’ll happen if you don’t hold up your end of the deal.”

It was your turn to frown. “I’ve had several tastes of death in the last twenty-four hours, so please, if you’re going to kill me, don’t tease me.”

“You wish it would be that easy,” Suzaku scoffed. “I can put you back where I pulled you from. Your debts would be paid that way instead.”

Your grip on your phone tightened. You refused to give any hint of fear away. You sat up and bit back a groan of pain. “Give me the ledgers and any information you have from Yon’s boss. I can see what I come up with.”

“Come get them yourself.”

“I would love to, but I had a run-in with the Haitani brothers last night and they really did a number on me.”

There was a deafening silence. Maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned that you were in Roppongi last night. Well, Suzaku and the others would find out eventually, so there was no use in trying to hide it. You usually don’t tell them where your deals are happening, and they somehow trusted you enough to let you keep your secrets. They only knew the time the deal was happening. If you found yourself in trouble, well, you were on your own no matter which way you looked at it.

“What the hell were you doing on Rokuhara Tandai turf?”

The calm in Suzaku’s voice was not to be misconstrued. You could hear him straining to keep his voice level.

“It’s where Yon wanted to meet,” you told him, matter-of-factly. “He said the deal was off if we didn’t meet in Roppongi.”

“You went to the heart of the Haitani brothers’ territory?”

“You said you wanted this deal to go through by, and I quote, ’Any means necessary’. I wasn’t planning on getting caught by them. I didn’t say anything either, so you can chill the fuck out.”

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Lotus.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, everyone’s been saying that. Nobody has the balls to kill me though, so I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“I’m surprised they let you go,” Suzaku noted.

“Trust me, I am too.” You slumped down a bit. “Anyway, I’m busy nursing my wounds. Send someone with the information and documents I requested. There’s something I wanna look into.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Someone will bring you the documents you need and we’ll plan from there,” Suzaku sounded absolutely defeated. “You better work your magic, Lotus, or I will hand you back over to Byakko.”

You shuddered at the thought. “Don’t worry. If I find what I’m looking for we’ll have a brilliant deal on our hands.”

Please do not reupload, translate, or steal my work! If it isn't here or on my ao3, it's not me! Likes & reblogs appreciated! <3 Dividers courtesy of @/cafekitsune

[samanthahirr]

The Quartermaster's Mission Holiday

The Quartermaster’s Mission Holiday

Another installment in the continuing series of “Stories Sam Isn’t Writing,” here’s a breezy outline for an alternating POV, 00Q meet-cute and romance set at James Bond’s home in Jamaica. This story takes place in an alternate timeline where Bond retired before Q became the new quartermaster. When M dispatches Q to Jamaica to recruit the former-agent back into MI6's service, a new kind of relationship develops.

Q’s POV: Six months after his promotion to Quartermaster, Q is summoned to a private meeting with M in her office. He assumes she’s going to request a mission-status update for 009, but instead M has a top-secret mission assignment for Q. She’s sending him to Jamaica to get in touch with the former 007, who retired from MI6 a couple years ago, and disappeared without a trace. James Bond’s reputation is legendary; Q has heard plenty of stories about Bond’s lethal exploits and incorrigible charm. And now M says it’s up to Q to convince Bond to return to the service; MI6 needs him back as 007.

This is a ludicrous task for Q—convincing a complete stranger to return to the agency he walked away from years ago! Nevertheless, M insists. She reassures Q that Bond has always had respect for his quartermasters. Her mouth turns up in a private smile. “He likes smart. And you’re the smartest employee I’ve got.” Given no choice in the matter, Q is promptly packed off to Bond’s location—a location so secret that only M knows it, and which Q is forbidden from sharing with anyone—with a promise that M will contact Bond to forewarn him of Q’s coming. 

Bond’s POV: Bond gets a phone call from M informing him she’s calling in an old favor. Bond says, “You don’t have any left.” She laughs, “I still have an infinite number of favors, considering I’m single-handedly keeping the tax office from sniffing out your years of gambling winnings.” Bond snarls with begrudged fondness. 

M tells Bond that her new quartermaster’s identity has been compromised by an enemy faction, and she’s intercepted word of a hit out on him. She’s sending Q off the grid—to Bond—for protection while she eliminates the source of the danger. Q will be covertly shadowed as far as Bond’s door, and then Q’s safety will be Bond’s responsibility. Bond acts pissed off, but he has been feeling restless lately. This mission should spice up the boredom.

Q’s POV: Bond is indeed expecting him when Q arrives at Bond’s waterfront cabin on a secluded, private beach in Jamaica, and Q’s reception goes better than he expected. (He was prepared for Bond to shut him out or threaten to shoot him.) Bond welcomes Q inside and gives him a tour of the small but scenic cabin. Bond isn’t unfriendly, but he lays out strict ground rules for staying in his home, including keeping away from the rear windows, never going more than 50 yards from the cabin alone, and drilling Q on the locations of all the spare guns, etc. 

Q assumes Bond is a paranoid veteran who’s going batty in retirement. Over beers on the dock that first evening, admiring the truly stunning sunset, Q bluntly informs Bond that he’s been sent to recruit Bond back to MI6. Bond scoffs, “No you haven’t.” Q assures Bond that M needs him back as 007. Bond corrects him that M says Q needs protection from an international hit. Q bursts out laughing. Bond assures him that M swears Q’s life is in danger, and Bond is meant to see to Q’s protection for the next short while. 

“That’s even more preposterous than my own mission,” Q marvels. “My god, I must really have been sent to recruit you back, if that’s the story she sold you.” Bond presses Q on his certainty. “I would know if my cover ID had been breached; I have alerts tracking that.” Q dips his toes in the water and sighs. “No, unless she’s lied to both of us, and there’s some secret, third reason for my trip, I’d say my version makes far more sense than yours. For all that my mission seems destined to disappoint her.” Q offers some scathing assessments of Bond’s lack of field readiness, disparages Bond’s fitness, etc. Bond is more than a bit bemused as he watches Q lay into him, recalling a similar conversation with a vivacious brunette 10 years prior.

Alternating POVs: Over the next few days, Bond insists on keeping Q within his sights at all times. They go out fishing on Bond’s yacht and spend time reading, walking the beach, and snorkeling. They discuss Bond’s last mission—the one that drove him to retire. Q makes a few earnest attempts to sell Bond on Q being a good quartermaster, extolling his own intelligence and the kinds of digital support he and his revamped branch offer to agents nowadays. (It would be an easier sell if he’d been permitted to bring any of his MI6 equipment with him. Or if Bond allowed WiFi at his home.) Bond seems to find Q’s earnestness endearing and amusing. And Q is frustrated by Bond’s lack of interest in all things MI6 and his continuing belief in a threat to Q’s life. 

Although, the more time Q spends enjoying the fresh air and sunshine and disturbing lack of technology, the more Q suspects Medical of whispering in M’s ear. He’s received more than a few cautioning lectures about burnout since his appointment as quartermaster, and yes he knows they have a valid point, but there’s simply too much work to do, getting the branch modernized and hiring staff with newer skill sets. The prospect of this “mission” being a mandatory holiday galls, but at the same time it’s putting his recent lack of a personal life into perspective. God knows, he hasn’t even had time to open Grindr since he took the job….

Q and Bond sleep together on day 3, and it's such a thoroughly satisfying experience for both of them that they continue to do so. The less they talk about threats to Q and the merits of MI6, the better they get along, until they start to actually enjoy one another’s company. Bond is surprised to realize that he was perhaps lonely prior to Q’s arrival.

On Day 5, mercenaries actually do come to assassinate Q. Bond kills them with a good deal more skill than Q had expected, living up to his legend and then some. Once the last man is dead, Bond reports the attack to M. Q hacks into the mercenaries’ phones and sends their recent money-transfer records to M. An hour later, M calls back that they’ve identified the mole in MI6 who sold Q out, and she has dispatched another double-0 to eliminate the mole’s foreign handler. Q asks whether it’s safe to return to MI6 now, and she says to give them a couple more days to establish a new cover identity for him. Q asks about his ‘mission’ to recruit Bond. She tells Q to disregard those orders and advises Q to relax: “Medical says you’re due a holiday.” All he can do is laugh at the irony.

Bond and Q dispose of the corpses in an illegal limestone quarry that Bond just so happens to know about, some ten miles inland. They have sex a few more times, including on Bond’s yacht. And now that the threat to Q has passed, Bond drives Q around the island to see the sights. Bond belatedly notices that, while his vigilance naturally ramped up once he took charge of Q’s security, Bond hasn’t truly let his guard down in the two years since he left the service. Always looking over his shoulder, always defensive. What kind of a retirement to civilian life was that?

After two more days, Bond drives Q to the airport, and they say their goodbyes. “Look me up if you’re ever in London,” Q says, and Bond laughs as though he can’t read the sincerity in Q’s eyes. Q nods his acceptance and returns to London well-rested and tanned and with many fond memories of Bond and his tropical paradise retreat. The combination of man and locale could almost have been heaven, if only Q’s cats had been there with him. And if he were allowed to set up a WiFi router.

A week later, Bond seals up his cabin on the cove and takes to the sea, his course set for the UK. He arrives at Q’s door with three suitcases and a saucy grin. He gives a stunned Q a kiss on the cheek in greeting and says, “After letting you crash at my home for a week, I’ve decided you should return the favor.” Q welcomes him in, looks at his three suitcases, and asks, “How long are you planning to stay?” Bond checks around Q’s cottage, confirms there’s no sign of a partner in Q’s life, and pulls Q into a proper kiss, the kind he’s been missing ever since Q left Jamaica. “However long it takes MI6 to find me a new flat.” Q is stunned. “What…you’re back at MI6?” “You were very convincing, Quartermaster.” Q grabs Bond and kisses him passionately. 

The End.

[dacuslucy]

Clasping your necklace

Zipping your dress

Hands on your waist

Kissing your neck

I love your body

I love your mind

They will change

So will mine

But you are my best guess

At the future

You are my best guess

If I were a gambling man, and I am

You'd be my best bet

Tracing your tan lines

Making you mine

If this doesn't work out

I would lose my mind

And after a while

I will be fine

But I don't wanna be fine

I want you, you

You are my best guess at the future

You are my best guess

If I were a gambling man, and I am

You'd be my best bet

Here is the church

Here is the steeple

You were looking for saints

But you only found people

Ain't that just the way it goes

I watched you fall from grace

You were graceful

After all, it's a small world

You may not be an angel

But you are my girl

You are my pack a day

You are my favorite place

You were my best friend before you were

My best guess at the future

You are my best guess

If I were a gambling man, and I am

You'd be my best bet

You are my best guess at the future

You are my best guess

If I were a gambling man, and I am

You'd be my best bet

IF THIS DOESNT WORK OUT ILL LOSE MY MIND AND AFTER AWHILE ID BE FINE. BUT I DONT WANT TO BE FINE . I WANT YOU . YOU .

[minty-plumbob]

thank you @akitasimblr for tagging me! <3

1. What’s your favourite sims death? electrocution - it's so exaggerated lol

2. Alpha CC or Maxis Match? maxis match

3. Do you cheat when your sims gain weight? nope!

4. Do you use move objects? sometimes! especially if I want an object in the corner of a room

5. Favorite mod? mc command center <3

6. First expansion/game/stuff pack you got? get to work

7. Do you pronounce “live mode” like aLIVE or LIVing? I think I switch between them?? I mostly pronounce it like LIV mode (in the sims 3 I call the modes: sim, buy, and build...)

8. Who’s your favorite sim that you’ve made? I had this one vampire sim that lived in a underground mansion. she maxed a ton of skills and aspirations which was fun!

9. Have you made a simself? I tried! but she looked like someone else lol

10. What sim traits do you give yourself? art lover, geek, perfectionist

11. Which is your favorite EA hair color? cheese hair <3

12. Favorite EA hair? the laundry day hairstyle with the clip in the back!

13. Favorite life stage? hmm probably young adult - it feels like a fresh start. elder is a close second since I end up attached to them, and I feel like they had a nice(-ish) life

14. Are you a builder or are you in it for the gameplay? I enjoy the gameplay! I like building and adding builds to make the neighborhoods more fun/cute

15. Are you a CC creator? technically lol! but I definitely like playing the game more than creating cc

16. Do you have any simblr friends/a sim squad? yes! luckily! I have so many lovely mutuals <3

17. What’s your favorite game? (1, 2, 3, or 4) 3 for nostalgia and how comfortable it is for me. but I really love all of the games (I still want to get used to the sims 1)

18. Do you have any sims merch? nope!

19. Do you have a YouTube for sims? no, I think I would be stressed to update it...

20. How has your “sim style” changed throughout your years of playing? since I started with sims 3 I was used to alpha cc! in the sims 4 I started with alpha cc but there wasn't a lot at the time. I ended up liking how sims 4 looks eventually lol! I've also gotten more used to the cas controls :^)

21. What’s your Origin ID? my username that I created when I was either 10 or 12, for minecraft <3

22. Who’s your favorite CC creator? luumia (for default skins) and simmandy (especially for eyes!)

23. How long have you had a simblr? since may last year

24. How do you edit your pictures? I use reshade and crop the screenies. for notifications I crop them, open the image I want to put the notification on in krita, and then apply a layer filter with stroke (dodge light, and 25% opacity).

25. What expansion/game/stuff pack do you want next? more single and group activities (golf/miniature golf, arcade machines, drums/bass/electric guitar, gambling, etc.)

25. What expansion/game/stuff pack is your favorite so far? I really love get together still! clubs will always be a favorite of mine

i'll tag~ @beetlemp3 @introvertedfox @gloomlet @simadelics @pixelfruitcake @moonfromearth (feel free to ignore~ 🌻)

[hellish-npts]

The End [TMA] ID Pack

Pt: The End [TMA] ID Pack /end pt

Names: Antonio, Anubis, Azrael, Baker, Banks, Blake, Coroner, Dice, Dream, End, Georgie, Gough, Hades, Hypnos, Justin, Kaey, Ker, Keres, Margaret, Mary, McHugh, Morana, Morpheus, Nathaniel, Oliver, Osiris, Pluto, Pritchard, Somnos, Tellison, Terminus, Thanatos, Thomas, Thorp, Tuva

Pronouns: dead/deaths, death/deaths, dice/dices, dream/dreams, end/ends, gamble/gambles, game/games, grim/grims, immortal/immortals, inevitable/inevitables, nightmare/nightmares, reaper/reapers, root/roots, scythe/scythes, sleep/sleeps, undead/undeads, ⚰️/⚰️s, 🃏/🃏s, 🎲/🎲s, 🪦/🪦s

Titles: avatar of the End, humanity's [ inevitable ] fate / end, prn that comes for all, prn who follows their tendril, prn who gambled / won / lost against death, prn who is marked to die, prn who is wrapped by tendrils, prn who lives in the corpse roots, prn who owns / read the Book of the Dead, prn who owns / read the Catalogue of the Trapped Dead, prn who owns the dice of death, prn who sees when people die, prn who waits, the end that waits, the inevitable, the one that cannot be ignored, the primal fear, the visage of death

Genders: Sillyend, Flagmaend, Archiend, Coinend, Requend, TMA0181502 (SweetArts) Gender, AshSweetEndgender, Endavigender, Beliend, Endbait, Tmaendhunter, TheEndfem, TheEndmasc, Endangel, Enddemon, Thanotophobian, Endbitch, Endfreak, Endloser, Endweirdo, Genderfinalis, Lifegamblic, Deathlexic, Terminesque, Pawnic, Endmagaean, Endential, Endavaic

Other ids: Endipsese, Avatar of the End Occuden, Death Eiment, Avatar of the End, End 4 End, Deaordic, The End Eiment, Satellamortis, TheEndvesil, TheEndperspesque, TheEndvior, TheEndtant, TheEnddernic, TheEndhearthic, TheEndallion, Mortivesil, Entiendum, Deathpower, Blacktendrildernic

Words in bold are Names, Pronouns, Titles, Genders, and Other ids respectively

Tagging @radiomogai and @id-pack-archive

[treetownconfessions]

speaking of gacha i had a dream last week(?) that mondomedia made a mobile gacha htf game (there were also lps characters mixed in idk it felt natural at the time. at the dream) and all of the characters were under those gambling gacha card mechanics so youd open a new pack and itd be like "u got toothy ^_^ (common)" and petunia was like rare and flippy was legendary and the games super OP mystical class card was this random fucking htf deviantart looking oc with a top hat and i was like "oh yeah thats him thats the iconic guy" and id opened the comments on the game expecting everyone to also recognize the character like i did somehow but all the comments were like "who the fuck is this guy" "get this shit out of here" and i was like ohhhh :( hes mystical though :(

wrong gatcha

[gender-goth]

SAE NIJIMA (P5) ID PACK

[PT: Sae Nijima (P5) ID Pack /end PT]

Names

[PT: Names /end PT]

Sawyer, Scylla, Val(e), Eva, Ena, Saesha, Saeva, Kei, Yae, Zei, Tyr, Justine, Justesse, Law, Lawra, Lex, Ossa, Neja, Rei, Astraea, Maat

Pronouns

[PT: Pronouns /end PT]

casino/casinos, fate/fates, cha/chance, luck/lucks, rig/rigs, rig/rigged, un/unfair, gamble/gambles, law/laws, just/justs, chip/chips, coin/coins, court/courts, judge/judges, judge/judgement, arcana/arcanas, judge(ment)/arcana, defend/defends, defend/defense, thee/thou (im so serious too), legal/legals, test/testimony, case/cases, file/files, jury/jurys

Titles

[PT: Titles /end PT]

The Corrupted Attorney, She* Who Serves Justice With A Harsh Fist, She* Who Takes No Losses (In Court), She* Who Rigs The Court Room, The Public Prosecutor, The Fierce Lawyer, The Judgement Arcana, The Lady Of Justice, The Divine Prosecutor, She* Who Decides / Rigs Your Fate In Court

Labels

[PT: Labels /end PT]

Lawgender, Justiceheroic, Mevirasic, Decorruptica, Inpurifut,

Malifutic [warning to screenreaders, there are mad symbols on this it'll probably fuck your screenreader up 😭]

[acronym-chaos]

Gressil (Homesick) ID Pack

[PT: Gressil (Homesick) ID Pack].

[ID: A purple thin line divider shaded at the bottom. End ID].

Names

[PT: Names].

Adrian, Aiden, Asher, Axel, Beatrice, Blaise, Briar, Camille, Claudia, Damien, Dante, Draven, Eleanor, Esme, Eva, Fiona, Freya, Giselle, Helena, Jace, Jade, Jaxon, Juliette, Lazarus, Lilith, Maddox, Magnus, Phoenix, Raze, Ronan, Rosalie, Ryker, Scarlett, Soren, Sylvia, Talon, Thalia, Valerie, Vesper, Victoria, Zane, Zoey

Pronouns

[PT: Pronouns].

Blade / Blades / Blades, Chaos / Chaos' / Chaos, Dar / Dark / Darks, Ed / Edge / Edges, Gam / Gamble / Gambles, Kni / Knife / Knives, Lu / Re / Res [Lure], Menace / Menaces / Menaces, Pier / Pierce / Piers, Rie / Risk / Risks, Sha / Shad / Ades [Shades], Thrill / Thrills / Thrills, Tor / Torment / Torments, Vi / Vice, Vices, Wic / Wick / Wicked, Wra / Wrath / Wraths

Titles

[PT: Titles].

[Pronoun] Who Dances with Danger, [Pronoun] Who Delights in Chaos, [Pronoun] Who Thrives on Risk, A Reckless Daredevil, A Sadomasochistic Maverick, The Chaotic Manipulator, The Intimidating Presence, The Knife Gambler, The One Gambling with Lives, The Thrill-Seeker, The Unstable One

[ID: A purple thin line divider shaded at the bottom, End ID].

Requested by @npdvincent

Also tagging: @id-pack-archive

[azikarue]

Life in Color : Chapter 26 : Pirate

King, Queen | FFN Rating: K+ | FFN Link ❖ “It’s a shame you have a moral compass now; we could be making a killing off of these parts.”

King rolled his eyes at his sister’s rueful remark. He shot a look her way, but she wasn’t paying attention, too busy running her fingers along a tray of attack rings like they were precious jewels. King recognized them at once as her personal collection of favorites from their parts-hunting days, all carefully packed in a custom case. They were one of the last things they’d placed in the storage unit before closing it up. King hadn’t thought he’d see them again so soon.

Though, he hadn’t thought a company like BEGA would come along and lock away all beyblading parts and components behind a membership, either.

“Pack a box and come on,” he ordered, already feeling agitated from the cramped space and his own intentions hanging over his head.

Ever since their stint with Dr. K and their loss against the Bladebreakers, King and Queen had done their best to give up their old ways and battle fairly. King, especially, found himself exhausted by all the dishonesty and the tangled web of lies and half-truths they’d been fed to further Dr. K’s agenda.

In retrospect, he realized that he’d lost sight of the reason he began beyblading in the first place when he started focusing on the parts he had, instead of how far he could push himself in battle. He knew it came from the days when he and Queen used to gamble their own parts in an effort to build the beyblades of their dreams.

Back then, that was the only access they had to top of the line parts. By the time they could buy them on their own, they’d gotten too greedy and preferred to steal what they wanted. It took battling Tyson to make him realize that the parts weren’t what made them good – it was all the battles they fought as they built their collection and the opponents who forced them to level up.

With that realization, the whole BEGA takeover immediately rubbed him the wrong way.

They were putting too much weight on the pro title, handing kids membership cards and telling them that was all they needed when, in reality, it took years of hard work and discipline to reach the top. Refusing to sell parts to anyone without a BEGA ID made things even worse because it made buying parts feel like a luxury. Kids were waving their BEGA cards around and stripping entire shelves of blading gear because they could, but most of them hadn’t fully mastered their beginner blades yet.

Not only that, but it happened too fast. King had learned the hard way what happened when you blindly trusted a loser with an ego making big promises. The ‘moral compass’ Queen made fun of hated seeing a bunch of kids taken advantage of.

And if Tyson wasn’t backing BEGA…

Well, King didn’t consider it a good sign.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Queen sighed. She had a cardboard box in her arms and a bored expression on her face. King knew she thought he was blowing the BEGA thing out of proportion, but at least she agreed to help. Even if part of the reason she did was because she’d get a suped up blade out of the deal; her own case of parts was on top of the box she was carrying.

King sifted through a few more boxes until he was able to put one together that had a decent variety of parts. He closed it up, wincing at the grating sound of cardboard scraping, and hoisted it onto his shoulder. With a nod of his head, Queen followed him out of their storage unit. Her foot only tapped a little bit waiting for him to lock it up.

Back out on the streets, they turned in unison and headed towards the nearest subway station. When they’d gotten the storage unit, King purposefully chose one a handful of stops away from their apartment. He didn’t want it to be inconvenient, but it felt less tempting to pore through their stash of amassed parts if they weren’t right down the street. And, with the reputation they’d garnered for themselves, it was safer to keep most of their parts away from home.

Over the past year of walking the straight and narrow, they hadn’t made a single trip out to the unit, though they paid for it monthly. Instead, they honed their skills with the beyblades they had, replacing parts as needed with the handful they kept laying around.

Carrying the boxes through the city, now, felt illicit.

Queen didn’t seem bothered. When they took their seats on the train, she plucked a lethal-looking attack ring from her collection and twirled it around in her fingers.

“Stop frowning, King,” she said without taking her eyes off the attack ring. “We’re not doing anything illegal and BEGA isn’t combing the streets of Tokyo for unaccounted-for parts.”

King’s frown, ever-present these days, deepened as the doors hissed shut. “Technically, we’re in possession of stolen property,” he said, keeping his voice low even though the only other people in their car had headphones on. “In case you forgot how we have so many parts in the first place.”

Queen just laughed and said, “If you want to get technical about it, they’re winnings. We didn’t steal anything.”

“Tell that to all the kids who ever begged us to let them keep their beyblades,” he shot back, angry at her flippancy. To Queen this might be an amusing jaunt into their past habits, but King felt like they were taking steps backward on a slippery slope. “If all you’re looking to do is get your kicks on a power trip and make other bladers miserable again, then I can do this without you.”

Anger flashed in Queen’s eyes.

King balled his hands into fists on top of the box in his lap and leveled her with a fixed stare.

“I mean it,” he said. “If you want to face off against somebody, make it the cocky bladers who hold their precious BEGA memberships over other people’s heads. I don’t even care if you ask them to put their parts on the line once our stores run low. But these—,” he paused to rap on the top of the box and make sure he had Queen’s attention, “—are for anybody who needs parts but doesn’t have access to them.

“The sport of beyblading isn’t something some company can buy and sell as it pleases. If BEGA wants to limit parts sales to its members, I’ll sell them to everyone else myself at a fraction of the cost.”

Queen sat in stunned silence for a minute. “A fraction?” she asked and raised both of her eyebrows.

“We got them for free,” King reminded her with a halfhearted glare. If there weren’t going to be certain risks and costs involved, he wouldn’t charge at all.

His sister laughed and sat back in her seat.

“You had me at ‘put their parts on the line’,” she said, tossing the attack ring in the air and catching it in her fist. “There are plenty of gullible losers out there buying parts because they have a magic card that lets them. I’d love to take them down a peg.”

King sighed. At least she had spirit. Maybe her own moral compass would come with time. In the meanwhile, there were just as many struggling beybladers out there as there were gullible losers, and he would do whatever he could to get them the parts that they needed.

[westborobaptisttwerk]

Day 11

Uh

Breakdance on the graves of my detractors

This mage cap’s not for fashion

Dabble killing liches Unmask any Casper.

Fast.

Yeah I’m hungry, hear my stomachs when I’m rappin

Hatched in a backwood where brown means black

And black means otherness

And that means mask it

Or land in another hole

White and black striped “No access”

Might get snatched if you try it with the praxis

Cash

Collect it or you’ll end up on the street

Fascism in the water

Y’all spazzin on a beat

With a 6 pack handy

Cans on the beach

“That’s swag for the wildlife

Not trash in the sea”

Man it’s backwards

Skipped class,

Learned that my class isn’t free?

God Damnit!

We’re actively deceived for the handlers!!!

Probably shouldn’t hand them the keys

But the amazon packages come fast and they’re cheap

Damn

Who’s hands bled for the greed

That convenience inevitably breeds?

Ours.

And

Who stands next as a shield

When the fan get splattered in fecal?

Us.

Fam

The truth can’t actually help

It’s the action. Its absence is felt.

“But the path’s full of ashes and pelts

And there’s glass in the wells

It’s a raggedy hell

Just imagine, right?”

No

I would rather dance with some devils

Than chance that our planet gets leveled for assets

So

We should probably gather together

And attack as a mass our oppressor

But yeah I’m just guessing

I can proudly swag on a record

But I can’t make a man get a weapon

That’s asking for vengeance

(No thanks)

Just hand me some hash and I’m kelvin

I‘ll happily bask in the hellish

Yeah

The apathy’s maddening I get it

But atrophy can’t be any better

Either way we’re gambling for dinner

Id plan a revolution and a half

But you’d have to be with

It

And man that’s a pretty big ask

To deliver

Uncle Sam’s got gas for his dissidents

And stacks for the rats

And the chickens el pastor

Stash full of gizzards

I’m cat chasin crickets in a 1- bath ap.

Not a match

If capital’s king

The pauper can die mad

Battling a cough

That the doctor won’t even sigh at

Until he gets the copay

“Sorry but you’re dyin gramps.

Sign the dotted line and take some Tylenol. Bye thanks”

A batch of ya won’t even buy masks

The next one gon be worse

You’ll go outside then too

We’re livid and impotent

And denied fact

Like “which politician gon lead the people to Zion?”

(Ha!)

Meanwhile we’ll eagerly mine diamond

For two lukewarms a cot

And a bottle of Vyvanse

I’m tryin but pessimism is free

It’s a side effect of society’s tireless entropy

Mind the fires

It’s been raining gasoline

And napalm

I could stay top my soapbox for weeks

Naming names and placing faces on red string

But the playwright’s afraid to get tasered for vagrancy