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briefinquiries · 2 months ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 12

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 12

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: At the Derby, Tommy attempts to execute his plan to outmaneuver Campbell, trying to stay one step ahead. But as the pieces shift, it becomes clear that Campbell's priority might not be Tommy at all.

Word count: 6.4k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language.

The air at the Epsom Derby carried the scent of fresh earth and expensive cologne, the chatter of high society mingling with the murmurs of men who had staked everything on a horse. Women in elegant dresses strutted past, their silk gloves clutching delicate purses, their laughter a sharp contrast to the tension coiled beneath the surface. The wealthy watched from their boxes, their voices light and careless.

Standing amidst the sea of well-dressed men and women, you realized that the Derby was less about the horses and more about power. This was where men like Tommy and Sabini moved their pieces across the board, where the real game was played behind the grandstands, in the back rooms of the betting house, in the glances exchanged between the powerful and the ruthless.

You kept close to Tommy’s side as you walked through the crowd, the weight of what was about to happen pressing down on your ribs.

Campbell’s men would be stationed along the north entrance. Disguised as stable hands and dressed to blend in.

The plan played over in your mind like a drumbeat, steady and unrelenting.

But for now, you had to wait.

Tommy walked at an unhurried pace, his hands in his pockets, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd with the careful ease of a man who knew he was being watched. To anyone else, he looked like just another well-dressed man enjoying the races, perhaps a bookmaker, perhaps a gambler.

The two of you weaved through the throng of spectators, the rhythmic sound of hooves striking the track in the distance mixing with the laughter of men already deep in their cups. A vendor called out, offering whiskey from a cart lined with crystal tumblers, and Tommy barely glanced at it before steering you toward the viewing stands.

"See that man in the grey suit?" Tommy asked under his breath.

You nodded slightly, eyes following his gaze. A man in his fifties stood near the betting stalls, adjusting the cuffs of his expensive coat, his gaze occasionally flicking to the track but never truly lingering there. He had the air of someone who belonged– not because he was born into this world, but because he had learned how to play in it.

Tommy exhaled a slow breath through his nose, a flicker of something amused in his expression. “That’s Richard Ellis. Used to be a bookmaker in Small Heath. Ran bets out of a pub that had a rat problem the size of fucking dogs.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “That bad?”

Tommy nodded. “Arthur made a deal with him once– he’d handle the rats if Ellis cut us in on the bets. Didn’t tell him how he’d handle them.” A smirk played at the corner of his lips as he took a slow drag of his cigarette. “So Arthur lets a crate of cats loose in the pub one night. Place was chaos. Ellis nearly had a heart attack when he came downstairs and saw a dozen of ‘em fighting over a dead rat in the middle of the floor.”

You bit your lip to stifle your laughter. “That can’t be true.”

Tommy glanced at you, eyes glittering. “It is. Man couldn’t step foot in his own pub for a week.”

He flicked the ash from his cigarette, watching Ellis from a distance. “He still won’t look me in the eye.”

“I wonder why.” You grinned, shaking your head before glancing toward the massive clock near the entrance. Fifteen minutes to five.

As you walked past the line of vendors and stalls, something caught your eye– a small, makeshift tent set apart from the others, its fabric dark, its entrance marked by old, faded ribbons.

A woman sat behind a low wooden table, a deck of cards spread in front of her. Not for tricks or betting, but for fortune-telling.

Tommy noticed your hesitation. “You want to have a go?”

You smirked. “Didn’t take you for a superstitious man, Tommy.”

“I’m not,” he said, pulling out his cigarette case. “But you? You like answers.”

It was half a challenge, half an invitation. With a raised brow, you stepped forward, settling into the chair across from the woman. Tommy remained standing, arms crossed, watching with the quiet amusement he always carried in moments like these.

The woman studied you, her dark eyes sharp beneath her headscarf. “You wish to know your future, drabarni?”

You hesitated. You didn’t believe in things like this. But something about the way she was looking at you made your stomach turn.

She gestured to your hand. “Let me see.”

You extended your palm, fingers slightly curled. Her own were warm and calloused as she traced the lines of your skin, her expression unreadable.

Tommy shifted slightly beside you, exhaling smoke as he watched.

The woman’s eyes darkened. “As the blood moon rises, something will fall,” she murmured.

You frowned. “What?”

She didn’t look up. “The sky will turn red. Debts will be paid.”

The woman’s thumb traced the lifeline on your palm, her expression unreadable. “The blood never washes clean.”

Your stomach tightened.

Her fingers ghosting over the lines of your palm once more. “When the sky turns red, so will the hands of the men who take more than fate was willing to give.”

Tommy scoffed beside you, the sound low and unimpressed, but his silence stretched a fraction too long. The woman turned her gaze to him, as if she could see straight through the cool mask he wore.

“Even the sharpest player forgets that the house always collects in the end,” she said softly.

Tommy flicked the end of his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly before it hit the dirt. “And yet, the house still takes my bets,” he muttered.

The woman’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “For now.”

A gust of wind swept through the tent, rattling the fabric, shifting the candlelight into flickering, restless shadows.

Tommy reached into his pocket, tossing a few coins onto the table before resting a firm hand against your back. “Come on,” he murmured, guiding you away.

You followed, but the woman’s words clung to you like smoke.

“Bunch of shit. Superstition and stories that cost a bloody shilling,” Tommy muttered, his tone flat as he steered you back into the shifting crowd.

You nodded, but the words didn’t sit right. The woman’s voice lingered in your ears, curling around your thoughts like smoke from an untended fire.

Tommy’s hand stayed firm at your back, his touch grounding, steady. But there was tension there too, coiled tight beneath his skin, tucked beneath the carefully composed mask he always wore.

“You don’t believe in that sort of thing, do you?” you asked, glancing up at him.

He scoffed, barely sparing you a glance. “I believe in what I can see. What I can hold.” He exhaled, flicking open his cigarette case. “And what I can take.”

You swallowed, pushing away the unease settling low in your stomach.

The Derby continued around you, untouched by the conversation that had just occurred. The smell of whiskey and cigar smoke curled through the air, blending with the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass and warm earth. Laughter echoed from the betting stalls, a sharp contrast to the way your chest felt tight, uneasy.

Tommy shifted beside you, the subtle roll of his shoulders, the way his posture straightened just slightly. It was almost imperceptible, but you knew him well enough by now to recognize the moment he moved from casual amusement to calculated control.

His gaze flicked across the crowd, and then, just once, he nodded.

To anyone else, it was meaningless. A glance. A habit. But you saw who he was nodding at.

Isiah, standing near the outer stalls, leaned against a post, idly flicking a match between his fingers. Further down, Johnny Dogs lingered by the betting house entrance, pretending to examine the odds board, waiting. They had been there all along, scattered among the crowd, blending in.

And now, they were moving to the north entrance to create a diversion.

“Let’s go place a bet, shall we?” he said, voice light, as if the pieces of this carefully laid plan weren’t shifting into motion beneath your feet.

You gave a small nod, letting him guide you through the bustling throng of gamblers and high society. The chatter of race-day excitement swirled around you, but your focus remained razor-sharp, scanning the faces, looking for any sign of Campbell’s men.

Nothing yet.

Tommy was calm. Too calm. He moved through the crowd like a man who already knew the outcome, his gaze flicking to the large betting board as though he actually intended to place a wager. But you knew the truth– he was waiting.

The scent hit you first. Smoke. It was faint, but undeniable.

Your pulse quickened. The fire had started.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, confused voices rising as men turned toward the betting house.

Then came the first shout. “Oi! Fire!”

Heads snapped toward the source of the commotion, and suddenly, the murmurs turned into shouts. You caught a glimpse of thick, dark smoke curling out from the side of the building, the flicker of flames licking at the edges of a window.

It worked.

The betting house was no longer a viable meeting place.

Tommy exhaled, a slow, measured breath, before steering you toward a quieter stretch of the stands. His grip on your waist was firm but unhurried, as if he was just another man guiding his companion through the shifting crowd.

A group of men emerged from the betting house, stepping away from the thickening smoke.

One, in particular, carried an aura of authority above the rest. He had dark, slicked-back hair and a sharp suit. A presence that made people instinctively move out of his way.

His gaze flicked through the crowd before landing on Tommy.

And then– on you.

The way he looked at you was nothing like the way men usually did. It wasn’t leering, wasn’t curious. It was slow, calculated. Measuring.

A smirk pulled at his lips.

Tommy must have felt the shift in you, because his grip at your waist became just a fraction firmer. Then the gaze slid from you to him, and the smirk sharpened into something colder.

“Well, well,” the man drawled, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket. “Fancy running into you here, Shelby.”

Tommy didn’t miss a beat. “It’s a race course, Sabini. Where else would I be?”

Sabini.

He let a slow exhale through his nose, almost like a laugh, though there was no humor in his eyes.

“The betting house seems to be having some… trouble,” he mused, tilting his head slightly toward the smoke still rising behind him. His tone was casual, but the weight behind it was heavy. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with you, would it?”

Tommy barely flicked a glance toward the burning building. “You think I’d set fire to the one place we all came here to do business?” He gave an exaggerated shake of his head, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I’m insulted, Sabini.”

Sabini hummed, his dark eyes studying Tommy, then, briefly, flicking back to you.

“And who do we have here?”

His gaze dragged over you, not with the leering interest of most men in his world, but with something far more unsettling– curiosity.

You refused to shift under his scrutiny, keeping your expression carefully neutral, just as Tommy had taught you. But your pulse hammered, your fingers twitching at your sides.

Tommy, ever composed, took a slow drag from his cigarette before flicking the ashes to the ground. “No one you need to concern yourself with.”

Sabini smirked at that, eyes never leaving yours. “Is that right?”

You didn’t flinch, but the weight of his stare made your skin prickle. He was watching you too closely, assessing.

Tommy exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his voice light. “Let’s not pretend you give a fuck who I bring to the races, Sabini.”

Sabini’s smirk lingered for a moment before he clicked his tongue, finally breaking his gaze from you and shifting back to Tommy. “Fair enough,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. “Doesn’t make much difference to me. She’s pretty, though.”

Sabini sighed, glancing over his shoulder at the burning betting house. The flames weren’t raging, but smoke still curled from the upper windows, and the growing crowd of onlookers meant that business here was well and truly finished.

“Well,” he mused, turning back, “since we’ve lost our accommodations, shall we find somewhere else?”

Tommy didn’t hesitate. “Lead the way.”

Sabini studied him for a second longer, as if trying to gauge whether Tommy had expected this change of plans. Then he turned sharply on his heel, his men falling into step beside him as he walked toward the far end of the stands.

Tommy stayed put, letting a beat pass before exhaling through his nose and turning to you.

“Alright, you remember?” he breathed.

“The stables,” you said.

He gave a curt nod. “Thirty minutes. Stay where people can see you.”

His eyes held yours, steady and unyielding, as if willing you to understand the weight behind his words. He had planned for this. Had accounted for Sabini’s unpredictability, for the shifting board beneath his feet. But there was still risk– there was always risk.

You inhaled sharply and nodded. “Alright.”

For a moment, he lingered, his hand brushing the side of your waist before pulling away. Then, with a final glance, he turned and walked after Sabini, disappearing into the crowd.

The moment he was gone, the noise of the Derby seemed sharper, louder.

The hum of conversation swelled, the cheers from the track struck too high, and the calls of bookies rang in your ears like a warning bell. The weight of Tommy’s presence had always been something you could feel, a quiet force at your side, solid and steady. Without him, the absence hit you all at once.

You felt exposed– vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected.

A cheer erupted from the track as the next race was called, the excitement rolling through the stands in waves. It was all so normal. So mundane. As if, just beyond this scene of wealth and leisure, the undercurrent of something dangerous wasn’t about to unfold.

You exhaled, steadying yourself. Keep moving. Keep blending in.

There was no need to rush to the stables yet. Tommy had given you thirty minutes. If you arrived too early, it would only draw attention.

So you wandered.

The weight of his absence still sat heavy in your chest as you slipped between groups of wealthy patrons, their laughter too bright, their conversations shallow. A passing waiter offered champagne from a silver tray, and you took a glass without thinking, letting the stem rest between your fingers as you drifted toward the edge of the grandstand.

Below, the track stretched out in the golden afternoon light, the next set of horses being led out by their handlers.

You focused on the rhythm of it– the way the thoroughbreds moved, their coats gleaming under the sun, their riders adjusting their reins, the hum of gamblers muttering about odds.

It was a strange, dissonant feeling, being here in the middle of it all, pretending like you were just another face in the crowd.

For a while, you let yourself play the part.

You leaned against the railing, eyes flicking lazily over the field. You took a slow sip of the champagne, letting the bubbles linger on your tongue. You even let yourself get caught up in the energy of the race for a moment, watching as the gates snapped open, the horses breaking into a powerful sprint down the track.

But then something nagged at you. At first, it was just a feeling. A vague unease curling in your chest, easily dismissed as nerves. But then your gaze drifted, pulled instinctively toward the officers standing guard, undistracted and unbothered, it hit you.

The north entrance.

That was where Tommy’s men were supposed to create a diversion– something loud enough to force Campbell’s men to shift, to keep their eyes off Tommy. A fight, a scuffle, anything.

But there was nothing.

No raised voices. No sudden movement. No sign of a disruption.

Your stomach twisted.

The uniformed officers stationed around still stood where they had been when you first arrived, their postures easy, their focus unbroken.

Your fingers tensed around the champagne glass.

There could be an explanation. Maybe Tommy had adjusted the plan. Maybe the fight had been handled quietly, out of sight.

You swallowed, trying to shake the unease slithering through your veins, but it clung to you, sinking deep into your bones. The Derby continued around you, the hum of conversation and the roar of the crowd washing over you like a tide, but suddenly, it all felt unbearably distant.

You didn’t want to be here anymore.

You didn’t want to be surrounded by these people, these faceless men in fine suits, laughing over their whiskey, oblivious to the way the world could turn sharp and cruel beneath them.

You wanted Tommy.

The thought startled you, how strong the ache for his presence had become. You had been without him for less than fifteen minutes, but in that time, something had shifted, and now all you wanted was the weight of his eyes on you, the quiet steadiness of his voice.

He made you feel safe, in a way you’d grown to depend on.

The thought alone made your pulse quicken– not with fear, but with something close to longing.

You forced yourself to breathe, to think.

Waiting around wasn’t going to make the feeling go away. The minutes stretched, slow and unbearable, each one making your skin prickle with the certainty that something was watching you, even if you couldn’t see it.

You needed to move.

Decision made, you set your untouched glass of champagne down on the nearest table and turned, slipping easily into the shifting bodies of the crowd.

The stables were quieter.

Safer.

And Tommy would be there soon.

You weaved through the grandstand, careful not to rush, but your pace was quicker than before, your movements more deliberate.

Every step closer to the far end of the Derby grounds eased a fraction of the weight in your chest, though the unease still pulsed beneath your skin.

By the time you reached the stables, the noise of the crowd had dulled to a low hum in the distance, swallowed by the vast stretch of open space between here and the main stands. The scent of hay, damp earth, and leather settled thick in the air, a stark contrast to the perfume and whiskey lingering on your coat from the crowded grandstand.

You slowed your pace, glancing around.

It was quiet.

A few stable hands moved about their work, tending to the horses, brushing them down, adjusting saddles. They paid you no mind, too focused on their own business, and for once, you were grateful for it.

You stepped further in, the wooden beams of the stable casting long shadows in the fading afternoon light.

The silence felt different here.

You exhaled slowly and leaned against one of the empty stalls, letting the tension slip from your shoulders.

The minutes passed with little urgency, stretching long and slow, but this time, it didn’t bother you. After the noise, after the endless hum of people, the quiet felt welcome. The horses shifted in their stalls, their movements rhythmic, soothing. You focused on the sound of their breathing, the occasional rustle of hay, the soft clink of metal as one of the stable hands adjusted a bridle.

Tommy would be here soon.

You exhaled, letting yourself lean further into the stall door, fingers absently tracing the worn grain of the wood.

But then a voice, low and taunting, cut through the silence behind you.

“Waiting for someone?”

Your breath caught. Before you could move, before you could think, before you could do anything at all– something cold and unyielding pressed against the small of your back.

A gun.

Your body went rigid.

“Don’t scream,” Campbell murmured, his voice dripping with quiet amusement. “Or you’ll be dead before the sound leaves your throat.”

He was standing too close, his voice curling against your ear like a whisper of death itself. His gun pressed harder into your spine, just enough to make his point clear.

“Walk,” he ordered.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you forward as he directed you, step by step, out of the stables. The warmth of safety you had felt moments ago vanished, replaced by the cold sweat prickling at the base of your neck.

Each step felt heavier than the last, your breath tight in your chest as Campbell steered you toward the far end of the Derby grounds. The festive hum of the crowd still carried on in the distance– oblivious, detached from the reality closing in around you.

You saw a familiar shape in the sea of bodies.

John.

He stood near the vendor stalls, talking to someone, his hat tipped low against the sun.

Hope surged in your chest, desperate and sharp.

Your pulse roared in your ears as your eyes locked onto him. See me. Please, John.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, your body screaming for you to do something– to call out, to move, to catch his attention before it was too late. For a second, John shifted, glancing to the side– toward you.

Your breath caught.

But then he turned back again, oblivious.

You bit down hard on your panic, forcing yourself to keep moving. By the time you reached the parking lot, any remnants of safety were gone.

Campbell shoved a pair of handcuffs into your grasp. “Put them on,” he ordered.

Your hands trembled as the cold metal slid over your wrists, locking with a sharp click.

The truck door creaked open, and before you could react, Campbell grabbed you by the arm and hauled you inside.

The door slammed shut behind him. The truck lurched forward. And then, you were moving.

Your last glimpse of the Derby grounds was through the narrow gap in the back window– the crowd, the shifting blur of faces, and somewhere in it, Tommy, unaware.

Campbell leaned back against the wall of the truck, watching you with quiet amusement, his gun resting against his knee.

“Now,” he said, voice smooth, easy. “Let’s have a little chat.”

The road stretched ahead, leading you further and further away.

And for the first time since Tommy left your side, you knew–

You were well and truly all alone.

…

Tommy sat across from Sabini in the dimly lit room, his expression unreadable as the conversation between them unfolded.

Sabini was posturing, throwing out veiled threats wrapped in pleasantries, testing the edges of Tommy’s patience. But Tommy had played this game too many times before. He knew when to push and when to let a man talk himself into a corner.

Sabini smirked, swirling the drink in his hand as his dark eyes dragged over Tommy’s face.

“I have to say, Shelby,” he drawled, tilting his head. “Your face has healed up nicely since the last time we saw each other. Looks almost… respectable again.”

Tommy didn’t blink.

Sabini chuckled, tapping a finger against his glass. “Though, I think I preferred it the other way. Suited you better.”

Tommy exhaled slowly, rolling his unlit cigarette between his fingers, his jaw tight. His face was fine now– the bruises faded, the split lip long healed– but the memory of being beaten into the concrete by Sabini’s men still burned fresh.

Along with the way you had stitched him back up again.

He kept his voice even. “It’ll take more than a few Italians to keep me down, Sabini.”

Sabini’s smirk widened. “Oh, I know. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

There was a sudden shift in the air, a subtle undercurrent beneath the usual tension, and Tommy couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Then, the door creaked open. One of Tommy’s men slipped inside, moving quickly to his side, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

“The north entrance,” the man murmured. “Guards were never there.”

Tommy’s fingers tightened slightly around the glass in front of him.

Not there?

That wasn’t possible.

He kept his expression steady, barely a flicker of reaction, but he felt it– the cold realization sliding into his gut.

The north entrance was supposed to be where Campbell’s men were stationed. Where Tommy had sent his own men to create a distraction.

But they hadn’t been there.

Which meant–

His pulse quickened, but he didn’t move. Didn’t let Sabini see the shift.

But Sabini saw something.

A smirk curled at the corners of his mouth as he leaned back in his chair, swirling the drink in his hand.

“Problem, Shelby?” he mused, voice smooth. “You look… distracted.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched.

Sabini knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not the details, but he knew enough.

The meeting was over.

Tommy pushed back his chair and stood, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket with practiced ease.

Sabini watched him with quiet amusement, his smirk widening just slightly. “Leaving so soon? And here I thought we were just getting comfortable.”

Tommy barely spared him a glance. “I don’t get comfortable, Sabini.”

With that, he turned and strode out, his pace brisk, controlled.

But as soon as he stepped outside, the composure cracked.

His strides lengthened as he moved through the shifting crowd, the noise of the Derby grating against his ears, an unwelcome backdrop to the sudden weight settling in his chest. His pulse was steady, but his breathing sharpened, his body already anticipating something wrong.

Beside him, one of his men kept pace, his expression tight with unease. He had been the one to whisper in Tommy’s ear about the north entrance.

“What do you want me to do, Tom?” The man– Liam, asked, voice low.

“Find Arthur and John,” Tommy said without looking at him, his voice clipped, firm. “Bring them to me.”

The north entrance had been a bluff– their own distraction.

But for what?

Liam nodded once and peeled off, disappearing into the throng of well-dressed patrons, leaving Tommy to push forward alone.

The weight in his gut grew heavier with every step. You would be at the stables. You had to be by now, it had nearly been thirty minutes… just like you said.

But when he arrived, the place was quiet. Too quiet. The scent of hay and leather lingered, the horses shifting in their stalls, but she wasn’t there.

He waited.

Five minutes.

Then ten.

His hands curled into fists as he paced, his mind whirring. Maybe you had gotten spooked. Maybe you had wandered a little further. But the longer he stood there, the deeper the feeling of dread sank into his chest.

Tommy turned sharply on his heel, heading back into the main crowd.

He checked the vendors first, scanning the faces, his movements controlled but urgent. He stopped at the whiskey stall, the betting booths, his jaw tightening each time he came up empty.

His hand twitched at his side.

He turned away sharply, moving toward the betting booths. He scanned the men crowding the odds board, their eyes fixed on the shifting numbers, rolling cigars between their fingers as they whispered to each other about favorites and long shots.

Not there, either.

His jaw tightened.

He wove further through the throng, past vendors shouting out prices for hot meat pies and whiskey, past wealthy men in tailored suits and women in silks who paid him no mind.

Then he spotted a vendor selling cheap trinkets– a small stand with silver cigarette cases and pocket watches laid out in neat rows.

His pulse kicked up.

He knew you had a habit of idly running your fingers over things when you were waiting– coins on a counter, the rim of a glass, the buttons of your coat. Maybe you would have lingered there, just for a moment, just long enough for someone to remember.

He stepped forward.

“You seen a woman here?” he asked the vendor, keeping his voice level. “About this tall– Green dress?”

The man barely looked up as he adjusted one of the cases. “Plenty of women come through.”

Tommy’s fingers curled against his palm. “You’d remember this one.”

The vendor hesitated, brow furrowing slightly. “I dunno, mate. Sorry.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, nodding once before turning away, pushing further into the crowd.

His stride lengthened, the careful control in his posture thinning. The murmurs of the crowd blurred together, the distant sound of the next race being called barely registering.

He stopped near a bar, scanning the people lined up along the counter.

Then, “Oi. Are you Thomas Shelby?”

Tommy turned, muscles tensed, sharp eyes locking onto the man who had spoken.

He was older, dressed in a Derby official’s waistcoat, his expression bored, indifferent. Like he was delivering nothing more than a routine message.

“There’s a phone call for you,” the man said.

Tommy’s blood ran cold.

The older man turned without waiting for a response, leading Tommy away from the main thoroughfare of the Derby grounds. The noise of the crowd dulled as they stepped around the back of the vendor stalls, weaving through a narrow passage between two betting booths.

Tommy’s pulse pounded against his ribs, but his expression remained unreadable, his body moving with purpose. He kept his hands in his pockets, fingers brushing against the metal of his cigarette case, grounding himself in the feel of something solid.

The man led him to a small, makeshift office tucked between the grandstand and the betting houses. A single telephone sat on a desk, the receiver resting off the hook, the cord stretched taut.

It was waiting. Tommy stepped forward, ignoring the man behind him as he reached for the receiver and lifted it to his ear.

He didn’t speak.

Not at first.

A long silence stretched between him and whoever was on the other end of the line.

Then there was a voice. Smooth. Measured. Amused.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched.

Campbell.

The sound of his voice sent a slow, simmering rage through Tommy’s veins, steady and lethal.

Campbell sighed, a mockery of disappointment. “She was quite cooperative, you know. Didn’t put up a fight. Kind of a shame– I was hoping for more excitement.”

Tommy’s stomach twisted. His breath stayed steady, but something dark flickered behind his eyes. He had heard enough men like Campbell speak to recognize the game being played.

“Where is she?” Tommy asked, his voice like a blade– sharp, cutting, controlled.

Campbell hummed. “Safe. For now.”

Tommy’s jaw ticked. “If you lay a finger on her–”

“Now, now,” Campbell interrupted smoothly. “Let’s not make threats, Tommy. We both know this is bigger than you and me.”

Tommy’s free hand twitched at his side. “You tell me where she is, or I’ll tear this whole fucking place apart– I’ll kill every last one of your fucking men–”

Campbell chuckled again, the sound slithering through the line.

“Oh, I do believe you would try.” A beat of silence. “But do you really think I’d leave her at the Derby, Tommy? Do you take me for a complete fool?”

Tommy’s grip on the receiver turned to iron. “What do you want?”

Campbell exhaled, slow and deliberate, like a man savoring the moment. “So self-centered, Mr. Shelby,” he mused. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Tommy’s fingers curled tighter around the receiver, his knuckles going white. “Then why the fuck are we having this conversation?”

A soft, satisfied chuckle. “Because I want you to know that this isn’t about business. This isn’t about deals, or leverage, or power.” A pause. Then, low and sharp, “This is personal.”

Tommy’s breath stayed even, but a dangerous quiet settled over him.

“I should have known sooner,” Campbell continued, his voice coated in bitter amusement. “She was always in the right place at the right time, wasn’t she? Always knew just enough to keep you one step ahead. And yet, she smiled that pretty smile at me, and played her part so well. I was growing rather fond of her company, too, you know?”

Tommy’s jaw tightened, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Campbell’s voice darkened. “You made a fool of me, Shelby. And she helped you do it.”

The room was suffocating, the Derby’s distant roar a dull, meaningless hum in the background. The anger flooding his veins was ice-cold– focused, lethal.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, keeping his voice level. “You need a win, don’t you?” He let the words settle, calculating his next move. “You’ve been after the IRA for how long? The fucking crown breathin’ down your neck? You think if you bring them to heel, you’ll climb your way back up?”

Another pause.

Tommy pressed harder.

“I have names,” he continued, voice sharp now. “Contacts. Locations. Weapons routes. And I know exactly how your government wants them handled.”

Silence.

Tommy swallowed back the bitterness in his throat, knowing exactly what kind of ground he was treading. He’d worked with the IRA before. Made enemies. Made allies. He still had contacts, and Campbell knew it. He didn’t give a fuck about the government’s game, didn’t give a fuck about their wars– he only cared about you.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” Tommy said, voice like steel.

The line crackled. Then, finally, he heard a soft, thoughtful hum.

“You are a resourceful man, Tommy,” Campbell murmured. “I’ll give you that.”

Tommy’s pulse hammered in his throat, but his voice stayed even. “I can give you what you need.”

Campbell’s voice returned, measured, unreadable. “I’ve got to say, I do enjoy watching you squirm.”

A fresh wave of rage clawed its way up Tommy’s throat, but he swallowed it back, forcing himself to wait for the next words.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” His voice was smooth, almost pitiful. “I don’t want anything from you, Tommy.”

Tommy’s grip tightened on the receiver, his pulse roaring in his ears.

Campbell exhaled, slow and deliberate. “This isn’t about information. It’s about power. About control.”

A cold realization settled in Tommy’s gut, but he refused to acknowledge it. Not yet.

Campbell chuckled, the sound slithering through the line. “You’ve spent years convincing yourself that you’re untouchable. That no matter what happens, no matter who comes for you, you’ll always be one step ahead.” A pause. “But you’re not, are you?”

Tommy swallowed, his breath steady, but his mind was already moving, already searching for the angle, the leverage– anything he could use to change the outcome.

“I want you to feel it, Tommy,” Campbell continued, voice sharp now, cutting straight to the bone. “The way I felt it, every time you made a fool of me. I want you to understand what it is to be helpless.”

Tommy’s fingers curled against the desk, white-knuckled.

“I want you to know,” Campbell said, his tone almost gentle, “that I can take something you care about… and I can hurt it–”

Tommy forced his breath to be measured, controlled. “What have you done?”

“Nothing. Yet.” A smirk laced Campbell’s tone. “But I do intend to take my time. You see, I just want you to see that you can’t stop this. Not everything is under your control, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

Campbell exhaled, pleased. “I wonder, Tommy… how long before she begs me to stop?”

The words slithered through the receiver like a blade pressed to skin, slow and deliberate.

Campbell let the silence stretch, savoring it. Then, lower, softer– crueler, he asked, “How long before she screams your name– before she realizes you can’t save her?”

Without warning, the line went dead.

Tommy stood there, frozen, the dial tone humming like a funeral bell in his ear.

Then– Crack!

His fist slammed into the wooden desk, rattling the phone, sending the ink bottle tumbling over the edge.

His breath came heavy now, sharp and measured as he forced himself back into control.

Campbell had made a mistake.

A big fucking mistake.

Tommy turned, his hands already moving, reaching into his coat for a cigarette as he stormed toward the door. He shoved it open with force, stepping into the fading afternoon light. The air outside felt sharp against his skin, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning in his chest.

Arthur, John, and the rest of the boys were already there, waiting just beyond the vendor stalls.

John spotted him first, his sharp gaze flicking over Tommy’s face, reading the tension in his shoulders. “What the fuck is going on?”

Arthur stepped forward next, his expression dark, nostrils flaring. “Tom, what was that? We saw the bloke bring you back here–” His voice cut off as he caught the look in Tommy’s eyes.

The others fell quiet, waiting.

Tommy exhaled sharply, smoke curling into the air.

“We have to get out of here,” he said finally, his voice clipped, urgent.

John frowned. “What? Why?”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Tommy– where’s the Doc?”

The words landed like a gunshot.

Tommy inhaled slowly, then exhaled through his nose as he looked up. When he spoke, his voice was low, steady, lethal. “Campbell has her.”

“Fuck.” John’s face twisted in fury, his hands immediately curling into fists.

Arthur took a step closer, his breath coming sharper now. “What do you mean, Campbell has her? How the fuck did that happen?”

Tommy clenched his jaw, his patience thin. “He’s been one step ahead of us this entire fucking time. He knew she was spying for me.” He flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his boot. “He knew. The whole time, he fucking knew.”

The weight of his words settled over them like a cold fog.

John swore under his breath. Johnny Dogs shifted, his jaw tight. The others exchanged glances, waiting for the next move.

Arthur exhaled harshly, rolling his shoulders back. “Right,” he said, his voice a touch calmer now– dangerously so. “So what the fuck do we do now?”

Tommy straightened, adjusting his coat.

“We find her.”

He turned, already moving, already calculating.

“And we kill that bastard before he even knows we’re coming.”

The boys didn’t hesitate.

They followed.

Because no one took from Thomas Shelby and walked away unscathed.

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strxngewitch02 · 6 months ago

Text

ALL I WANTED | PART TWO.

• Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader.

•Song: All I wanted by Paramore.

•Word count: 13.4K (I can explain- )

•Summary: (Based off of Season One Episode 2 & 3!)

A continuation from part one!

You've been in love and best friends with Tommy ever since you were kids, and when he came back from the war in France he has been cold and distant from you.

Wanting to be close with him again you put yourself at risk to try and help him with business with Billy Kimber.

Basically, you're like Grace in this story but with a few twists! I also changed up my writing style so there's going to be no "y/n" in this!

+ WARNINGS: SA attempt by Billy Kimber so please be careful of reading, and also smut.. just pure smut, but with built up plot :P

ALL OF CONTENT BELONGS TO STEVEN KNIGHT /NETFLIX PEAKY BLINDERS.

—

***

It was the next day, as you approached the racecourse, a wave of exhilaration washed over you, mingling with the scent of freshly cut grass and the distant sound of cheering crowds. Sneaking in wasn’t as daunting as you’d anticipated; the thrill of the illicit made your heart race. The atmosphere was charged, a chaotic blend of excitement and tension that hung thick in the air. In a place like this—a vibrant race track teeming with gamblers and the frenetic energy of the Shelby Home and Betting shop—you quickly realized it was practically a lawless realm. Billy Kimber’s infamous tracks were notorious for their high stakes and even higher tempers. Choosing the back entrance felt like a clever move, offering a sense of safety in the shadows, where your presence went unnoticed.

Buying a new dress had been a considerable challenge, fraught with the weight of your mother’s relentless reminders to save your shillings. Since childhood, her voice echoed in your mind, a mantra of thriftiness that tugged at your conscience. But working odd jobs for the Shelby family had finally paid off, allowing you to set aside enough to splurge on something special. As you stood before the mirror, your breath caught at the sight. You hoped you hadn’t gone overboard, but the moment felt monumental. The dress—a stunning black flapper number—draped over you like a second skin, its ruffled sleeves and plunging V-neck accentuating your curves with an effortless elegance. The soft fabric whispered against your skin, and the delicate ribbon tie cinched your waist, giving you a silhouette that made you feel both confident and daring.

You adorned yourself with your mother’s cherished pearl necklace, the cool beads resting against your collarbone, paired with matching earrings that caught the light with every movement. Your hair was meticulously styled, framing your face and adding a touch of sophistication. As you stepped out, the transformation felt profound; you were no longer just you but a vision of glamor, ready to take on the world.

As you navigated through the packed hallways, the vibrant energy enveloped you like a warm embrace. The parlor was alive with the intoxicating sounds of jazz music, each note swirling through the air like a delicate dance. Couples glided across the polished floor, lost in the rhythm, their laughter mingling with the music. The soft glow of chandeliers illuminated the room, casting a golden hue over the dancers, who wore smiles that radiated pure joy. You caught glimpses of men in sharp suits, their cigars clutched between fingers, while others leaned casually against the bar, their glasses filled with amber liquid that glimmered in the light.

In this glamorous setting, you felt a flicker of self-doubt—a brief moment of incongruity amid the elegance surrounding you. Yet, as you glanced at your reflection in a nearby polished mirror, the spark of confidence ignited within you. You looked sexy, and that was a bonus you were determined to embrace.

Your gaze flickered around the bustling parlor, finally landing on Billy Kimber, who sat with an air of arrogant confidence at a table surrounded by his men, a crystal flute of champagne in hand. The scene was almost absurd—this man reveled in luxury while his diligent accountant toiled away, managing the chaos that Kimber seemed to shrug off. As you maneuvered through the crowd, you felt the weight of Kimber’s intense gaze boring into you, a heat that lingered at the back of your head, impossible to ignore. It was unnerving; but you had captured his attention, and now you just needed to…

Before you could plot your next move, a firm, warm grip encircled your arm, pulling you gently to the side. Instinctively, your body pressed against a solid form, the warmth of their hand settling possessively on your waist. You turned, and your breath caught as you locked eyes with Tommy Shelby. His icy blue gaze sent a jolt of electricity through you, a tumultuous mix of excitement and anxiety swirling in your chest.

Oh shit. Tommy…

The thought echoed in your mind as you struggled to swallow the lump forming in your throat. “You better have a fucking good explanation for why you’re here,” he said, his voice calm yet charged with gravelly tension. His expression was a blend of annoyance and something more complex, a vexation that hinted at deeper concerns. As he began to sway with you to the music, the proximity was intoxicating, the heat between you both palpable.

Every fiber of your being was acutely aware of him—the way his presence seemed to command the space, how his grip felt both protective and dangerously intimate. You could feel your heart racing, a wild rhythm that matched the beat of the music surrounding you. This was more than just an encounter; it was a delicate dance on the edge of a knife, a collision of desire and danger. You fought to steady your breathing, knowing you had to tread carefully. This wasn’t merely about slipping into the scene unnoticed; it was about navigating the intricate web of emotions that tangled around you, especially in the presence of Tommy Shelby. Caught between fear and longing, you realized that tonight could change everything.

Quickly regaining your composure, you let the moment carry you as his hand shifted from your arm to grasp your palm. You felt the warmth of his skin seep into yours, an intoxicating connection that sent a shiver down your spine as you continued to dance amidst the swirling crowd. “Actually, I do,” you countered, your expression defiant, lips curling into a faint frown. “I just wanted to help you.” Your voice softened, and your eyes locked onto his, searching for a flicker of understanding.

It didn’t take long for Tommy to piece together how you had discovered his whereabouts. “Well, for one, you need to learn how to keep your ears out of my business,” he stated firmly, his stern gaze unwavering. “You need to leave; it’s not a good time.” The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, yet there was an underlying tension that both thrilled and terrified you.

God, it was hard to concentrate when he stood so close, his body radiating warmth against yours. The faint scent of cigarettes mixed with something uniquely Tommy, making your head spin. You couldn’t help but admire how handsome he looked, the dark gray suit tailored perfectly to his form, making his striking blue eyes pop even more. He had shaved, his jawline sharp and defined, giving him an air of refreshment that only added to your growing attraction.

But beneath the surface of your admiration lay a deeper turmoil. You felt torn between the desire to be near him and the fear of the dangers that surrounded him. Your heart raced not just from the dance but from the unspoken connection simmering between you. Each moment felt like a precarious balance, a delicate dance of vulnerability and defiance. You longed to reach out and pull him closer, to bridge the gap between the worlds you inhabited, but the tension in his expression held you back.

“Tommy,” you said softly, your voice barely above the music, a thread of vulnerability woven into your tone. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.” The sincerity in your words surprised you, a deep-seated need to connect cutting through the tension. You wanted him to see that your intentions were genuine, that you were willing to face the risks to stand by him.

In that moment, as the crowd surged around you and the music pulsed like a heartbeat, you realized this wasn’t just a chance encounter. It was a turning point, a moment that could shift everything for you. The thrill of uncertainty blended with a flicker of hope, igniting a fire in your chest that urged you to take a leap. You wanted to connect, to show him that you were more than just an outsider; you were someone who understood the stakes, willing to fight for a place in his world.

A glare formed on your features as you gazed up at Tommy, resolute in your purpose. “I am not leaving,” you replied sharply, your voice unwavering.

“You don’t get to make that decision…” He snapped, leaning closer, his face inches from yours. You could feel his warm breath brushing against your skin, sending a rush of adrenaline through you. “I mean it, love. This is not the time.” His tone grew increasingly frustrated, yet he maintained a semblance of control as he gently guided you toward a quieter corner at the back, the noise of the crowd fading into a distant hum.

“Tommy, I’m not going anywhere,” you declared, your voice firm as you followed him. But when you realized he was leading you toward the back exit, you halted in your tracks, your heart racing. He stopped too, letting out a deep sigh, his jaw clenched tightly. His eyes bore into yours, searching, challenging.

“Ever since France, with the coppers and that inspector—now the Lee family and Billy Kimber? You’ve been acting strange, pulling these dangerous stunts without involving me anymore. You know I can handle myself. I’ve helped run this business with Polly ever since you and Arthur and John left for France. And now you come back and shut me out? What’s different about now?” Your throat burned with the intensity of your words, each syllable echoing your frustration and hurt.

“We came back. That’s what changed.” Tommy replied curtly, pulling slightly away, his hands resting over your biceps, the grip both firm and possessive. “This is business between me and Kimber. I’m telling you now, this isn’t the time to get involved.” He growled slightly, a mix of anger and something deeper threading through his voice, his hold tightening on your arms.

You could sense the tension simmering between you, a cocktail of frustration and concern swirling in the air. You couldn’t tell if he was genuinely infuriated or merely protective, but his intensity sent your heart racing. This was the first time in a long while that he had shown he cared, the vulnerability of the moment stark against the backdrop of your conflict.

But no matter the reason for his anger, you stood your ground, refusing to back down.

“Tommy, you’re not the only one who gets to decide what’s dangerous,” you shot back, your pulse quickening as the space between you felt charged. “I’m here, and I deserve to know what’s going on. You may think you can protect me, but I’m not fragile. I’m part of this, too.”

The air between you crackled, each heartbeat amplifying the tension. His eyes searched yours, and for a fleeting moment, the world around you faded away. It was just you and him, caught in a storm of emotions that could either pull you apart or bring you closer together.

Shaking your head, you held onto your defiant expression, narrowing your eyes slightly. “Let me help you, Tommy. At least let me pretend to be your date to impress Billy Kimber. I’m already here, and he’s seen me.” Your heart constricted in your chest, a mix of fear and determination coursing through you. You both were far too stubborn; one of you had to break.

Tommy’s gaze pierced through you, steely and unyielding, as if he were dissecting your very thoughts. The intensity of his stare sent a shiver down your spine, making you acutely aware of how much he commanded the space around him. You could see the internal battle within him, a flicker of acknowledgment that you were right. Billy did have an interest in you, and that realization hung heavily in the air.

After a long, tense silence, he finally spoke. “Fine.” His voice was low and gravelly, a reluctant concession that felt more like a threat than an agreement. He glanced at his pocket watch, then back at you, his expression unreadable, as if he were weighing your worth against the dangers that surrounded him. “Stay by the bar. I’ll come back and get you.” As he intertwined his fingers with yours, a rush of warmth spread through you, grounding you in the moment despite the swirling chaos around you. It was a simple gesture, yet it sent your heart racing. You felt a mix of elation and anxiety as he led you toward the bar, your pulse quickening at the thought of being part of his world, even if only for a moment.

You could feel the stakes rising, the weight of the situation pressing down on both of you. There was an unspoken acknowledgment that this wasn’t just about the game with Kimber; it was about your place in Tommy’s world. As he released your hand, the warmth lingered, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that the night held more than just danger—it held the potential for something deeper.

He left you alone for only a moment, and you watched intently as he navigated through the crowd, two bulging bags slung over his shoulder. You assumed they were filled with shillings—money that the Lee family must have pilfered from Billy Kimber’s races. How on earth had he managed to get his hands on that? The enigma of Tommy Shelby always left you in awe, a mystery wrapped in layers you longed to unravel. For now, all you could do was watch, a role you had grown accustomed to throughout your life. Observing was what you did best.

Your gaze remained fixed on Tommy as he casually approached Kimber’s table, a confident swagger in his stride. He dumped the contents of the bags onto the table with a clatter, coins spilling out in a shimmering cascade. Kimber’s initial surprise morphed quickly into a look of perplexity, then annoyance. Tommy settled into the seat across from him, his movements fluid and assured as he pulled out a cigarette, the gesture almost casual yet laced with an underlying tension. You could only assume he was continuing the negotiations that had begun in the garrison yesterday, a dance of power that seemed to electrify the air around them.

You felt the weight of their exchange draw you in, but your attention faltered when you realized Kimber had caught you watching. A flicker of recognition passed between you, and you quickly turned away, the heat of embarrassment rising to your cheeks. With a deep sigh, you accepted a glass of champagne from the bartender, the cool crystal a contrast to the warmth building in your chest.As you take a sip, the bubbles tickle your throat, and you let the effervescence distract you from the tension that hangs in the air.

The entire situation was aggravating. You couldn’t shake off Tommy’s words—We came back. That’s what changed. A part of you sensed there was more beneath the surface, a depth to his statement that he wasn’t revealing. What an enigma Tommy Shelby was, a man cloaked in secrets and shadows, leaving you both intrigued and frustrated.

Lost in your thoughts, you were suddenly jolted from your daze by a hand brushing against your lower back. You turned to find Tommy standing there, taking a final drag from his cigarette before extinguishing it in the white glass ashtray before him. He seemed utterly unfazed, his demeanor calm and collected, yet something in his presence made your pulse quicken.

“What happened?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. He looked back at you, his expression stoic and unreadable, as if he had mastered the art of concealing his thoughts.

“So listen, uh, we’re going to dinner at Kimber’s house,” he said casually, tilting his head slightly as if it were the most ordinary of announcements. He glanced down for a moment, avoiding your gaze, which only piqued your interest further. It felt like he was holding something back, a decision made without your involvement.

You leaned in slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of what lay behind his nonchalance. “Why now?” you pressed, your heart racing as you sought answers. The tension in the air felt electric, charged with unspoken questions and unresolved feelings.

Tommy shrugged slightly, his tone indifferent. “It’s business. Nothing more.” His words hung between you, but the way he said them felt like a barrier, keeping you at arm’s length. You searched his face for any hint of vulnerability, but he remained a fortress, unmoved by the weight of the moment.

“He has a place a couple of miles away,” Tommy continued, finally meeting your gaze. But even then, his expression remained unreadable, a mask of stoicism that made your heart race with unease. “I have some business to settle with the accountant first, so you go on ahead with Kimber.”

Your heart sank, the weight of his words pressing down on you. A pit of dread settled in your stomach, quickly igniting into a flare of anger. You never imagined that your best friend—the man you had loved since childhood—would so casually offer you up like this. “You’re not coming? Just going to leave me alone with Kimber?” Your voice wavered, hurt lacing your tone as you held his gaze, desperate for any flicker of empathy.

“Yeah…” Tommy replied, his voice flat, as if he were stating an inevitable fact. “Until I’m done here… Is that alright?” The nonchalance in his tone was like a slap, leaving you feeling even more isolated. It felt as if he was expecting you to accept this without question, casting you into a role you never asked for.

The sting of betrayal cut deep. How could he be so indifferent to your feelings? You had wanted to help him, to stand by his side as he faced whatever darkness loomed ahead. But this? This was not what you envisioned. You fought the urge to lash out, the emotional turmoil boiling just beneath the surface.

Setting your champagne glass down with a sharp clink, you took a steadying breath. “When I said I wanted to help, I didn’t think you would pimp me out…” The words felt heavy, and though you tried to keep your voice calm, the tremor revealed your pain.

“What did you expect?” Tommy sighed, irritation creeping into his tone. The tension radiating from him was almost palpable, a wall he had built that left you feeling small and vulnerable. “You said you wanted to help me. And if you want to help me, you’re going to have to sharpen up.” His jaw clenched, and he briefly glanced at Kimber and his accountant, who were waiting with impatience, their eyes darting between you and Tommy.

In that moment, you felt utterly exposed, torn between your loyalty to Tommy and the bitter realization that he was asking you to sacrifice your self-worth. You had envisioned standing alongside him, fighting the battles he faced, not being thrust into the shadows to play a role that felt so degrading.

As the weight of his words settled over you, the truth began to sink in: this was not just about the night ahead; it was about the trust you thought you had built over the years, now crumbling before your eyes. You stood there, grappling with the ache of betrayal, yearning for the boy who once fought for you, who once saw you as his equal. Instead, you felt like a pawn, pushed away rather than embraced, and the realization twisted deep in your gut.

“The deal is he has two hours with you, he thinks he’s a ladies man, thinks he can seduce you. Whenever you want you can kick him in the balls and be on your merry way, and I can meet you back at the garrison.” Tommy explained but you could feel your emotions on the brink of collapse. “So that’s how it’s going to be?” You asked back your eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation or worry or honestly anything within his features but to your disappointment you couldn’t find anything.

“You wanted to be involved, and you chose to stay. You could have walked out when I told you to, but you didn’t. If you want to help me, you need to understand that sacrifices are necessary.” Tommy’s voice was cold, leaving no room for argument. He turned away, the air thick with unresolved tension as he walked out with Kimber’s accountant, leaving you alone with Kimber, whose gaze felt predatory, making your skin crawl.

In that moment, a wave of despair washed over you. The betrayal stung, sharper than any physical wound. You had poured your heart into him, believing that your love could bridge the gap between your dreams and his ambitions. But now, faced with the stark reality, you felt like a ghost haunting the edges of his life, invisible and unwanted.

You took a shaky breath, trying to gather the fragments of your shattered trust. Each heartbeat echoed the truth: you had been right all along. Tommy had never truly seen you; you were merely a placeholder in his world, eclipsed by his relentless pursuit of success. The realization crushed you, leaving an ache in your chest that felt insurmountable.

As Kimber’s gaze bore into you, a mix of anger and heartache twisted within. You felt abandoned, longing for a connection that had never been reciprocated. The dreams you once cherished felt like distant memories, slipping through your fingers like sand. Maybe, in the end, he really didn’t care about you at all. You were left grappling with the painful truth: the love you had for him was not enough to keep him by your side, and now you were just a shadow of what might have been, lost and alone.

***

The ride to Billy Kimber’s house felt like an eternity, each passing moment stretched thin by his incessant chatter. It took every ounce of restraint in your body to keep your mouth shut, fighting the urge to stuff a sock in his mouth to silence his bragging about his accomplishments and his eagerness to show off his extravagant home.

Regret gnawed at you like a persistent ache. You couldn’t shake the feeling that Tommy had been right all along—that you should have listened to his warnings. The memory of him offering you up so easily stung like a fresh wound. What was he trying to prove? Was this some twisted form of punishment? The questions spiraled in your mind, each “why-” echoing louder than the last, leaving you feeling more lost and frustrated.

“Ever been to a house as big as this, hm?” His obnoxious voice jolted you from your thoughts. You stood by the window, refusing to turn and meet Kimber’s gaze as he approached with a drink in hand. The arrogance in his tone was palpable, and you could almost feel it pressing against your skin, making you consider the absurdity of throwing yourself out of the window just to escape his presence.

Your disinterest was glaringly obvious, yet Kimber, blissfully ignorant, continued to prattle on. “Don’t see why that matters,” you replied, your voice flat and detached, keeping your eyes trained on the scenery outside. Wow, that tree sure looked interesting over there. It was a stark contrast to the chaotic mess of emotions swirling inside you, a welcome distraction from the reality of being trapped in this situation.

The hairs on your neck stood up as you felt his hands on your shoulders instantly flipping you around forcing you to meet his gaze, your heart began to race from your chest, your eyes widening slightly. “I love my women feisty..Especially when they have such a bloody hot body such as yours.” He murmured with a grin on his lips as he grabbed your face in his hands forcing his lips against yours causing a muffled yelp to spill from your lips but you didn’t hesitate to bite down on his bottom lip causing him to pull back with a pained groan holding his lip. “You fucking bit me? You bitch!” He cursed at you completely livid, but you remained rigid in your spot, your gaze piercing at him.

“Yeah? I’m a bitch and your dick is small.” You snarled back but without any warning Billy lunged at you causing you to stumble to the side trying to get away only for your body to be slammed against the pool table feeling sharp pain shoot throughout your lower back as you scrambled to fight this man off of you. “You need to be taught some fucking manners.” He hissed in your ear as he pinned you down against the table with one hand holding your wrists, while the other was pulling up your dress making your stomach sink. “Get the fuck off of me!” You shouted as you continued to squirm before managing to slip your hand out from his grasp and jabbed your fingers into his eyes making him scream out in pain causing him to back off for a moment giving you an opportunity to slip both of your hands out and kicked him in the balls making him double over with a groan.

As swiftly as he released you, your instincts kicked in, urging you to dart toward the door. But just as you lunged forward, it swung open to reveal a breathless Tommy, and you froze, heart pounding in your chest. The shock of his sudden appearance hit you like a jolt, mixing with the adrenaline that surged through your veins, amplifying every sound and sensation. Fear and relief collided within you, leaving you momentarily paralyzed, caught between the urgency of escape and the chaotic swirl of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you.

“What the fuck?! What the fuck are you doing here?! I still have another hour?!” Kimber shouted his face burning red as he glared daggers at you and Tommy, while slowly getting up from the ground, his hand grasping his manhood. “Just wait, and just listen to me..” Tommy spoke with wide eyes, his voice steady yet breathless, betraying the tension in the air. He raised his hand slightly, a cautious gesture meant to signal his intention to diffuse the situation, aware that Kimber might redirect his anger toward him instead. The muscles in his jaw tightened, and a flicker of apprehension crossed his face as he braced himself for the potential storm.

Instinctively you stepped to the side slowly making your way back to the door while simultaneously keeping your eyes on the two men. “I was going to let you go through with it but in the end my conscience got the better of me..” Tommy says slowly putting his hand down now both of his hands resting on his hips, as Kimber stared at him his face still scrunched up into a glare. “She looks good on the outside but.. S-she, she’s ill. Hears voices all the time and.. makes her act like a nut job, that’s why they kicked her out of the brothel.” Tommy pointed at you, and your jaw dropped in disbelief at his outrageous statement. Kimber’s face twisted in shock as he glanced over, his expression a mix of confusion and disgust. “And it doesn’t help that… she also has the claps,” Tommy concluded, throwing that ridiculous cherry on top of his lie. Offended, you felt a flush of anger rising in your chest as Kimber recoiled, avoiding you as if you were a contagious disease, while you stood there, furious and humiliated by the absurdity of it all.

No way Tommy just managed to save your life but insulted you at the same fucking time.

“I saw that you took a shine on her so I thought what the hell? And thought I used her.. Call it my better nature but I just thought you should know.” Tommy added to Kimber before approached you, lightly grabbing your arm as he said, “You go wait in the car.” His tone was authoritative, and you could hear the undercurrent of sternness in his voice. But you turned away sharply, pulling your arm back aggressively, every ounce of frustration boiling over. Without another word, you stormed out of the room, leaving him behind, and didn’t bother to wait for his reaction.

Once outside, you felt the weight of your anger propel you forward, each step away from the house stoking the flames of your fury. Your blood boiled with each stride, your heart pounding fiercely in your chest, almost making you dizzy. You flung yourself into the car, slamming the door with a force that echoed your frustration. The reality of what just transpired crashed over you like a wave, your mind racing to process how everything had unraveled so quickly. The thought of what could’ve happened back there sent a shiver down your spine, and you forced yourself not to dwell on the darker possibilities.

You barely had time to collect your thoughts when you heard the car door open beside you. Tommy slid into the driver’s seat, the tension thick between you. He cleared his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken words, before starting the engine. As he drove toward the gate, the landscape blurred past, and you felt a mix of anger and confusion simmering inside, wishing you could make sense of the chaos that had just unfolded.

*** ***

The drive was enveloped in a thick, tense silence, and your anger simmered just beneath the surface. Finally, unable to contain yourself, you broke the stillness. “I hate you.” The words hung in the air, laced with hurt, as you refused to meet his gaze. Tommy didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his grip on the steering wheel tightening until his knuckles turned white. The silence settled between you like a heavy fog, suffocating and raw.

A deep, shaky exhale escaped your lips as you tried to gather your thoughts. “You know… All I wanted was to be by your side. It’s always been that way since we were kids. And then fucking France happened. I waited four years for you to come back, hoping you would keep your promise.” The memories crashed over you like waves, each one more painful than the last. “And then you return, but the Tommy I knew… he’s gone. Where is the man who would smile and laugh with me? Because the man sitting next to me right now isn’t him.” Your voice trembled, the weight of your emotions rising as you noticed the familiar sights of Small Heath approaching. Each word felt like a release, a desperate plea for the connection you once had, as the distance between you felt impossibly vast.

Another deep breath escaped your lips as tears threatened to spill, but you fought to keep your gaze fixed ahead, feeling the weight of Tommy’s silence pressing down on you. No idea what he was fucking thinking. “You’re not even going to say anything?” you snapped, the bitterness in your voice surprising even yourself. A wry half-smile curled at your lips, a feeble attempt to mask the turmoil inside, while your leg bounced restlessly, dread pooling in your stomach. “First, you offered me up like some whore, and now I’m just a sicko with the claps. And you’re just… silent?”

Finally, you turned to meet Tommy’s gaze, searching desperately for any flicker of emotion, but his eyes were clouded, darkened by an unspoken storm. The silence stretched on, suffocating and heavy, and frustration gnawed at your insides like a persistent ache. You couldn’t decipher his thoughts, and that uncertainty twisted like a knife in your heart, amplifying the sense of betrayal and abandonment that had settled deep within you.

But then again, no response was a response. He wasn’t going to fight for you. As the car glided through the gritty streets of Small Heath, tears finally broke free, spilling down your cheeks. When the vehicle came to a stop in front of your home, a dry chuckle escaped your lips, a bitter sound that barely resembled laughter. “Fine…” you mumbled, the weight of your emotions crashing down as you flung open the car door and stepped out, slamming it behind you with a force that echoed your heartbreak.

“I don’t want to see you again. Don’t expect me to show up at the Garrison or the betting shop. I’m not staying here anymore. I’m done.” Your voice rose, raw and unfiltered, fueled by all the pent-up hurt and anger that had finally spilled over. Each word was a release, allowing your emotions to take control, your heart breaking a little more with every syllable, desperate to escape the pain that had become too much to bear.

When you turned away, you missed the moment Tommy finally looked at you, his gaze heavy with unspoken pain, as if you’d struck a nerve deep within him. Stepping inside your home, the familiar walls felt suffocating, a refuge turned prison. You heard his footsteps marching behind you, each step resonating like a drumbeat of dread, and before you knew it, he was inside, shutting the door with a quiet finality that echoed your own turmoil.

“No, Tommy, get out. I don’t want to fucking see you!” you exclaimed, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and heartbreak. But he stood there, a storm in human form, his bright blue eyes boring into you, exposing every raw nerve beneath your skin. In that moment, you felt completely unguarded, as if all your defenses had crumbled.

“You hate me, eh?” he growled, a rough edge to his voice that twisted something deep inside you. “If I didn’t fucking care about you, I wouldn’t have come back.” His words hung in the air, a paradox that stung like a slap, revealing the vulnerability hidden beneath his bravado.

“Yeah, you came back for a whore with the claps,” you shot back, forcing a bitter laugh that tasted like ash. The sarcasm was a flimsy shield, barely concealing the hurt that welled up inside you. You turned away again, desperate to shield yourself from his gaze, but Tommy was relentless, following you as if he could pull you back from the brink of your own despair.

In that moment, the air between you crackled with unresolved feelings—fear, longing, anger—and you both stood on the edge of something profound and terrifying, unable to escape the truth that bound you together even as it threatened to tear you apart.

“That’s not what I meant!” Tommy shouted after you, his voice raw with a mix of anger and hurt. But you kept walking, seeking refuge in your room, where the walls felt like a fragile barrier against the chaos swirling outside. “After France, I kept myfucking promise. I came back for you!” His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken weight, desperation creeping into his tone. Suddenly, he grabbed your arm, spinning you to face him, but you instinctively whipped around your palm contacting his cheek with a hard slap.

As the palm of your hand met his cheek, a jolt of pain shot through him, and you felt it resonate deep within you. He recoiled slightly, his expression tightening in an instant, caught off guard by the force of your anger. His jaw clenched, the sting of the slap mixing with disbelief, creating a hurricane of emotions that played across his features.

His eyes flickered with a haunting blend of hurt and anger, as if he were grappling with the weight of your action and the emotions it revealed. You could see the shock transforming into something deeper—a realization that this moment marked a fracture in the fragile bond you once shared. The air between you crackled with tension, each heartbeat echoing the unspoken words that hung heavy between you. It was a moment suspended in time, raw and revealing, where both your pain and his collided, leaving an aching silence in its wake.

You couldn’t stop the tears streaming down your cheeks, each drop a testament to the turmoil inside you. Heavy breaths spilled from your lips, your body trembling slightly as the reality of what you had done crashed over you. After everything that had happened today, your instincts were locked in survival mode, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and anger.

“I did what I had to do, and I’m here now… I’m here with you, aren’t I?” Tommy’s voice was a low growl, but it only deepened the chasm between you.

“T-that doesn’t change anything, Tommy,” you shot back, your voice quaking with pain. “Today, you proved to me that everything we’ve been through was all for nothing.” The words felt like knives, your throat tightening with each syllable, the weight of your anguish making it hard to breathe.

“Y-you never cared about me! If you did, you wouldn’t have left me behind—four years ago, and even now with Billy Kimber! If you hadn’t shown up last minute, God knows what could’ve happened!” You shouted, each word laced with raw emotion, your body trembling as the memories flooded back, threatening to drown you.

Your stomach twisted in knots, the hurt and betrayal surging through you like a tidal wave. It felt as if every moment of longing, every ounce of hope had been crushed under the weight of his absence, leaving you feeling utterly exposed and vulnerable. In that moment, the room was charged with unresolved pain, your hearts colliding in a desperate struggle for understanding and connection, even as you felt worlds apart.

Tommy’s jaw tightened, muscles coiling like a spring, his fists clenching so tightly that his knuckles turned white, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. “You think I don’t care about you?” he spat, his eyes ablaze with a fierce mix of anger and hurt, as if your words had struck him at his core. He stepped closer, closing the distance until his face was only inches from yours, the heat radiating between you both almost palpable.

“Do you really think I didn’t care when I saw you at the races? I told you to leave because I needed you to be safe! But you’re so bloody stubborn that you couldn’t take a hint!” His voice was low and intense, each word a jagged edge, revealing just how deeply your actions affected him. “You think I didn’t care when I stopped Kimber from hurting you?!” His tone sharpened, rising with the weight of his frustration, the raw emotion spilling out in waves.

“I care about you! I’ve always cared about you, I never stopped!” He struggled to rein in his voice, the intensity softening slightly as vulnerability flickered across his features. The fire in his eyes began to dim, replaced by a haunting sincerity that made your heart ache. You could see the pain behind his anger, a deep well of feeling that he fought to keep hidden.

In that moment, it felt as if the air around you crackled with unspoken truths, both of you teetering on the brink of something profound. The tension between you was electric, filled with the weight of all the hurt and longing you had both carried, leaving you breathless and trembling, caught in a maelstrom of love and regret.

Your gaze softened as you stared at him incredulously, the silence between you growing heavy and suffocating, pressing down on your chest. He was so close that your head spun, every detail of his face etched in your mind—the fire in his eyes slowly giving way to something more tender, his lips mere inches from yours.

“Then why?” you asked, your voice dropping to a whisper, barely breaking the tense stillness. “Why do you keep me out of things and act so cold towards me?” The question hung in the air, your voice trembling, the weight of your hurt spilling into every word. You sniffled gently, trying to regain control of your ragged breathing.

“Because at the end of the day, you made your choice… I see how you see me. I understand that war changed you, that it was hell for you.” Each revelation felt like a tender wound, exposing the vulnerability you both carried. “I don’t expect you to be the same, but…” You paused, shaking your head in frustration, tears welling up despite your efforts to hold them back. “I can’t be here anymore, not with you. It hurts too much.”

The admission felt like a raw, aching truth. “It’s like no matter how hard I try to reach out to you, you just seem to pull further away from me. Clearly, nothing I do is good enough for you, or maybe I’m just not good enough for you. I don’t know anymore… You don’t need me.” A quiet sob broke free from your lips, the dam of pent-up emotions crashing down around you.

As the tears fell, you felt exposed yet strangely liberated, the weight of your feelings pressing down on you. His gaze softened, and you could see the battle within him—his desire to reach for you, to bridge the distance that had grown between you. You turned your face away, feeling embarrassed, but in that moment, the air between you crackled with a charged intimacy. It was a moment teetering on the edge, where both of you stood vulnerable, hearts laid bare, longing for connection even amidst the pain.

Tommy’s hardened expression softened when he caught the vulnerability in your eyes, a flicker of understanding passing between you. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as if gathering strength, and his voice turned gentle, almost tender. “So you think you’re not what I need?”

He stepped closer, closing the distance that felt like an ocean between you. As he reached out, his hand gently cupped your cheek, drawing your blurry gaze back to his. “Have you ever considered that I don’t care about any of that?” His words wrapped around you like a warm embrace. “If you want to help me or not, I don’t care. As long as I know that you’re here, then I can keep going… alright?”

Now, both of his hands cradled your cheeks, his thumbs brushing softly over your damp skin, each touch igniting a warmth that spread through you. “I see you, love. I see how hard you try.” His gaze held yours, fierce yet tender. “I just don’t want you to see me. I was… I am scared. Scared that what you see in me now might not be what you want anymore.” The honesty in his voice made your heart ache, his vulnerability laid bare before you.

“And when I’m scared… it’s unfamiliar to you, but not for me. You can hate me, but I am not letting you go.” His voice was slightly raspy, thick with emotion, and in that moment, the air felt charged with intimacy. You could feel the weight of his fears intertwining with your own, creating a fragile bond that pulled you closer.

As you stood there, enveloped in his gaze, you realized that despite the chaos and hurt, there was a deep connection between you—one that was worth fighting for. In that shared silence, filled with understanding and longing, it felt as if time stood still, and you both held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, love could still find its way through the cracks.

“Tommy…” you uttered his name shakily, your voice trembling as your mind struggled to process the torrent of emotions his words had unleashed within you. You wanted to believe him, but doubt clawed at your heart. What if he was just manipulating you? What if he was simply taking advantage of your feelings? After everything that had happened today, forgiveness felt like an impossible bridge to cross.

You shook your head slightly in his hands, the gesture filled with a mix of confusion and yearning. Your own hands rested gently on his chest, trying to create some distance, a barrier against the vulnerability that threatened to overwhelm you. “No… Tommy, stop… just stop…” you whispered, the softness of your voice belied by the turmoil roiling inside.

But even as you spoke, you could feel his heart beating steadily against your palm, each thump echoing the unsteady rhythm of your own. It was a tangible reminder of the connection between you, the warmth radiating from him drawing you in despite your reservations. You felt everything—the heat of his skin, the intensity of his gaze, the pulse of his heart under your fingertips—and it both comforted and terrified you.

Tommy shook his head, refusing to accept your response, a fire burning in his eyes. “I won’t stop,” he said hoarsely, stepping even closer, closing the distance until the air between you felt electric. “Not until you understand how goddamn serious I am… The moment you stepped away with Kimber, I knew I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

His hands reached for you, gently gripping your chin and tilting your face to ensure your gaze stayed locked on his. As he spoke, his fingers traced the delicate line of your jaw, sending shivers down your spine. “You’re mine,” he repeated, his voice low and possessive, each word hanging in the air like a promise.

The intensity of his presence surrounded you, his thumb brushing softly across your bottom lip. Your heart skipped a beat, a jolt of electricity coursing through your body at the intimacy of the moment. You could feel the heat radiating from him, wrapping around you like a protective cocoon, and for a heartbeat, the world outside faded away.

In that gaze, you saw something raw and vulnerable, a deep longing that mirrored your own. It was as if he was offering you a glimpse into the depths of his heart, revealing a passion that he had been holding back. You felt the tension between you thickening, a palpable connection that drew you closer despite the walls you had tried to build.

“Tommy…” you breathed, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. The fear and doubt that had clouded your mind began to wane, replaced by the undeniable truth of your feelings. In that moment, you realized that you were standing on the precipice of something transformative, the potential for healing and understanding woven into the very air you shared.

“You belong with me. And I'm not letting you go, understand?” He leaned in closer, so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. “You try to leave, 'll follow you. You try to hide, I'll find you. You try to fight me, I'll pin you down, and make you understand that you're mine.” He says in a low tone making you walk backwards, you can tell that he can sense the change in your exterior, how you were crumbling underneath his gaze, his body pressed against yours now towering over you.

You took a few steps back until your spine pressed firmly against the wall, a quiet gasp escaping as you glanced over your shoulder, then back to him. The traces of tears on your cheeks faded into a faint blush, warmth spreading through you as your heart raced in your chest. The pressure of his body against yours sent your thoughts spinning.

You lifted your gaze, soft and flustered, meeting his eyes just inches away—close enough that your noses brushed, his warm breath grazing your lips. “I…” you stammered, struggling as your mind filled with thoughts of only him. “Do you believe me?” he whispered, his voice low and smooth, each word wrapped in velvet.

The longer you stared at him, the more real it felt—Tommy was letting his guard down with you. This was the closest you’d ever been to him, and for the first time, you could see the vulnerability, worry, and frustration swirling in his striking eyes. You had never seen him like this before. It was as though he finally felt safe with you, like he did all those years ago. “I believe you…” you replied softly, but before you could say another word, he pulled back just a little, his gaze unwavering.

His fingers traced lightly along your jaw, down to your neck, following the curve of your collarbone. You knew he could feel the rhythm of your pulse racing beneath his touch, the steady, primal beat of your heart answering to his presence.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, his voice low and velvet-smooth. He moved closer, pressing himself against you even more firmly, pinning you fully against the wall. His hand slid to your hip, his thumb grazing the soft skin exposed at the top of your dress, sending a shiver through you. Every sense was heightened, your mind hazy, caught in the warmth of his body, the intensity of his voice, and the way he held you right where he wanted you. Love and desire surrounded you completely-you were his, just as he was yours.

Your hands found their way to his biceps, fingers tracing along his muscles as you leaned into him. "Damn you, Tommy..." you muttered, voice soft, half-cursing, half-pleading. "Not letting me go... and you can't just say things like that..." The words escaped you, resistance fading as you surrendered to the moment, feeling yourself sink deeper into him, unable to fight the pull he had over you.

"You're damn right I'm not letting go," he answered, his voice a deep, possessive growl. "Trust me, from the moment I saw you... when we found each other... I knew. You've always been mine, and I don't give up what's mine." The intensity of his words made your fingers tighten around the fabric of his suit, pulling him closer. He leaned in, his lips brushing from your ear down along your jawline. He nipped at your skin, tasting the faint saltiness, before trailing down to the sensitive spot at the base of your neck. A silent gasp escaped you, legs threatening to buckle, but his body pressed firmly against yours kept you steady, pinned against the wall in his unrelenting hold.

The temperature in your body began to rise, overwhelming you with a burning desire for him that you could no longer control. Tommy's lips grazed the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses from the base up to your collarbone. His hands gripped your hips more firmly, pulling you even closer against him, as if he wanted to merge your bodies into one.

Your mind became a haze, thoughts dissipating as your body instinctively moved to close the gap between you. You drew his face from your neck to yours, capturing his lips in a passionate kiss that ignited every nerve in your body. You couldn't hold back your longing; this was everything you had wanted for so long, and there was no turning back now.

Driven by a need for more, you lifted one leg and draped it around his hip, wanting to feel even closer as your body pressed against the wall. Tommy responded immediately, his hands sliding down to your thighs, gripping you tightly before lifting you up. You found yourself completely pinned against the wall, your bodies flush against each other, lost in a moment that felt both electric and timeless.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth and tasting you, drawing a breathless moan from your lips. One of his hands tangled in your hair, holding you captive, while the other gripping your thigh tightly, supporting you as he lifted you effortlessly. Your heart raced in your chest, fluttering with excitement as your kisses grew more feverish, each movement igniting a fire within you.

The sensation of his tongue brushing against yours sent shivers of bliss cascading through you, and you wrapped your arms around his body, pulling him closer. You wrapped your legs completely around his waist, wanting to feel every inch of his warmth invade your being. In that moment, the world around you faded into a beautiful blur; nothing else mattered but him. You could feel the depth of Tommy's devotion, cutting through your lingering doubts and the pain that clouded your mind. He was here, completely present, and that was all you needed.

The sounds of your moans seemed to ignite something deep and primal within Tommy, awakening a possessiveness that made him even more fervent. He deepened the kiss further, his tongue exploring your mouth hungrily, claiming you as his own. His hands roamed across your body, feeling every curve and contour, as if he wanted to make you entirely his.

Another gentle moan escaped your lips, your eyes fluttering closed as heavy breaths tumbled from your trembling form.

When he finally broke the passionate kiss, his lips trailed down your neck once more, leaving a path of hot kisses and gentle bites across your sensitive skin, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through you.

"Tommy..." you whispered his name almost desperately, your fingers tangling in his raven tresses, pulling him closer.

With your free hand, you allowed it to slither between your bodies, driven by an intense need to feel him. You fumbled with his belt, your fingers trembling with anticipation and longing, desperate to bridge the gap between you.

Tommy only grunted against your sensitive flesh, his hips shifting patiently as your fingers fumbled with his belt. You could feel his hips pressing more firmly against yours, sending waves of pleasure coursing between your legs.

"Say you're mine," he urged, his voice hoarse and filled with need, sending shivers down your spine.

"I-I'm.." you struggled to whisper, intoxicated by the intensity of the moment, your body aching with arousal. "I'm yours," you finally breathed out, your words barely a whisper, but filled with conviction. Your lips brushed against the shell of his ear, igniting another wave of desire within him.

With a gentle tug of his hair, you pulled his face back up to yours, pressing your lips hungrily against his. The kiss deepened once more, your bodies melding together as if they were meant to fit. In that moment, nothing else existed; it was just the two of you, lost in the overwhelming need for one another.

A deep groan spilled from Tommy's lips, his need matching yours, a visible shiver coursing through his body that sent your mind spiraling into haziness once more. "You don't know how much I want you," he breathed against your lips, his voice thick with longing.

"You have me..." you replied, breathless and trembling with bliss as you managed to undo his belt between kisses, feeling the heat radiating off him. "I love you, Tommy..." you murmured mindlessly against his lips before pulling back to place gentle kisses in the crook of his neck, savoring the taste of his skin.

At your words, he only growled in response, the sound low and primal. Your soft gasps and moans prompted his hips to jerk forward subconsciously, as if instinctively trying to get closer to you. You whimpered at the sensation of his restrained erection pressing against your clothed, aching core, the friction igniting a fire of desire deep within you. Each movement only fueled his hunger for you, pushing both of you further into this intoxicating moment, caught in a whirlwind of passion and yearning.

You didn't fully comprehend the weight of your confession until you heard his response, the words igniting a fire within you.

:..I love you," he murmured huskily, the admission wrapping around your heart and making it soar in your chest. Suddenly, you felt achingly alive, every nerve ending tingling with exhilaration. Your hands gripped his body once more, the realization of what you had longed for crashing over you like a tidal wave. You could hardly contain the tremors of bliss that coursed through you at the sound of his words; they were all it took to send you spiraling.

His hands tightened around your thighs, pulling you even closer, and you could feel the tautness of his body, driven by unrelenting desire. His breath came in ragged gasps, mirroring the urgency that surged between you. The friction was electrifying, an intense reminder of how much you both craved one another.

"Bed... the bed." you whispered breathlessly against his skin, your voice barely above a gasp as you gestured to the bed behind him. You wanted nothing more than to come undone with him, to surrender to the moment that had finally arrived.

The urgency clawed at you; you couldn't wait any longer.

He captured your lips in a fervent kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth with a low, possessive growl. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly, and you gasped softly against his lips as he carried you to the bed.

Without breaking the kiss, he laid you down gently, his body pressing down over yours.Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close, not wanting an inch of space between you. "I need you, love," he whispered urgently, his voice rough with desire.

"Me too, Tommy, me too.." you breathed, breaking the kiss just long enough for your hands to move with a mind of their own. In a surge of passion, you tore open his white button-up shirt, the buttons scattering as his chest was revealed.

With swift fingers, you slipped off his tie, leaving his muscular form bare before you. Your hands roamed freely over his body, tracing every line and contour, as if trying to memorize him through touch alone. He settled himself between your legs, leaning back slightly as he gazed down at you with an intensity that sent shivers through your core. In that moment, the world felt small, as if it existed solely to witness the depth of this passion.

You watched as his gaze darkened with unrestrained desire, a shiver rippling through him before he leaned back down to claim your lips in a kiss so heated it left you breathless. His tongue explored your mouth, tasting you deeply, and a soft whine escaped you, your eyes fluttering shut as he seemed intent on savoring every part of you.

His hands moved with urgency, stripping away your clothes with a feverish impatience that matched the thrum of your heartbeat. The cool air hit your bare skin, making you shiver as he slid your dress from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor along with the rest of your clothing. Your body, now exposed to him, bore goosebumps that prickled across your skin as his hungry gaze roamed over you.

Breaking the kiss, his mouth began its descent, trailing hot, wet kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and along your shoulder, each touch igniting sparks that seemed to set your skin alight. Unsteady breaths spilled from your parted lips, your body arching instinctively toward him as he continued his worship. Every kiss he left seared into you, sending tendrils of warmth spiraling through your veins. Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping him closer, silently urging him never to stop, to keep grounding you in this moment that felt as eternal as it was fleeting.

When his gaze finally settled on your exposed form, you felt a delicate shiver ripple through you, the intensity of his eyes making your heart pound. He paused for a moment, drinking in the sight, his gaze full of reverence and want. "You are so beautiful," he whispered, his voice rough with desire, each word resonating deep within you. His hands moved tenderly over your body, exploring your curves and tracing every line and dip of your skin, as though committing each detail to memory.

Your own hands roamed over him, gliding from his solid biceps to his strong back, feeling his muscles shift beneath your fingertips. The sensation made your breath hitch, and you couldn't hold back any longer. "Tommy, please... I can't wait," you whimpered, your hips beginning to grind against him, feeling the hardness of his arousal pressing through his unfastened pants. The friction sent a soft moan tumbling from your lips.

"I know, my darling," he murmured, his voice low and rough with restraint as he struggled to keep himself in check. "I want you too... so much." His body trembled, a reflection of his own barely contained desire, and he shifted, pressing his hips against yours with purpose. The hot, intoxicating friction between you sparked a whine from your lips, which only served to fuel his own need, his hands gripping your thighs possessively to pull you closer still.

The intensity grew, each touch, each whisper making the ache in you nearly unbearable. His groan mingled with your soft cries, the sound vibrating between you, creating a rhythm of shared longing and building passion. In that moment, all you knew was him, his touch, his warmth, as you both lost yourselves to the unrelenting pull of each other's desire.

Your breathing grew heavier, each breath a testament to the desperate ache building inside you. Your hands moved instinctively, fumbling to push down the last of his clothing, and as you slid his boxers down, a groan of satisfaction escaped him, low and guttural.

"You want me so bad, don't you?" he murmured, his voice a husky blend of amusement and need, watching you with an intensity that made you shiver. He reached down to help, quickly shedding the last of his clothes until he stood before you, fully exposed.

The sight of him left you breathless— his dick hard and heavy, curving slightly, the tip glistening with anticipation. The sight alone made heat pool low in your belly, a rush of desire that nearly left you dizzy. You bit your lip, feeling a wicked pull, a need to taste him, to finally feel him in your mouth. It only felt wrong to not finally be able to suck on his cock.

Reaching out, you let your fingers trail up his thighs before wrapping your hand gently around him, feeling the weight of him in your palm. You looked up, meeting his darkened gaze as you leaned forward, eager to lose yourself to this shared desire, to feel him completely under your touch.

"Yes, I can't wait... I need you so badly," you breathed, voice barely a whisper as the heat of the moment took hold. Without hesitation, you slipped off your underwear, letting the last barrier between you fall away. Then, in a bold move, you guided him onto his back, your body moving to straddle him as you settled on top, now fully bare and exposed to each other.

"Let me do this first," you whispered, a gleam of mischief in your eyes as you shifted down between his legs. Leaning forward, you let your fingers wrap around his hard length, feeling the weight and warmth of him in your hand. Without another moment's pause, you lowered your mouth to him, tasting him with the first swipe of your tongue against his tip.

A low moan escaped you, savoring the taste of his pre-cum as you took him deeper, your lips enveloping him completely. Every movement was slow, deliberate, as your tongue swirled and caressed, your own desire stoked with every sound that escaped his lips. He shuddered beneath you, his hands finding their way into your hair, gripping gently, as if he, too, was lost in the pleasure of this shared surrender.

Tommy let out a deep, guttural groan, his eyes falling shut as he surrendered to the sensation, his head dropping back onto the pillows with a soft thud. His hand drifted down, fingers tangling into your hair, a gentle but possessive grip that urged you to continue, and the way he tugged at your tresses sent a shiver through you. You could feel him throb between your lips, his reactions only fueling your own desire.

You opened your eyes, glancing up to drink in the sight of him-his chest rising and falling, his face softened in sheer ecstasy. The sound of his groans was music to your ears, a confirmation of just how deeply you were affecting him. It sent another wave of warmth flooding between your thighs, and with renewed fervor, you moved your tongue faster, savoring every reaction, every tremor beneath your touch.

Your free hand drifted over his abdomen, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, then down his thigh, reveling in the heat radiating from his skin. He was completely yours in that moment, and you were determined to make him feel every ounce of your devotion.

With your cheeks hollowed, you took him deeper, slurping him in a greedy rhythm that made a shiver race up his spine. His head tilted forward, his gaze meeting yours, and the sight of him-his jaw tight, his nose flaring, and breaths coming in heavy, uneven bursts-was enough to set your heart racing even faster. Every inch of his expression was carved in pleasure, his features softened yet intense as he succumbed to the sensation.

"Fuck... your mouth feels so good..." he groaned, voice thick with need, fingers tightening in your hair as he held you firmly, yet with a tenderness that only made you sink further into the moment. You parted your jaw a bit more, taking him as deeply as you could, breathing steadily through your nose, feeling him fill you completely. Your tongue traced along his cock, swirling and savoring each inch, each throbbing pulse, until you were wholly intoxicated by his taste and his sounds, eager to drive him to the edge.

His hand reached for yours, his fingers finding and intertwining with yours in a tender gesture that made your stomach flutter. The warmth of his grip grounded you, intensifying the moment as you focused solely on bringing him pleasure. With every soft squeeze of your hand, you could feel how close he was, his body responding in subtle twitches, his breathing growing ragged as he hovered on the brink.

Just when you thought he might let go, he gently tugged your head back, his hand still tangled in your hair. "That's enough, love... I don't want to finish yet," he managed, voice thick with restraint. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves, each breath catching as he struggled to control himself. The way he looked at you-eyes dark and brimming with desire— made your pulse race, knowing that he was holding back, wanting this moment to last, wanting you for longer.

A faint pout graced your lips, your lipstick slightly smudged, glistening from the traces of him left behind. Undeterred, your hand continued its languid strokes along his length, savoring the way he pulsed in your grasp. Each subtle throb drew another low groan from him, his head tilting back, his restraint visibly tested. "Why not?" you murmured, your voice laced with a dazed disappointment. "I want to taste you." The plea hung heavy in the air, and though you could feel the hunger building in him too, his resolve held firm.

"Because," he growled, voice low and tense, "I want to make it last. If you keep going, it'll be over before I want it to be." His hand closed around your wrist, halting your movements with gentle insistence, his grip both a command and a confession of how much he was holding back.

A playful defiance sparked in your eyes as your hand slid to rest on his thigh, your fingers pressing in softly. "Don't act like you don't love watching my lips around your cock, Tommy." The words, a whispered challenge, hung between you, and the way his gaze darkened promised that he'd be making you pay for every teasing word.

Tommy's breath wavered, his resolve faltering under your touch. "Oh, believe me, I do," he replied, voice rough with desire, "but I have other things in mind for tonight."

He released your wrists and sat up, pulling you onto his lap, your thighs straddling his hips. Your heart raced as your bodies pressed together, his hands firm on your waist. The intensity of the moment stole your breath; you were finally here with the man you'd loved for so long. Each glance and touch held the weight of your history, and you could feel it in his grip, the promise of never letting go.

Your arms draped around his neck, foreheads touching as his hands glided down your sides, tracing the delicate curve of your ribs before settling on your hips. He gripped you tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh, igniting a spark of heat that coursed through you. You shifted your hips slightly, feeling the tension build between you, both of your hot breaths mingling in the air as you locked eyes.

Tommy positioned himself at your dripping entrance, his gaze intense and filled with longing. The world around you faded into nothingness, leaving only the two of you in this charged moment. Each heartbeat echoed in your ears, a reminder of how real this was. He was here with you, and you could feel the weight of that truth grounding you, binding you in this passionate embrace.

As if Tommy could sense your racing thoughts, he kissed you again-deeper this time. His tongue swept into your mouth, igniting a soft moan from your lips as waves of bliss coursed through your body. He pulled you closer, your bodies flush against each other, the heat radiating between you making your heart race. You could feel the warmth and firmness of his body pressed against you, and it only intensified your craving for him. Each kiss deepened the connection, each brush of his skin against yours sending sparks of desire spiraling through you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

His hands roamed over your body, each caress possessive and hungry, as if he aimed to explore every inch of your skin, claiming you as his own. "Are you ready, darling?" he murmured against your lips, his voice low and hoarse with need. You broke the kiss but kept your face close to his, breathless with anticipation. "Yes… Tommy, please," you implored, your tone almost a whine. A smirk curled on his lips at your eagerness. "Such a needy thing," he teased lightly before guiding your hips down, causing you to sink onto him with a soft whimper. The sensation of him stretching you filled you with bliss, satisfying that deep ache within. Tommy released a guttural groan, pausing for a moment as you both reveled in the way your bodies molded together, a perfect fit that felt both overwhelming and intoxicating.

"You feel so good.." he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, fingers digging into your hips as he guided your movements. Each thrust made you gasp, your body clenching tightly around him. "Oh, fuck, you're so tight... so wet. Of course your cunt is perfect, just like I imagined." The filthy words spilled from his lips, igniting a fierce blush across your cheeks. Your hands gripped his shoulders, unable to contain how your body responded to him, clamping down with a vice-like grip that sent waves of pleasure coursing through you.

Instinctively, your hips began to rock against his, moans escaping your lips in unsteady bursts, fueled by the urgency of your movements. "O-Oh my god..." you whimpered, breaths heaving as you leaned back slightly, desperately craving more of that delicious friction. Each thrust sent you spiraling deeper into a haze of ecstasy, the world outside fading away until there was only the two of you, lost in the heat of the moment.

"Yes, just like that, love..." Tommy panted, his icy blue eyes wild with desire. "You're doing so well, my darling. Keep going.." His words sent shivers down your spine, and long moans poured from your lips as you felt a familiar tension building in your stomach. Each thrust pushed him deeper, and you knew that if he kept talking to you like this while slamming into your cervix, you were teetering on the edge of bliss.

Tommy leaned back, laying against the bed, yet his hands remained firmly on your hips as you began to bounce against him. Each movement allowed him to sink deeper, and you couldn't help but release a loud cry of pleasure. The echo of wet flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, a beautiful symphony that only heightened your arousal as you coated him in a new layer of wetness. "F-Fucking hell, Tommy.." you sobbed, feeling vulnerable yet exhilarated, riding him relentlessly as you chased that peak. Your nails dug deeper into the flesh of his shoulders, each stroke requiring every ounce of strength left in your trembling legs. "I-I'm close, I'm close," you whimpered, overwhelmed by sensation as his hands gripped your hips tightly, guiding your rhythm and driving you further toward ecstasy.

"That's it," Tommy growled, his gaze locked onto you, reveling in the sight before him. His hands shifted from your hips to your swaying breasts, grasping them tightly and rolling your nipples between his fingers, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through you.

"Let me feel you come for me, love.." he demanded, his voice rough with need as he noticed the struggle on your face. With that, he began to buck his hips upward, fucking you fast and hard, his grip on your breasts unyielding.

Each thrust hit the deepest spots within you, awakening sensations you didn't even know existed.

The way he rubbed against your swollen clit sent you spiraling, causing you to sob louder in bliss, breathless as the air was stolen from your lungs. "Oh fuck! Oh fuck!" you cried out, the tension in your stomach growing unbearable. And just when you thought you couldn't take any more, it snapped, your body tightening around Tommy as your orgasm ripped through you, leaving you trembling and gasping. His low groan resonated in your ears, a testament to the pleasure you both shared in that intoxicating moment.

You felt your mind ascend into an euphoric high, closing your eyes as bliss washed over you. But Tommy wasn't done yet. In an instant, he flipped you over, pinning you beneath him. As he pulled out for a brief moment, a soft moan escaped your lips, your body still sensitive. A primal growl erupted from his throat as he lifted your legs, resting them on his shoulders before slipping back into you. Your body tensed slightly as you slowly began to come down from your high, the overwhelming sensations flooding back.

"T-Tommy..." you called out his name weakly, your eyes fluttering open to gaze up at him. The sight of him above you, driven by raw desire, sent shivers down your spine. Your body was trembling and utterly spent, the last orgasm still lingering in your system like an electric current. Yet, there was a hunger in his eyes, a fierce determination that made your heart race anew.

For Tommy, seeing you so undone, so utterly wrecked, sent a shiver down his spine. "There's more where that came from..." he grunted, determination igniting his every move. He began where he left off, his lips kissing a path down to your calf, igniting a trail of goosebumps in his wake. Then, he slammed his hips back against yours almost ruthlessly, causing your body to bounce against the mattress.

A rush of sensations overwhelmed you— pleasure and pain intertwined, and your back arched in response, cries of ecstasy spilling from your lips. "I know, love, I know... Just a little longer... Fuck.." he breathed out, his voice raw and filled with need as he maintained a relentless rhythm, snapping into you with a ferocity that left you gasping for breath. Each thrust drove you deeper into the haze, making every moment feel electric as you succumbed to the overwhelming intensity of it all.

The new sensation from this angle took Tommy's breath away, driving him to fuck you more roughly and deeply. Your eyes nearly rolled back in your head as you gripped the sheets beneath you, unable to control the screams escaping your lips, your body trembling in response to his relentless pace.

Everything became so intense; the world around you faded away, leaving only the two of you locked in this euphoric struggle. Tommy's free hand gripped your hip tightly, anchoring you in place while the other held your leg, pulling it closer as he thrust into you. Each powerful movement sent waves of pleasure coursing through both your bodies, the heat between you mounting unbearably.

His breath grew ragged, the sound of skin slapping against skin mixing with your cries, creating a primal symphony that echoed throughout the room. You could feel the tension building once more, a sweet, intoxicating pressure coiling within you as Tommy lost himself in the rhythm, driven by the need to take you to the edge and beyond.

The way your body felt against his, the sound of your voice-whimpering and gasping-drove him to the brink of madness. Each thrust made his dick throb inside you, eliciting soft whines from your lips as your body tightened around him. He moved in and out of you with a primal ease, the pleasure building between you. "You've always been so perfect for me," Tommy gasped, his voice raw with need. His movements grew uneven, the urgency mounting as his own release drew near.

His hand, which had been gripping your hip, slithered down between your legs, fingers finding your aching clit. When his thumb began to rub against it, you yelped loudly, your body shuddering in response. The overwhelming sensation was nearly too much to bear, leaving you breathless and begging for more, caught in the intoxicating waves of pleasure he was drawing from you.

"You're going to cum for me again? Fuck... like I said, so fucking perfect. I'm right there with you; l'm gonna cum, love..." Tommy groaned, his hips moving even faster against you. Each thrust sent shocks of pleasure coursing through your body, causing you to sob out once more. Your head spun as the sensations overwhelmed you-his relentless pounding and the rhythmic pressure of his thumb on your clit ignited a fire within you.

"Oh my god! Oh my god, Tommy!" you cried out, feeling your orgasm approach with no warning. It hit you like a wave, crashing over you and leaving you squirming beneath him, but he held you firm, guiding you through the peak of your release. His movements became frantic, breaths turning into labored gasps as he neared his own climax.

Tommy released a guttural growl, his body tensing, every muscle straining as he surrendered to the pleasure. Words escaped him, replaced by raw, primal sounds as he teetered on the edge, both of you lost in the intoxicating rhythm of your connection.

"I'm cumming," he gasped, his voice guttural and raw. "And you're going to fucking take it..." His words sent shivers down your spine, making you whimper weakly. Your mind was so hazed with pleasure that you couldn't muster the strength to respond. With a few more powerful thrusts, Tommy shuddered, finally reaching his climax. He spilled his hot cum inside you with a satisfied groan, igniting a wave of warmth that washed over you. Another soft whimper escaped your lips as you felt the intimate flood within you, your heart racing wildly in your chest. Gently, he placed your legs down before pulling out, leaving you both breathless, bodies entwined in the aftermath of your shared ecstasy.

Tenderly, Tommy laid on top of you, resting his head against your chest, sighing contentedly as if being in your arms was his safe haven. You sweetly ran your fingers through his hair, both of you catching your breath after the intensity of your escapade.

"Did you mean it?" you asked, your voice raspy from the moans that had escaped your lips. Tommy lay still for a moment, tensing slightly, the weight of your question hanging in the air.

"Yes..." he answered quietly, his body gradually melting into yours, bringing a sense of wholeness that enveloped you both. This moment would be etched into your memory, a sacred experience to cherish for the rest of your life.

"I've always loved you..." he added, the sincerity in his voice filling your heart with warmth.

The air around you felt electric, thick with the unspoken bond you shared. You pulled him closer, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, a comforting reminder of his presence.

"Then let's make this real.."

***

It has finally been finished— poured all of my sweat and tears into this. I hope you guys enjoyed this! thank you guys for reading!

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circeyoru · 1 year ago

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Collection of Overlords _ Part 1.5

[Alastor & Other Overlords x Soul Owner of All Overlords!Reader]

Part 1 — Part 1.5 (here) — Part 2 — Part 3 — Part 4 — Part 5 — Part 6 — Part 7 — Part 8 — Part 9 — Part 10 — Part 11 — Part 12 — Part 13 — Part 14 — Part 15 — Part 16 — Epilogue

Okay, I think this needs to be set clear before there are future parts since no one asked about Reader’s/your presence in the show was. While you never made a formal appearance until in Part 1, which is after the battle with Heaven, you were hinted here and there.

Pilot:

The beginning scene where Carmilla opens the curtains, showing Zestial, Zeezi, and Lucifer in the same. Then the scene of the Vees, and Rosie. There are eyes staring at them. Like just eyes

When the clock tower resets the extermination day, eyes opened to eye the new countdown before closing just as fast

During when Vaggie talks about “ancient and destructive evils”, your outline as a puppeteer is shown above all the Overlords

Episode 1: Overture

N/A

Episode 2: Radio Killed the Video Star

Alastor laughs at Sir Pentious that seeking to join the Vees was a terrible decision since their standing as Overlords was rocky and unstable. He taunts that Sir Pentious wouldn’t be able to hold the title as Overlord or fit in, referencing the Collection of Elites

Episode 3: Scrambled Eggs

After Zestial and Alastor were done with their chat like on the show, Zestial remarks that Alastor was very brave to go missing for 7 years but also remarkable that he was still in the Collection as per the mark on his soul

When Overlords are seated, they inspect the others to make sure the group was still intact and without change. Also reporting that there was no sighting or word from you, to their disappointment

After Velvette left, Zeezi laughed that the Vees’ days might be numbered with that attitude, Rosie chuckles and shrugs, saying that it wasn’t their decision or say in the matter

When Whatever It Takes is done, Zestial suggests for Carmilla to contact you on the matter since this was out of her hands. Carmilla sit back down on her chair, holding out a pendant with an eye design on it

The Egg Boiz reported to Alastor that Carmilla was the one to kill the angel and that she may contact someone, telling Alastor that Carmilla might have someone to back her up without knowing that Alastor know who it was implying

The same Egg Boiz didn’t mention you to Sir Pentious and only Carmilla killing an angel

(behind the scenes: you instructed for Carmilla to continue as always and maybe provide help to the hotel if she deemed it worthy)

Episode 4: Masquerade

When Valentino is offering a place for Charlie to star, he mentions how it could make him rich and show his dues to you without specifically mentioning you. Valentino’s a bit condescending when he addresses Charlie because he only sees you to be the one in higher power and rank

Valentino threatens Angel, hinting how he wouldn’t have some weak Princess or contracted soul ruin things for him. Meaning he is aware that he’s on thin ice with your interest and favour. Also implying that Charlie was nothing for him to fear, because he fears your wrath more

Valentino laughs how Charlie has no real power compared to what he faced with, confusing Angel since he has no idea of your involvement in the Overlords’ circle

While Husk was mentioning about his Overlord status, for the first time you’re mentioned, he talks about The Collector. “But when you’re dealing with souls while also being a gambler, the stakes are pretty high. I was warned about that, but when you’re winning, you don’t hear that kinda stuff. In my place, I lose a few hands and it got dangerous that I didn’t even know. When you’re down on your luck, you turn to anything to keep you afloat. Even making deals yourself.”

“What happened?”

“Turns out, I was long abandoned. And I wasn’t in the group anymore when I have that last deal. Like the fallen Overlords before me, I was hunted for being disrespectful and arrogant. Now I’m here.”

Episode 5: Dad Beat Dad

“Big talk for someone who’s also on a leash.”

“I should have torn your soul apart and broadcasted your screams for every other disrespectful wretch who dares to abuse My Liege’s mercy and generousity! You were lucky your former Liege was merciful enough not to let your death happen.”

When Lucifer’s lecturing on Charlie about the hotel, he mentions how it lacks the power and authority needed to make it work. It’s referencing to you teaching Lucifer how to rule as the King of Hell when he first arrived

Episode 6: Welcome to Heaven

N/A

Episode 7: Hello Rosie!

(behind the scenes after Vaggie left, Carmilla grips on the pendant and hopes she did the right thing that wouldn’t disappoint you)

Episode 8: The Show Must Go On

The the Vees celebrate, they explicitly cheer for joy and anticipation that Alastor would be removed from the Collection of Elite while eyes were staring at them without their knowledge, also mentioning how they’d rise in ranks (favour)

Alastor’s breakdown is more centered around the possibility that he knew you were always watching and saw his defeat and shameful retreat, for his actions, he might fall from your interest and favour. He fears he’ll end up like Husk

When the news of the canceled extermination is being broadcasted to all of Hell, your silhouette was shown by a window with eyes closed and a small smile on your face. “Time to check in.”

Note: You can ignore this or not, but I had to at least put this out cause some Overlords' actions are a bit different, namely Alastor's breakdown reason.

Circe Y.

Other Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist:

@aconfusedwonderland @crowleysthings @donustellaron @mistpurpl3 @plutobots @ray-rook

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theother-victoria · 5 months ago

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all hearts as one beneath the sun

SYNOPSIS: before kakavasha dissolves into the nihility, there is one hope he has to let go of. may you meet again in a kinder world and under a warm sun.

CHARACTERS: kakavasha, aventurine, dr ratio, aventurine's family, sunday

TAGS: angst, no comfort, established relationship, mentions of suicide, 4k+ wc

TAGLIST: @mitsvriii, @harque, @hazyue, @gabile18, @khoncore, @moineauz

NOTES: sobbed to "had I not seen the sun" the entire time I was writing this I love making myself cry w my own work

special thanks to @akutasoda, @tragedy-of-commons, and @https-sourlimes for proofreading this! love u all <33

link to the playlist

Aventurine was mildly surprised when he received word that he would be handling the Penacony mission. Why him, of all the Ten Stonehearts? Surely someone more capable such as Opal would be trusted with a mission of this caliber.

He only realized why when he pried further into the details.

Penacony was a death trap. With so many powerful and important people gathered in one place, one wrong move on his part would spell his end.

He chuckles sardonically. Figures. They’re sending their most suicidal employee out for a suicide mission.

As if to rub the situation into his face, he finds out they’re pairing him with Dr. Ratio. What purpose is he supposed to serve, suicide prevention? Too little, too late, in his opinion.

The doctor doesn’t look too thrilled about the fact either. It makes Aventurine feel somewhat better about this whole situation.

“You’d best get your affairs settled before we leave, gambler. The odds that you make it back alive from this mission aren’t as high as you’d hope they’d be.”

“Ooh, well I do like the sound of that.”

A glare sent his way makes Aventurine roll his eyes, but he shuts up anyway. Plans are made and discussed for what role each of them will be playing before it’s time to leave.

“Well then, I look forward to working with you in Penacony, Doctor.”

“Just don’t act like a complete idiot and we’ll be fine.”

The two men head their separate ways. Ratio’s advice to settle his affairs lingers in his mind, though. That means there’s a will he has to sign, assets he has to distribute, funeral arrangements to be made, and more. Of course, most, if not all of it, will be going toward you. You’d be set for the rest of your life, never having to work a day again if you so chose.

He heaves a sigh. Ah, it’s all so tedious. It was all so much easier before you came along. He had no will to worry about. He’d toss caution to the wind every mission and wind up sorely disappointed when he returned, still alive. If he did end up dying, his assets would end up being pawned off and most likely make their way back to the IPC somehow. So what even was the point then?

With all that being said, he didn’t mind putting in all that extra work for your peace of mind and so you’d continue to benefit, even after his death.

Still, the stakes this time around are higher, and he has you to consider now before placing his bets. One wrong move and you’d be left without someone to welcome home. And then there’s the consideration of whether he’d be willing to die when the moment came. Sure, he’d attempted several times before but they’d all failed. Would he be able to take the plunge this time, should the opportunity present itself?

“Hey, Doc?”

Ratio is about to leave, but the uncharacteristic hint of hesitation in his voice makes him stop and look over his shoulder.

“... How can you tell if you’ve lived a life worth living?”

Ratio stares at the blonde in silence in disbelief over what he’s hearing. Aventurine chuckles, trying to dispel the awkwardness that’s settled in the air.

“No answer? Never mind-”

“That answer will vary from person to person. However, if you were to ask me personally…”

The doctor’s ruby eyes flit over Aventurine’s frame, narrowing in contemplation- and perhaps a hint of resignation.

“Ask yourself this question: can you die today without any regrets?”

“Can I die today without any regrets?” Doctor, what were you thinking when you posed that rhetorical question on me? Obviously the answer would be no!

Expensive leather shoes click against stone as Aventurine hurriedly makes his way through the Dreamscape. The weight of having mere hours left to live looms above his head like an anvil, leaving him scrambling to figure out how to cheat death- not for the hope of living to see another day, but so he can carry out his mission.

When confronted with death, even a suicidal man will cling to the urge to live for one reason or another.

He’s hardly paying attention to where he’s going, muttering out half-hearted apologies to those he bumps into as he stumbles through the Dreamscape before he ends up in a secluded area. The kaleidoscopic iridescence in the corners of his vision makes him stumble and he audibly groans when a searing pain flashes through his temples, the Harmony’s brand on his mind assailing him again.

Dammit… am I really at the end of the line now? And before I could do anything meaningful either…

He hears the sound of a… child humming some distance away? That’s strange, there’s no one else here.

“Mister, are you lost too?”

That voice.

He turns around slowly, as if that would change anything. Aventurine’s eyes dart across the boy standing before him, with rags for clothes and scraped knees. The child in front of him is everything he is not- or rather, what he was, but is no longer. Optimistic, with bright shining eyes. Hope still exists for him.

Those eyes. Oh, it’s himself.

Aventurine thinks he’s about to be sick.

“Woah, you have such pretty eyes! Can I call you Mr. Pretty Eyes?”

Aventurine stiffly nods.

“Sure. Call me whatever you want, kid. What’s your name?”

“It’s Kakavasha. Nice to meet you!”

And that’s the final nail in the coffin confirming his suspicions.

Kakavasha looks around nervously.

“I was searching for my family, but I got lost. This place is so much bigger than home… Mister, do you think you could help me find them?”

Aventurine shakily extends a trembling hand out.

“Of course. Lead the way. How about you hold onto my hand so you don’t get lost anymore?

Kakavasha latches onto it and begins wandering around, calling out for his parents and big sister. Every unanswered call feels like a punch to the gut but he has a faint flickering of hope that he’ll be able to see them.

“You really love your family, kid,” remarks Aventurine in an attempt to keep some conversation going.

“Of course! I do!”

Kakavasha pauses in his steps and thinks for a bit, eyes wandering skyward and free hand resting on his chin.

“… Do you have anyone you love, Mr. Pretty Eyes?”

“Yes, I do. Their name is (Name).”

The boy’s eyes light up, sparkling in curiosity.

“Woah, really? What’re they like?”

A light chuckle escapes Aventurine’s lips as he crouches down to Kakavasha’s eye level and ruffles his hair.

“They’re the best thing to have ever happened to me.”

“Wow, they must be a really amazing person for you to say that…”

“They are. They're incredible.”

I don’t deserve them.

He chuckles and stands back up again, hand reaching for Kakavasha’s. The little boy continues to lead the way, until he suddenly stops and turns.

“Would you like to meet my family? They’ve been gone for so long I think they went back home. You can introduce (Name) to them as well!”

Panic wells up inside him. Seeing his family? In this state? After all he’s done? No, he can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. Not under these circumstances!

“Kid, I don’t think-”

“It’s ok if (Name) shows up late. They’re nice people and they’ll understand.”

“No, I-”

“Come on, let’s go! They’re already waiting for us!”

Aventurine feels himself being forcefully pulled under and he instinctively closes his eyes. A blast of hot, sandy air hits him, making him shield himself. When it settles down, he opens his eyes to a familiar sight. Sand stretches as far as the eye can see. There’s minimal vegetation and he can feel the sun beating down on his back already.

Sigonia-IV. He’s returned home.

Kakavasha eagerly tugs on his sleeve.

“This is my home! I know it’s not much, but everyone I know and love is here. I think you’ll like it too.”

Still holding onto Aventurine’s hand, Kakvasha begins running toward the horizon. Aventurine, meanwhile, feels numb all over.

There’s no way this is happening. Is this some sort of cruel prank? What did that chicken-wing boy do this time? But if this is just a cruel prank…

He looks around at the yellow sand stretching as far as the eye can see and the mountains in the distance.

… Then it’s far too realistic. How is this happening? If I filter out the memories of the massacre, then everything is the same as I remembered it.

“We’re almost there!” calls out Kakavasha. “Just a little longer now!”

Three familiar figures stand in front of a tent some distance away and Aventurine feels his heart seize up in his chest. He’s long forgotten their faces, but he instinctively recognizes them.

Mom. Dad. Big Sis.

Kakavasha lets go of his hand and sprints toward his family. He leaps into the arms of his big sister, who spins him around giddily while his mother plants kisses over his face and his father holds his tiny hands.

As he approaches, he realizes they have no faces. Where there are supposed to be eyes, a nose, and a mouth, there is nothing. A blank canvas with dents and ridges where the features are supposed to be greets him and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise up in warning.

The only exception to this is his sister, with her grinning mouth and her long blonde hair billowing in the wind- the only feature he remembers clearly about her. She takes notice of him and tilts her head curiously to the side.

“Kakavasha, did you br▇ng a f▇▇▇d of ▇urs?”

Her voice comes out scratchy and distorted with only a few syllables recognizable. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach when he realizes why.

He can’t remember her voice anymore. Or the voices of his parents, for that matter. He’s forgotten what they look like, and now what they sound like. What’s been forgotten can’t be restored.

“Yeah!” exclaims Kakavasha nestled safely into his sister’s arms now. “Everybody, meet Mr. Pretty Eyes!”

They greet him with friendly waves and scratchy sounds that he thinks are supposed to be words of greeting. He almost chokes on the guilt and regret building up in his throat

“▇▇ look just like ▇▇ Kakavasha over here! ▇▇ ▇▇ ▇▇ ▇▇ his long-lost b▇▇▇▇r or something?”

Aventurine forces out a laugh as the others join in.

If only they knew…

The sun is going down now, and the solar winds that blanket the planet grow harsher. They quickly usher him into the tent, telling him to make himself at home and inviting him to stay for dinner. There’s no way out as far as he can tell, so he obliges.

It’s smaller than he remembers, he thinks as he ducks to avoid hitting his head. There’s a rudimentary kitchen setup in the back that Kakavasha’s mother is tending to as she begins preparing dinner. Kakavasha hops into his sister’s lap and shakes the sand out of his hair and gets it everywhere, to which she lightly scolds him with a tug on his cheek.

He takes a seat on the fraying rug in the center and rubs a brightly-colored teal tassel between his fingers. The sand is already starting to seep into his clothes. He feels grains of it in his shoes and it pools onto his pristine white dress pants. Grains of it are nestled deep into the fur collar of his coat from the harsh solar winds outside that even vigorous shaking won’t dislodge.

Kakavasha’s sister smiles at him. It’s a bit unnerving, just seeing a smiling mouth with no other features.

“So, Mr. ▇▇▇ Eyes, w▇at 's your ▇▇▇ ? At least, I’m a▇▇▇ ming Mr. ▇▇▇ Eyes isn’t yo▇▇ r▇l name.”

“It’s Kaka-”

He swallows hard and kicks himself. He’s not Kakavasha. Not anymore.

“It’s… Aventurine.”

The very act of saying that name makes him feel like he’s betraying his family, stabbing them in the back.

“A▇▇▇▇▇ , huh? What an in▇▇▇ing and pretty name!” remarks his sister. He feels the air rush out his lungs and almost coughs up a sardonic laugh from the sheer irony of it all. First his family, then his language, then his body, and now even his name? Is there anything left that he can truly call his from his culture?

Thunder distantly rumbles overhead. Kakavasha and his sister peek their heads out curiously of the tent. She gasps excitedly and points to the darkening clouds overhead.

“Hear that? ▇▇ sign ▇▇ your birthday is ▇▇▇ ▇!” she exclaims as she holds Kakavasha’s hands in hers.“▇▇▇ ▇▇ excited?”

… His birthday?

Thunder rumbles overhead again and he hears the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the tent.

His birthday. The Kakava Festival.

His heart sinks into his stomach as his family chatters around him. They talk about birthday celebrations and what they’ll do that day, but it’s a muffled mess in his ears. Is it really almost his birthday already? Sigonia-IV followed many beliefs that were independent from the rest of the universe, namely the Aeon belief system, and that also extended to the calendar system. Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly sure what day his birthday was in the Interastral Standard calendar system. He usually just flipped a coin and that was if he even bothered to celebrate, which he hadn’t done in many years.

Aventurine does some quick estimating and realizes that yes, it’s almost his birthday. But how would he celebrate his birthday in this world, where all was good and he still remembered their faces and voices?

Aventurine closes his eyes and thinks. His mother would be overjoyed to know that her beloved son finally has a lover now. She’d make him clean the tent from top to bottom in preparation for your arrival, even though the sand would find its way back inside again within a matter of a few hours. His parents would cook up a feast for your arrival while his sister would pester him to tell more stories about you- as if there were any left that he hadn’t. When the time would come and you’d nervously step through the tent flap with one hand holding his tightly and another clutching some gifts, his mother would rush forward and greet you with a kiss to the cheek, having already accepted you as family. His sister would steal you away from him to dote on you, much to his half-hearted chagrin. His father would tell corny jokes that you’d cringe at, and his mother would teach you recipes that had been passed down for generations, her warm, weathered hands resting atop yours and lovingly guiding your movements in the kitchen.

The five of you, safe, warm, and alive under the sun.

Hours after the rest of his family had gone to sleep, you’d lie side by side outside, watching the stars drift on by. Sigonia-IV is nothing like Pier Point. Free from light and industrial pollution, you’d have a stunning view of the cosmos every night. Twinkling stars shine overhead, so close you could practically pluck them out of the sky. Multicolored clouds of gas and stardust bathe the sky in their shifting hues as he tells you stories that have been passed down from generation to generation with the occasional shooting star passing by. You’d stay like that for hours on end, content to just listen and watch, until you were lulled to sleep by his voice.

It would be cold, as all desert climates are at night, but it was nothing he couldn’t bear with your warmth nestled into his side.

In the spring, or around now, he’d take you to celebrate the Kakava festival under the stars with a roaring bonfire. The festival itself would be a solemn and silent celebration with people murmuring prayers to the Mother Goddess and tossing sacrificial vessels into the fires, but the celebration of his birthday afterward would be loud and joyful. Bonfire sparks would rise up into the sky, carried by the hot solar winds and the rich sounds of his people’s songs. His mother would drape you in turquoise jewelry and gift you traditional clothes that she would’ve spent hours beforehand making by hand, every stitch a labor of love. He’d teach you to dance to the cheers of his family and the familiar tunes he’d hum under his breath. His movements would be fluid and graceful as he spins and twirls you around, while you stumble and flail along. He’d enjoy every second of it- even if you step on his feet the whole time.

He would be kinder in this world, he thinks. He’d still be Kakavasha. Aventurine would be an unknown man to him. He’d wear his heart on his sleeve and his eyes would still have life to them. He’d never have to hide his left hand.

And you’d be happier too. You wouldn’t have to sift through the layers to find the true self underneath the act he puts up. He wouldn’t be so hot and cold- practically love-bombing you one moment and then disappearing without a word for weeks the next. He wouldn’t be a dirty gambler, a two-faced businessman, a disinterested womanizer, cheating scum, an IPC mutt, a corporate bootlicker, a worthless Sigonian slut or who knows what else you’ve heard about him–

In this world, there are no Katicans. The Avigins and his family are still intact. His neck is unmarred and he speaks the Avigin dialect fluently, instead of the halting and choppy cadence that's even worse than that of a child’s. Syrupy, honeyed words spill from his mouth as he teaches you common words and phrases in his mother tongue. Have you eaten yet? How did you sleep? How was your day? I missed you. Mother. Sister. Father. Lover. Goddess. I made you something. I saw this today and thought of you. Be safe. Sweet dreams. Goodnight. I love you. He chuckles when you parrot them back to him haltingly, with your accent mixed in. The notebook you keep with various phrases, their meanings, and their phonetics grows every day. The most worn out page was the one crammed full of declarations of love that sound more akin to poetry as your mastery over the dialect grows. The ink is smeared from how often you’ve run your fingers over them, murmuring them under your breath until you’d committed them to memory. In your arms is the safest I’ll ever be. I’m lucky to call you my lover. I sleep better when I’m with you. I secretly name stars and constellations after you. I’ll kiss the weariness away from your face every night. I pray to Mama Fenge every night for your safety. I imagine her hands and embrace to be as warm as yours, and it reassures me somehow. I’ll miss your warm hands when that day finally comes. Goodnight, I love you.

We’ll be together even in Kakava’s next aurora.

Aventurine jolts forward with a start. His eyes search around frantically, instinctively searching for his family and you, only to be greeted with a familiar sight that isn’t his home. Bright flashing lights, the sound of cars honking and speeding by, muffled pop music playing in the distance, and the sugary scent of SoulGlad greet his senses instead of arid hot wind that howls in his ears and endless seas of sand. You and his family are nowhere to be seen either.

Oh. Right.

The Dreamscape.

His clothes stick to his skin drenched in a cold sweat and his glasses are resting lopsidedly on his face. His whole body is shivering uncontrollably, as if he’s been plunged into ice-cold water without warning. The world is going white before his eyes and all he can hear is the loud thump of his pulse in his ears that suddenly drops. He thinks he’s about to pass out again. This is the end, he thinks. Aventurine leans against the side of a wall again, taking deep, heaving breaths to steady himself and quell the nausea swirling around in his stomach.

When it subsides and he doesn’t feel like he’s on the verge of death (sadly), he sits back up and forces out a laugh in place of a sob. First forcing a religious consecration onto him, then dangling his family in front of his face? How much crueler could the head of the Oak Family get?

His heart sinks and an overwhelmingly bitter feeling engulfs him. It was just a dream all along. A dream within a dream, really. Was he really that desperate for something familiar again?

(And just like that, the mask known as Aventurine is back in place.)

(But he couldn’t even say goodbye or apologize to his family one last time, even if it wasn’t them.)

It was a pleasant dream, he’ll admit. How nice it would be to live in that world forever. But he knew it was a dream because it could never happen, as much as it pained him.

Aventurine hears the voice of Kakavasha drifting along from further up ahead and knows he’s nearing the final leg of his plan. With what little time he has left, he takes pictures with the boy for posterity and buys the child all the treats his eyes rest on for more than a second. Aventurine delights in the way his eyes light up at the first taste before he eagerly digs in for more.

It’s cathartic, in a way.

Before stepping on stage, he looks up at the sky. It’s perpetually nighttime in Clock Studios Theme Park, but he knows the sun is shining elsewhere in the Dreamscape. Is the sun shining where you are back at home? He thinks it’s morning for you. You must still be asleep with the cat cakes curled into your sides, blissfully unaware of the news you’ll wake up to.

Get onstage. Fear not. Never look back.

One last thing to do.

He sends a final text to you.

Aventurine: I love you.

It stays on delivered when he puts his phone away. It’ll be the first thing you see when you wake up, and that’s more than enough for him.

It’s time for the curtain call.

The feeling of Kakavasha’s tiny body in his arms won’t be enough to chase away the grief. Nothing ever will be. But this’ll be the closest he can get.

Aventurine hugs the boy close, squeezing as hard as he can without hurting him. He feels how he’s nothing more than skin and bone beneath the oversized rags. No child should have to be this thin, he thinks, and he’s even more glad he treated Kakavasha to his heart’s content earlier.

This is the end. He gives Kakavasha one last squeeze to imprint this memory into his mind and gets up, waving goodbye over his shoulder all the while.

He never looks back.

In a shower of light, Kakavasha dissolves into the Nihility, and with him, Aventurine’s hopes for the ideal future- the one that you deserved. The Horizon of Existence is finally devoid of all color save for himself and the dark sun beckoning him forward toward the event horizon.

He takes a step forward, and then another. The sound of his footsteps against the surface and liquid splashing echo loudly in the empty space.

The Nihility is beginning to slowly engulf him. He feels it encroaching at the edges of his mind, eating away at his thoughts one by one until nothing remains. A hollow, empty feeling settles into his heart that weighs him down. Aventurine looks down at his hands and realizes the color is beginning to seep from his vision until he, too, would become one with the Nihility. The point of no return beckons to him like a moth to a flame. Nothingness, emptiness, worthlessness. There’s nothing left for him to do.

“Can you die today without any regrets?”

Aventurine finally has an answer to that question. The past is gone and he’s walking toward no future.

Yes. I finally can.

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yoonmetogether · 5 months ago

Text

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, stuffing 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.

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

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.”

“What were you drinking over there?”

“Water.” 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 year at university.” You smirk when both his brows shoot up. “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.

“Then, 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 his 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

<<<previous chapter * next chapter>>>

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

@busanbby-jjk @lixies-favorite-cookie

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lustlovehart · 10 months ago

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Bet It All

Paring: Aventurine x Reader

Summary: [Angst] Being with you is possibly the biggest gamble he’ll ever take. It may also be the only gamble he’ll come to forever mull over as well.

It’s hard to get past Aventurine's barrier, he’s difficult to properly discern. But, the moment you finally do, Aeons does he hate it. Letting you into such a scared part of his heart, he knows just how big of a gamble doing such a thing is.

Even as you assure him of your love for him, in the back of his trembling hand, the one he always keeps securely tucked behind his back, he will always know of the risk he is taking having you so close to him.

“Aventurine, is something wrong? You’ve just been looking at me this whole time…” The sun from the planets hit you in all the right spots, highlighting the way you hug onto the pillow nicely.

Sometimes, he forgets you’re not a pretty chip he gambled, you, in fact, did not come from the casino, but from somewhere far worse.

Reality.

He doesn’t answer your question, only falling back into the mattress and looking at you. Looking at you through brown contacts.

Yet another gamble he took on you. He wonders sometimes, just how long it’ll take till that poker face of his decides to break.

“How long do you plan on keeping that partner of yours in the dark, gambler? It won’t be long before they catch onto your ruse and look at you with hurt instead of reverence.”

The doctor’s right, he knew that before he had even told him. But, a little lie is always found in words, so, let him have this.

“What, are you just gonna keep staring…? Fine… if you’re not gonna talk I'm going back to sleep.” it doesn’t take long before you’ve dozed back into slumber. His finger leans in, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“It’s all or nothing.”

He’s a gambler. They take risks like these to get the jackpot. They bet what they must to get their fortune.

So why is it, that even though he’s wagered everything he can give, he’s scared to give you more of him. He doesn’t want such a high-stakes trade going wrong, and you run away with the bits of his humanity left.

Love is a gamble. So, as he lays there with your body in his, he hopes he’s won something, if not all, just a little.

Risking his life, is so much more bearable than losing his heart. And there’s not much more of that left, so don’t be a loss he must suffer.

The finger that strokes your face is caught between your hand, the color of your pupils peeking through the lids of your eyes.

“I hope you’re willing to tell me what’s wrong now Aventurine.”

A/n: Call me crazy, but Aventurine didn’t strike my fancy until I read this one fic that made my perspective of him change, so this is just a little experiment on how I decide to characterize him in the future

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #vesconcepts #vesperwrites #aventurine x reader #aventurine angst #hsr angst #honkai star rail angst

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 2 months ago

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Royal Flush

Pairing: The Magician! Lee Know x Gambler! Reader

Themes: Smut | Strangers to Friends | Friends to Lovers | Crime Syndicate AU

Wordcount: 6.9K

Playlist: 'Don't Fall For Monsters' - DeathbyRomy

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Use of money (not for its intended purposes - this is filthy y'all.) - Brat taming - Spanking - Use of a mouth gag - Slight hair pulling - Pet names - Unprotected intercourse (Reader is implied to be on the pill).

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

Previous chapter: Gilded Cage - The High Priestess

You hardly remember the first time you played poker.

Your brother had taught you with a deck so old the edges curled, the cards faded soft with time and use. He’d told you the game wasn’t about luck—it was about patience, control, and knowing the people across the table better than they knew themselves. It didn’t matter what you held; it only mattered what they thought you held. You took his lessons to heart and learned how to read a room the way others read a book. And now, years later, poker wasn’t just a skill—it was survival.

But survival was harder these days.

The casinos had shut their doors to you long ago. Once, you’d walked into every brightly lit room with the confidence of a queen, leaving with more money than you had entered with. Too much money. It had taken time for them to notice. They tolerated winners, but not ones who never lost. One by one, the doors closed, their polite refusals hiding the steel of an unspoken blacklist.

So, you’d adapted.

That’s how you found 'The Ante'.

You first heard the name in a hushed conversation between two players who had just taken a beating at an underground tournament. You weren’t supposed to listen, but you always listened. 'The Ante' wasn’t a place you could just find—it found you. An invitation through whispers, a door hidden where no one thought to look. No advertisements, no signs. A secret among secrets.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you arrived the first time. It wasn’t the neon glow of a casino or the seedy, smoky rooms of other illegal parlours you’d played in before. Instead, 'The Ante' was elegant in its secrecy—dark wood, low lighting, an atmosphere thrumming with unspoken rules. There were no bouncers, just men in well-tailored suits who seemed to know everyone’s business without ever asking a question.

And there was money here. More than you’d ever seen in one place. The chips exchanged hands like breathing, fortunes made and lost in a single hand. This was no place for the reckless. The ones who sat at these tables were professionals, players who knew the weight of a gamble when the stakes weren’t just money.

You played. And, as always, you won.

They let you come back.

The more you returned, the more you became a fixture. At first, just another face at the lower tables, but the regulars had started to notice you. Your name wasn’t spoken much, but eyes followed when you played. And then, one night, you were moved to a higher table.

Texas Hold ‘Em. The real game.

It was at that table that you noticed him.

At first, it was subtle—a shadow in your periphery, a presence just beyond your immediate focus. He never sat at your table, not at first, but he was always there. Watching.

The first time you really saw him, it was in a lull between hands, when you let your gaze wander. He was seated at a nearby table, his profile cut sharp against the dim glow of the hanging lamps. Dark hair, sharp nose, a kind of effortless confidence that most men had to cultivate but seemed intrinsic to him. He didn’t fidget, didn’t lounge like the others. He simply existed in the space, quiet but undeniable.

You turned back to your game.

But after that night, you noticed him more. And, more importantly, you saw that he noticed you.

Sometimes, you felt his gaze across the room, a weight just enough to make you aware. Other times, he was seated at your table, playing well enough to blend in but never enough to stand out. He was careful, calculated. And despite yourself, you started to wonder.

Who was he?

The others seemed to know him, at least in the way that they didn’t question his presence. He was greeted with nods, a word here and there, but no one used a name.

It took a while before he spoke to you.

The night was like any other—cards, chips, the steady undercurrent of risk running through the air like a live wire. You had just taken a sizeable pot when you felt the shift. That particular awareness you’d developed when being watched too closely.

And then, he spoke. “You play like you don’t believe in luck.”

His voice was smooth, a casual observation that carried more weight than it should. You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze for the first time up close. He was just as devastating as this, his eyes dark and knowing, as if he already understood the answer to his own statement.

“That’s because I don’t.” You slid your chips into a neat stack. “Luck is a myth losers tell themselves." A slow, amused tilt of his lips. “That so?” You didn’t answer, but his attention didn’t waver.

“Minho.” He offered the name like a card being dealt, effortless and precise.

You knew better than to give yours. Instead, you hummed, tapping your fingers against the table. “You watch people.” He inclined his head slightly. “So do you.”

It wasn’t a question, just a fact. You studied him a moment longer, searching for something, anything that would explain why he had taken an interest in you.

But Minho gave away nothing.

The dealer called for bets, breaking whatever moment had settled between you. Without another word, Minho returned to his game, attention slipping away like smoke.

But he’d spoken to you now.

And something told you this wouldn’t be the last time.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just another face across the table. Another opponent to read, to anticipate, to beat.

But Minho is not just another face.

Despite your best efforts to keep your distance, he manages to slip through the cracks, breaking down your walls brick by brick. He doesn’t push—he doesn’t need to. He simply exists in your space, unshakable, his presence as natural as the cards in your hands. Over months of playing together, of conversations woven between deals and bets, he has become something unexpected.

An almost-friend.

But friendship doesn’t explain the heat that lingers beneath your skin when he’s near. It doesn’t explain how your pulse stutters when he leans in too close, how your mind drifts, unbidden, to the sharp line of his jaw, and how his fingers skim over his chips with lazy precision. The attraction is undeniable, electric.

And yet, you keep it buried. Hidden. Because Minho is too perceptive, too knowing, and the last thing you want is for him to wield that knowledge like a weapon.

So you pretend. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But Minho is not just another face.

“You always count the chips before you touch them.”

It’s an observation, spoken casually one night after you’ve swept another table clean. Minho is leaning back in his chair, elbow resting on the edge of the felt. He’s not playing, just watching.

You glance at him, his expression unreadable. “Everyone counts their chips.”

“Not like you.” He tilts his head, considering. “You count them before you even move. Before the dealer pushes them toward you.”

You don’t reply; just flick a chip between your fingers before adding it to your stack.

“You don’t trust what you can’t see for yourself.”

The statement is so on the nose that it makes your spine go rigid. You force yourself to remain impassive, offering a slow, practised smirk instead. “Trust is expensive.”

Minho just hums, gaze still sharp. “Good thing you can afford it.”

The conversations never last long, but they always leave something behind. A thought, a lingering thread you can’t quite shake. He never asks about your past, your family, or your life outside of The Ante. But his questions always circle close enough to make you feel like he already knows.

“Why do you do it?” Minho asks one night, watching as you shuffle your deck between hands.

You don’t look up. “Why do I do what?”

“Play like you have something to prove.”

Your fingers still on the deck. Just for a second. It’s brief, but Minho catches it. He always catches it.

You shift, sliding a card between your fingers, the smooth surface grounding. “Everyone has something to prove.”

“Not me.” There’s a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

You roll your eyes. “Right. You just gamble for the fun of it.”

“Something like that.” His gaze flickers over you, measured and intent. “Or maybe I just like watching you win.”

Your stomach flips at his statement, but you don’t let it show. You force a scoff, tossing the deck onto the table. “I don’t need an audience.”

Minho leans forward just slightly. “You do when they’re playing against you.”

Damn him. He always does this. Turning things around, finding the cracks you don’t think you’ve left exposed.

Despite yourself, despite every instinct screaming at you to stay focused, you start to crave his presence. Even when he sits at your table. Even when he leans in just a little too close to whisper an observation only meant for you. Even when you start to enjoy the back-and-forth, the sharp-edged banter, he challenges you without ever making you feel like a fool.

Over time, the caution dulls. You don’t let your guard down—not completely—but you let him in. Just a fraction. Just enough.

Minho, for his part, is never pushy. Never overt. But he’s there. And he sees you.

It’s late one night when he finally says something that unsettles you.

The room is quieter than usual, the main crowd already gone, leaving only the most dedicated gamblers still at their tables. You and Minho are alone in one of the back rooms, an unspoken ritual you’ve fallen into—small, casual games just between the two of you. No money exchanged, just cards and conversation.

You deal a hand, watching as he picks up his cards. He doesn’t even glance at them before setting them back down.

“You should walk away.”

Your brow furrows. “From this hand?” You look down at your own cards. “Seems a little premature.”

“Not the hand.” He watches you carefully, his fingers drumming lazily against the felt. “The game.”

Something sharp twists in your chest, but you ignore it. “I don’t run.”

Minho tilts his head. “Not even when it’s the smartest move?”

You exhale through your nose, shaking your head. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“Not everything.” He leans forward just slightly, voice softer now, almost... careful. “Just you.”

Your pulse jumps. Your throat goes dry.

You can’t let him see it.

So you push back. “That’s a dangerous thing to assume.”

Minho just smiles, slow and knowing. “I don’t assume.”

You don’t sleep well that night. You tell yourself it’s because of the game, the risk, and the stakes that grow higher each time you walk through The Ante’s doors. But deep down, you know it’s not just that.

Minho is an enigma, wrapped in charm, strategy, and an unsettling amount of knowledge—knowledge about you.

And that should terrify you. But somehow, it doesn’t.

Not enough to walk away.

The air inside The Ante is thick tonight, buzzing with the usual undercurrent of wealth and risk, but for once, you barely feel it. Your pulse is a heavy beat in your ears, your fingers tingling with an energy that isn’t anticipation—it’s desperation.

The letter had arrived last night.

A final notice from the debt collectors. Bills you and your brother had long forgotten about, payments that had slipped through the cracks while you were busy just trying to stay afloat. And now, the consequences loomed over you. If you didn’t come up with the money soon, you’d lose your home.

So here you are.

The moment you step inside, you search for a table. You don’t want to talk. You don’t want to think. You need to win. You don’t see him at first. But Minho sees you.

You don’t notice the way his gaze sharpens from across the room, or how his usual air of casual observance turns more acute. He leans against the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching as you storm toward the high-stakes tables. Something is wrong. He sees it immediately.

The way your hands twitch at your sides, your shoulders wound too tight. The barely contained agitation in every step, the way you scan the tables with restless energy. Reckless energy.

You aren’t acting like yourself tonight.

Minho moves before he even realises he’s made the decision. He shouldn’t. He should let you play, let you lose, let the game do what it always does to those who lack restraint. But he’s already there, stepping into your path before you can sit down.

“You need to leave.”

You jerk to a stop, looking up at him with wide eyes, caught off guard by his sudden appearance. “Excuse me?”

Minho’s expression is unreadable, but there’s a weight in his gaze that makes something tighten in your stomach. “You’re not thinking straight.”

You scoff, stepping around him, but he moves just as fast, blocking your path again. “Minho, move.”

“No.” His voice is calm, but firm. “Not when you’re like this.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Like what?”

His gaze flicks over you, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way you shift your weight like you’re barely keeping still. “Like you’re about to make a mistake.”

Something inside you snaps. You lean in, voice sharp. “I don’t need you to save me.”

Minho exhales slowly, his jaw flexing. “I know.” His voice lowers, almost too soft to hear. “But you’re not playing to win tonight. You’re playing to survive. And that’s how you lose.”

You don’t have time for this. You push past him before he can say another word, leaving him standing there as you approach the high-stakes table.

Minho watches you go, his lips pressed into a thin line.

At the bar, Jeongin watches him.

He doesn’t speak immediately; he just sips his drink, amusement dancing in his eyes. Then, finally— “That was interesting.”

Minho doesn’t have to turn to know who the voice belongs to. He sighs, bringing his glass to his lips before responding. “Jeongin.”

Jeongin grins, eyes flicking between his friend and where you now sit, already placing your first bet. “You’ve been acting weird lately, you know that?” He hums. “And now I know why.”

Minho finally looks at him, his expression blank. “You don’t know anything.”

Jeongin hums, unconvinced. “You sure about that?” He takes another slow sip, gaze still on you. “Because I know that look. And I know you.”

Minho exhales through his nose, setting his glass down. “She’s reckless tonight.”

Jeongin raises an eyebrow. “And you’re going to help her, aren’t you?”

Minho doesn’t respond.

Instead, he pushes off the bar and walks toward your table.

Jeongin watches, head tilted, studying his friend. He sees the way Minho sits down without hesitation, how his focus never wavers from you. Then, as the game unfolds, he watches something even more intriguing—Minho folding good hands, keeping bad ones, deliberately shifting the game’s momentum in your favour.

Jeongin grins to himself.

Oh, this is interesting indeed.

Finally, after a few hands, he downs the last of his drink and strolls toward the table, sliding into an open seat across from Minho.

Minho’s eyes flick up, sharp, but Jeongin only offers a lazy smile as he places his first bet.

“Let’s up the ante, shall we?”

The game begins.

You settle into your seat, your fingers curling around your chips as you scan the table. Blackjack. A game of precision, of risk, of the perfect balance between patience and impulse.

And you need to win.

Jeongin grins at you from across the table, his posture relaxed, his confidence unchecked. He doesn’t hide it when he’s dealt a good hand. He lets the satisfaction show, each smirk a sharp edge against your concentration.

“Don’t look so tense,” he drawls, stacking his chips neatly. “It’s just a game.”

You ignore him, your focus locked onto the cards. You think through every possible move, every scenario. But you’re too reckless tonight. The desperation humming beneath your skin clouds your logic, making your decisions a second too slow, a little too aggressive. You take unnecessary risks. And Jeongin—sharp, watchful, merciless—takes full advantage.

He capitalises on each mistake you make. With every misstep and every slight overreach, he turns against you.

Minho, silent as ever, watches.

Unlike Jeongin, he plays passively, almost too passively. Folding on hands he could win. Raising bets when he shouldn’t. You notice, your frustration simmering beneath the surface. What the hell is he doing?

But Minho doesn’t react to your irritation. He stays calm, his expression unreadable as he watches Jeongin play you like a violin.

And then Jeongin starts really playing.

“You’re cute when you concentrate.” His voice is light, teasing, but the glint in his eyes is razor-sharp.

You barely flick him a glance. “Shut up and play.”

“Oh, I am playing.” He leans in slightly, his smirk widening. “Just not the way you think.”

Your grip on your cards tightens. Minho shifts slightly in his seat, his jaw ticking.

Jeongin notices and his smirk deepens.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he muses, flipping a card with lazy ease. “You look like you’re about to snap. What’s wrong? Not used to someone getting under your skin?”

You glare at him, but he only chuckles, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Minho clears his throat, his voice quiet but firm. “Jeongin.”

Jeongin lifts a brow, feigning innocence. “What?”

Minho doesn’t respond, but the look he gives Jeongin is dark, edged with something unreadable. Jeongin simply tilts his head, considering him before turning back to you.

“What do you think, princess?” His voice is deliberately slow, drawn out. “Should I go easy on you? Maybe I should let you win a little, build your confidence.”

That’s it. You snap.

Your hands slam down on the table as you lean forward, fury burning in your chest. “What the hell is your problem?”

Jeongin only leans back, completely unbothered. “My problem?” He hums, pretending to think. Then, with an infuriatingly slow smile, he tilts his head. “Do you even know who you’re talking to right now?”

Your breath is coming too fast, your heart hammering against your ribs. You don’t know what’s more frustrating—the fact that you’re losing or how he looks at you like this is all some elaborate game with no real stakes.

He watches you for a moment, then delivers the final blow.

“Maybe you should watch your tone. Might find yourself in real trouble one day, sweetheart.”

You lurch forward, ready to snap back—ready to do something—but before you can, Minho stands.

The chair barely makes a sound as he moves, but the weight of his presence is a full stop to everything. The air changes. Jeongin doesn’t flinch, but he notices.

Minho is calm on the surface, but Jeongin can see it. The barely contained fury just beneath. The tightness in his jaw, the slight curl of his fingers.

Hook. Line. And sinker.

Minho’s voice is low. Dangerous. “Leave. Now.”

Jeongin looks up at him, utterly pleased with himself. "Fine." He shrugs, slow and casual, before reaching for his chips and shoving them across the table toward you.

“I fold.”

You blink.

Your frustration is still sizzling, your breath still unsteady, but the weight of Jeongin’s departure registers before anything else. You’ve won. You should feel relief.

But there’s no time.

Before you can even begin to process, Minho is moving.

He grabs your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, and pulls you up from your seat. “Come with me.”

You yank your arm slightly, trying to pull away. “Minho, what—”

He doesn’t answer. He moves quickly, cutting through the parlour, pulling you behind him with a silent determination that makes your stomach twist.

“Minho, stop—”

He doesn’t. Not until he reaches a private room, shoving the door open and pulling you inside with him.

You whirl around, heart pounding. “What the hell—”

The door clicks shut. The lock turns.

The room is thick with tension, the air sharp as a blade.

Minho turns to look at you, eyes dark, frustration bleeding through every inch of him. His shoulders are tense, his breath unsteady, and you can see it—the barely restrained anger simmering just beneath his skin. And yet, despite all of that, you have the audacity to look angry at him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice cuts through the silence like a lash.

You scoff, your own frustration igniting. “Excuse me?”

Minho steps closer, jaw clenched. “You were reckless out there. Jeongin was eating you alive, and you just—” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “You would have lost everything.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “And what? You think you helped me?” You let out a bitter scoff. “You were throwing hands away, Minho. You were playing like a goddamn idiot.”

“I was trying to keep you from destroying yourself.”

You take a step forward, anger snapping between you. “I don’t need your help. I don’t need anybody’s help.”

Minho lets out a dry, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “And that—” He points at you, his voice rising. “That right there is the fucking problem.”

You freeze, your pulse hammering in your ears.

His voice is rough, edged with something deeper than just frustration. “You are too goddamn proud to ask for help, even when you need it. Even when you know I can help you.” He exhales sharply, his hands flexing at his sides. “Even when I want to help you.”

The words hit you like a strike to the chest, knocking the air from your lungs. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You just stare at him, searching his face, trying to make sense of it. Trying to understand his words and actions for what they truly are.

The air shifts.

Minho just steps closer, crowding your space, his voice quieter now, more controlled.

“What’s going on?”

You swallow, glancing away, but his rough, unyielding fingers suddenly touch your chin. He forces your gaze back to his, and the intensity in his eyes makes your breath hitch.

You want to fight it. You want to keep pretending. But the weight of everything crashes over you all at once—the debt, the fear, the exhaustion of trying so damn hard to keep yourself together.

Your voice comes out small, barely a whisper. “I don’t know what to do.”

Minho’s grip loosens slightly, his expression shifting. The fire in his eyes dims just enough to reveal something softer underneath, something that looks an awful lot like understanding. And care.

And then, his lips twitch into a smirk.

“Well then, angel,” he murmurs, his fingers still resting against your skin. “You’re in luck.”

Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

Minho leans in, his breath brushing against your ear, his voice dropping into something impossibly low, impossibly smooth.

“I can make your problems disappear if I give you the money you need.”

Your breath catches. You pull back slightly, searching his face for any sign that he’s joking. But his expression is unreadable, his gaze locked onto yours with a quiet certainty.

You shake your head, incredulous, the movement obstructed by his hand. “That’s insane. You can’t do that.”

Minho tilts his head, amusement flickering across his face. “Can’t I?”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can say anything, his lips crash into yours.

The world stops.

His mouth is firm, insistent, claiming you with a confidence that leaves you breathless. You don’t have time to think, to process, to even decide whether you want this—because in your heart, you realise you already do.

Maybe in this particular game, folding isn't all that bad.

The moment you finally give in, the world tilts.

Minho’s lips are hot and demanding against yours, stealing the breath from your lungs as you melt into him. There is no hesitation now, no lingering doubt. Just the press of his body against yours, the rough scrape of his hands on your hips, and the undeniable hunger building between you.

The kiss deepens, turning desperate. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans low in his throat as his tongue slides against yours. His hands on your body guide you backwards, and though you don’t know where he’s taking you, you follow. You would follow him anywhere in this moment.

Then, the edge of a desk meets the curve of your ass, halting your movements. Minho presses into you, pinning you against the wood, and the sensation sends heat curling through your belly. Without thinking, you hike one leg up to his hip, pulling him even closer. He responds instantly, grinding against you, letting you feel exactly how much he wants this. Wants you.

A whimper escapes you as his lips leave yours, trailing down your jaw to the curve of your neck. He presses open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin there, his teeth grazing ever so slightly, sending a shiver down your spine. You arch against him, your fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, urging him to stay right there, to never stop.

His grip tightens on your waist, his fingers digging into you even through the fabric of your clothes. Then suddenly—he spins you around.

Your palms slap against the desk, your body caged between the hardwood and the solid heat of Minho’s chest at your back. His hands find your hips again, but this time, his movements are slower, more deliberate. He grinds against you, letting you feel the pressure of his growing cock.

A soft moan slips past your lips before you can stop it. “Minho—”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his lips return to your neck, pressing slow, teasing kisses along your skin as his hands wander—over your hips, your waist, your stomach, your breasts, everywhere but where you need him most.

“You’re always so independent,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. “But look at you now. Falling apart in my hands.”

His words send a shiver down your spine.

“Minho, please—”

He hums, his hands still exploring, still teasing. “You know what’s funny?” He nips at your earlobe, his breath hot. “I want to take care of you. I could take care of you. I have more money than I know what to do with.” His fingers tighten on your waist. “But you don’t let me, do you?”

You gasp as he grinds his hips into you harder, the pressure sending your mind reeling. “I—I don’t need—”

“You don’t need anyone.” He finishes for you, his tone edged with frustration. “Trust me, I know. You keep me at arm’s length, always pulling away before I can get too close.”

His lips move along the curve of your shoulder. “But you don’t see it, do you?” His voice is raw, strained. “How long I’ve been craving you? Desperate for you? Pining for you?”

The confession steals your breath.

Minho has never been this open. Never let his mask slip so completely. And the realization crashes into you with force—you’ve been so wrapped up in your own struggles that you never saw just how deeply Minho has been affected by you.

You open your mouth, but the words don’t come. Instead, your body reacts, arching into him, silently pleading.

“I do,” you finally whisper. “I see you.”

The moment the words leave your lips, Minho stills.

For a second, there’s only silence, only the sound of your ragged breaths mixing together in the charged space between you.

Then—

A deep, satisfied hum. Minho’s lips brush against your ear, his voice rougher, smug, teasing.

“I don’t think you do.”

One of his hands moves to the centre of your back, pressing firmly between your shoulder blades. The pressure is just enough to guide you down, forcing you to bend over the desk.

“But no worries, angel.” His tone drips with promise. “I’ll prove it to you.”

The weight of Minho’s palm between your shoulder blades keeps you steady, your breath shallow as you brace yourself against the desk. The air is thick with heat, tension coiling between you both like a live wire.

His voice is soft but firm as he leans in. “Do you want this?”

You nod, the motion frantic, desperate.

Minho hums lowly, not satisfied. “Say it.”

Your fingers grip the edge of the desk. “I want it.”

A slow, approving sound rumbles from his chest. “Good girl.” He straightens up behind you, the loss of his warmth making you whimper. “Keep holding onto the desk. Don’t let go.”

You obey instantly, tightening your hold. Then, his hands return to your body, skimming down your back, over the curve of your hips and down the back of your thighs before tugging up your skirt. Cool air kisses the exposed skin of your ass, making you shiver.

Minho groans at the sight of you; pliant, waiting, your thong doing absolutely nothing to hide your already glistening flesh from him. His palm trails over your ass, kneading, exploring before his hand travels lower, thumb catching beneath your underwear, gently brushing against your hole. You shift your hips at his actions, goading him to enter. But, he doesn’t. Not yet. His hand moves instead, pulling your underwear down until it pools at your feet.

You hear rustling behind you, but you’re bent too far forward to see what he’s doing. The anticipation is unbearable, your body already wound too tight as you wait for what’s next.

Then—

A sharp slap lands against your ass, the sudden sting making you gasp.

The sound of your own moan surprises you, but before you can process it, Minho’s hand is back, soothing over the place where he struck you. His touch is warm, almost reverent.

Then another slap—harder this time.

You moan again, louder, the pain mixing so deliciously with pleasure that it makes your thighs clench.

Minho is breathing heavily behind you, his voice rough with something darker, something unrestrained. “Will you take my money, angel?” Another slap, sharper, making your whole body jolt. “Will you take what I give you?”

Before you can even form a reply, something lands on the desk beside your head with a soft thud. You blink, dazed, looking at the object—

A neatly wrapped stack of hundred-dollar bills.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Surely he didn’t?

Another rustle of fabric, another stack of cash withdrawn from inside his suit jacket. You don’t even get a moment to prepare before the crisp bills meet your already sore skin with another sharp smack.

You barely have time to process the mortifying, yet utterly filthy realization before another slap lands—Oh yes, he did.

A desperate moan rips from your throat. “Fuck, Minho.”

He chuckles darkly behind you, clearly enjoying this. “That got your attention, didn’t it?”

Your body arches involuntarily, a wanton moan spilling from your lips as the sting sinks into your bones, the ache blooming into something wickedly addicting. You absentmindedly note the moisture leaking from your pussy, your core clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.

Minho notices.

He brings his thumb back to your slit, gathering your juices before pressing inside. The first feeling of having him inside your walls is enough to make you cry out. Minho’s voice is a low, sinful whisper in response. “You want it all, angel?” Another slap, another jolt of pleasure, his thumb plunging deeper in tandem. “You want all my money?”

You nod frantically, your grip tightening on the desk as your legs threaten to give out beneath you.

Minho grunts, clearly just as affected. His movements are rough as he removes his thumb from your core, before you hear him unbuckle his belt and zip open his pants. “I’ll give it to you. I'll give you everything."

He enters you with one swift thrust of his cock, pushing you forward and filling you to the brim.

“Ohhhhhh… Fuck. Yes.” You scream at the sudden, overwhelming sensation as your walls struggle to accommodate the sheer girth of him. The sudden stretch, the overwhelming fullness—it’s too much and not enough all at once. Your fingers claw at the desk, trying to anchor yourself as he groans, his grip on your hips tightening like a vice.

“Fuck, angel.” His voice is rough, ragged, vibrating with barely restrained hunger. “You feel even better than I imagined.”

He gives you no time to adjust, no pause to ease you in. His patience snaps like a frayed wire, and then he’s moving, setting a brutal pace, slamming your hips against the desk with every thrust. The impact sends shudders through your body, pleasure mixing with the delicious sting of the wood biting into your skin.

You can’t stay quiet. The sounds spilling from your lips are loud, uncontrollable, echoing off the walls. You’re vaguely aware of how loud you are, but it’s impossible to care when Minho is fucking you like this—like he owns you, like he’s been starving for you.

Minho, however, is very aware of the noise. He grits his teeth, knowing anyone outside this room could hear you, and he doesn’t want to share. Not when it comes to you. His mind flickers through solutions before the perfect idea strikes him.

With one hand still gripping your waist, he reaches forward, snatching one of the stacks of money he’d used on you earlier. His hand abandons your hip to tighten in your hair instead, pulling you up until your back is flush against his chest. A sharp gasp leaves your lips at the unexpected movement, your scalp tingling from the tension of his grip. His cock moves inside of you at the new angle, brushing against your most sensitive spot.

Minho’s mouth is at your ear in an instant, his voice a mix of dominance and amusement. “You’re too fucking loud, angel. I should’ve expected that.” He nips at your earlobe, releasing your hair so his hand can snake down to rest against your throat. “Open your mouth.”

Your breath stutters, a desperate moan catching in your throat. But you obey, parting your lips without hesitation.

A low chuckle rumbles against your back. “Good girl.”

Then, he slips the folded stack of hundred-dollar bills into your waiting mouth. The paper presses against your tongue, muffling the noises you hadn’t been able to stop. The sheer filthiness of this action sends a fresh wave of arousal crashing through you.

Minho releases your throat, letting you drop forward onto the desk again. The money stays between your lips, soft gasps and muffled cries escaping around it.

“That’s better.” His hands return to your hips, gripping you even harder before he resumes his ruthless pace. “Now I can fuck you properly.”

And he does. Harder, deeper, his pace relentless as he claims you completely. Every thrust of his cock forces the desk to creak beneath you, forces the stack of money to shift between your teeth, forces more desperate moans past your muffled lips. Your hips are starting to bruise, the edge of the desk slamming into you again and again.

Minho is right behind you, chest heaving, hands roaming possessively over your body. He watches the way you tremble beneath him, the way you take every inch of him like you were made for it.

“You like this, don’t you?” His voice is thick with satisfaction. “You love letting me use you. Love my money in your mouth while I fuck you senseless.”

You can only whimper, the sound pitiful and needy, as you nod your head meekly. But it’s enough. Minho groans, his fingers digging into your hips as he picks up the pace again, determined to ruin you completely.

It’s not long until the pleasure reaches an insurmountable high. Minho’s hand snakes between your bodies, his fingers landing on your clit, drawing quick circles over the pulsing nub. You can feel yourself teetering on the edge, so close to orgasm, yet needing something more to completely let go.

Minho notices it, too. His grip tightens, his pace turning almost brutal as he drives you both closer. “Come for me, angel.” His voice is low, commanding, rough with need. “Now.”

The moment his words hit, the coil inside of you snaps.

A shattering cry is ripped from your throat—muffled by the money still between your lips—as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, your orgasm overtaking you. Your body tightens, locks up, then shudders violently as you’re pulled under completely, lost in the overwhelming pleasure of it all.

Minho curses under his breath, his rhythm stuttering as your core clenches around him, dragging him down with you. It doesn’t take him long to follow. His fingers dig bruises into your skin, his breath coming in harsh, uneven pants as he follows, his cock pulsing as he comes inside, his seed painting your walls.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your combined breathing, ragged and uneven, filling the space between you.

Minho slowly withdraws, his hands smoothing over your trembling body as he straightens up, buttoning his trousers with ease. You sag against the desk, boneless, your body still humming from the aftershocks of pleasure, his cum slowly trickling out of you.

Then, gentle hands guide you upward. Minho tugs your underwear back into place, his fingers lingering at your entrance, scooping up some of his release before pushing it gently back inside of you. You gasp at the feeling; he just smirks in response. Then, with slow care, he smooths your skirt back into place before turning you around to face him.

His arms encircle you, drawing you close. The heat of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, feels grounding. You sigh against him, pressing your forehead to his collarbone as his hand drifts up and down your back in soothing strokes. There’s something incredibly intimate about it—more so than your tryst a few minutes ago.

Minho tilts your chin with two fingers, his gaze heavy-lidded but soft. He leans in, kissing you deeply, languidly, as if savouring you. When he finally pulls away, his lips hover just over yours as he murmurs, “You’re mine now, angel.”

It’s not a question; it’s a statement. The possessiveness in his voice should make you tense, should have you pushing back. But you don’t. Instead, a warmth spreads through your chest, curling around your ribs like something safe, something right. You simply nod, eyes hazy, breathless. “Yes.”

Minho smirks, satisfied, before pulling you in closer. Another kiss follows—It’s indulgent, unhurried, as if neither of you wants to let go just yet.

Eventually, he steps back, his fingers tangling with yours as he pulls you toward the door. He doesn’t say a word, and you don’t ask where you’re going. You follow, because something in you trusts that wherever Minho leads, you’ll be okay.

The hallway is quieter than before, the energy of the night simmering down. You pass the high-stakes table where you played Jeongin, but the seats are empty, the chips and money gone. Your brows furrow as you glance at the felt surface. Where did everything go?

Minho doesn’t explain. Instead, he guides you outside, where a sleek black car waits at the curb. A driver stands by, eyes forward, silent.

Minho opens the door for you, motioning for you to get in. You slide onto the cool leather seats, the interior dimly lit by soft ambient lighting. Minho follows, settling beside you before reaching into the door’s side pocket. He pulls out a thick envelope and places it in your lap.

You blink, fingers hesitating before picking it up. The weight of it is substantial. Slowly, you open the flap and peer inside.

A cheque.

Your winnings from the game—and then some. More than enough to cover what you owe, more than enough to keep you afloat.

Your breath catches, but before you can even process the relief of it, something else inside the envelope catches your attention. A card, smooth and matte black with elegant gold lettering.

You pull it out, turning it over.

The Magician.

The air shifts.

You whip your head toward him, your heart pounding, your breath shallow. He watches you, amusement flickering in his eyes as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“You…” The words barely come out. “You’re—”

His smirk is slow, deliberate.

Your stomach twists, your mind reeling. Everything suddenly makes sense—the way he moved through the club like he owned it, the way everyone seemed to know him, the way he always had an edge, always knew things he shouldn’t.

And now, you realise, he’s just claimed you. And you let him.

You’re his white rabbit.

And the game is just beginning.

A/N: Welp, this officially might just be the longest and filthiest thing I have ever written. For those of you who stayed until the end, did you like it? Quick reminder: If you want to be added to the taglist and stay updated, send me a message! 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

Taglist: @hanjisungs-bitch66 - @smartie-pants - @inniesfanblog

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

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