Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You’d first heard his title from a friend. “Friend” by the loosest definition. Jeff just happened to be there on your breaks in the alley. Your seedy, scare-crow framed colleague was tolerable at best, and you were too much of people-pleaser to tell him to fuck off. He liked to smoke cigarettes on his break by the dumpster, and for once, to your surprise, something actually noteworthy had spewed from his constantly flapping jaws. He had told you had managed gather enough money to pay off his loan sharks, his car, and the next five years worth of rent.

Your head tilted towards him. You didn’t know him to be a liar, just annoying. But Jeff was complex, apparently he had the capacity to be both. You rolled your eyes at him, and he unfortunately caught it.

“No, I’m telling the truth!” He spluttered, “And! And I made it all in one night!”

“And who’d you find willing to pay that much for your scrawny ass?” You barked through a disbelieving laugh. And more importantly, what did he do that had someone willing to buy? Sex work was a respectable practice, and you knew the workers themselves didn’t get enough credit, but you weren’t dumb enough to believe that someone actually paid Jeff that much cash for the pleasure of his company.

“I didn’t fuck anybody if that’s what you’re thinking.” He paused, looking down each entry way of the alley. The grey bricks and peeling posters looked even more grimy in early morning. There was no one around, which seemed to be the green light that Jeff was looking for, “I won a game.”

You arch a brow, “Like poker? I didn’t think you had enough to play high stakes.”

“It wasn’t poker, but it was definitely high stakes. The guy who ran it was terrifying. Hideous fucker too,” he spoke. You noticed his hands begin to shake, the dim light of his cancer stick flickering.

“He calls himself, ‘The Dealer’. It was at the General Release club, you know the warehouse they redid?” You nod, inadvertently leaning closer to hear more. You didn’t know the club ran a gambling ring. If it wasn’t poker, you were curious as to what other game they could be playing. Blackjack? Texas hold ‘em?

“We had three rounds each, I signed a waiver, played with the Dealer, and when I won, he gave me a suitcase of hundred dollar bills.”

Your eyebrows rose. This story was beginning to get too specific to be a lie. Was Jeff telling the truth? Who exactly was this “Dealer”?

“I’ll tell you this, sweetheart, if I didn’t win, you wouldn’t see me standing here.” Jeff exhaled a thin stream of smoke. Your lip curled, ignoring his words in favor of fanning your hand aggressively in front of you. The putrid smell of burning tobacco dissipates slightly. Disgusting.

But Jeff’s story made you think. You’d never set eyes on that amount of money in your life. Add what if he was telling the truth? You had your own debts to manage, and the amount was steadily climbing the longer you kept at your degree and stayed in your shitty apartment.

Fuck it.

“Yeah, so you said General Release, right? That’s the club he’s at?” You question. Jeff’s pallid grey eyes looked at you pointedly. For a second, you think you see something darker flash over them. He flicked his hand, the lump of ash at the lit end of his cigarette falls to the damp concrete by your boots.

“Really? You wanna try something like this out?” He looked you up and down, almost in disbelief.

“Well, either I go to the club and find out you lied about this whole thing, or you’re telling the truth, and I end up a couple grand richer.”

“I ain’t no fucking liar, sweetheart. And to prove it, I’ll take you to him myself.” He spit, letting the nub to his cigarette fall to the concrete, his boot heel grinding the fowl smelling cylinder to a crumpled smear.

“In fact, we’ll go tonight. Meet me at Gen-Release’s at 11.”

“Done.”

You could almost see the sweet, sweet green of Benjamin Franklin’s eyes already. What a sucker Jeff was.

…

The bathroom did very little to muffle the pounding bass from several stories below. You were almost tempted to take some of the prescription-grade painkillers someone had left on the sink counter.

Almost.

It wasn’t the dingiest bathroom you’d ever been in, even with the red “AFRAID?” scrawled on the cracked remnants of what was meant to be the mirror.

You gently pushed the exit door open, flooding your ears with the intense, synth music of the club. Jeff stood against the railing, yet another cigarette in his hand, overlooking the club attendees below.

“Good luck, sweetheart. You’re gonna need it.” He grinned, smarmy, like he knew something you didn’t. Jokes on him, the bass was too loud for you to hear what he said anyway.

You took a deep breath. The Dealer was on the inside, that and the suitcase full of bills that was going to change your life. You didn’t care how terrifying Jeff thought he was, you just needed to win the game. How did he phrase it again? Sign the waiver, win the rounds, leave with the cash. Three simple steps, easily done.

You repeated the steps in your head one more time, taking in another breath, and opened the door.

The air smelled faintly of rust and bleach, and brought with it a growing uneasiness in your stomach. Lighting the front of the room were four black lights that framed a green table in perfect symmetry. The table had a singular sheet of paper in the center.

A loud slam had your head jerking to the unlit back of the room. Two massive hands curled on the opposite edge of the table, only slightly visible out of the thick dark of the unlit half of the room.

It was then his head emerged, and the vague uneasiness settled into a chilled horror as you had your first look at the one they call “The Dealer.”

“Please sign the waiver.” His low, rough voice coiled around you, sounding through the thin white spines of his teeth. He was smiling at you. Hysterically, you wondered if that was his resting expression.

He gently pushed the white sheet of paper toward you. You noticed the crisp matching color of his button up sleeve, and the bulging circumference of his arm. He likely had enough strength to strangle you with a single hand. The thought had you sweating.

Your vision blurred as you tried to make out what the waiver said. You could just barely make out the phrase “General Release of Liability” in black ink at the top. Your head began to pound as the words swam like minnows in a murky river. What could this document even say? It was just a card game, you weren’t going to sue him, even if you did end up losing.

He cleared his throat, and your head tilted up from the paper to look at him. He sat with his hands tensed in front of him, expression the same. You were taking too long. He was getting impatient. You just needed to sign it before you choke or he changed his mind about this.

You shakily grabbed the typing apparatus resting beside the paper. Once you heard the device click into place, you typed each letter of your name, feeling the weight of each click as the contract was slowly signed.

His smile almost appeared softer once you handed the paper and the signature apparatus to him, stretching the length of your torso over the table.

It was difficult to tell where he was looking based on the empty black sockets of his eyes, but you could have sworn he stole a brief glance down the front of your loosely fitted top as you leaned forward.

Perhaps your panic was making you delusional. Either way, one step down, two to go.

A sharp buzz at your right alerted you to the small screen connected to the right side of the table. The device looked archaic, but the first and second Roman Numerals and the skull and cross bones symbols displayed upon it signaled that the rounds had begun. The first of the three circles underneath the symbols lighting up confirmed the fact.

You’re tempted to ask him what the skull and cross bones could mean, but the question dies in your throat when you look back and see The Dealer had placed a shotgun on the center of the table where the waiver once was.

An alarmed squeak slips past your lips, which drew his heavy attention. He settled you with a look, and you pray that your trembling went unnoticed. This wasn’t blackjack. This wasn’t Texas hold ‘em. The stakes were your life, and your odds of walking out of here alive were begging to look microscopic.

Damn you and your hubris. How could you have been this stupid?

“One live round. Two blanks,” his low voice states, like gravel being poured into an open grave. He then reached out, picking up the gun, and continuing, “I insert the shells in an unknown order.”

He then sets the gun back on the table, well within your reach. How courteous. It looked like you were going first.

“If you shoot yourself with a blank, you skip my turn,” he explained. Your heart pounds against the embrace of your ribs, and you struggle to keep your breath steady.

“Does that apply for you as well?” you stammered, almost bleating the words like a frightened lamb.

“No,” he answered.

You pick up the gun. It shakes in your unsteady grip as you tilt the muzzle toward your mouth. You pull the trigger, an empty click sounds.

You look at the only other person in the room. The empty sockets where his eyes should be met your eyes, and his Venus flytrap smile remains. You didn’t know why you looked at him for approval, and you quickly drop your gaze.

You pulled the cocking handle and release it quickly. The gun spits out the blue cylindrical shell. You now had a 50/50 chance of winning.

You gave the situation some thought. If you shot him with the remaining blank, it was then his turn to shoot the live round, which he would no doubt aim at you. However, if you turned the gun on yourself, it would still be your turn, and it would allow you to win.

You again place the muzzle close to your mouth. You pull the trigger. In an instant, you remember you failed to consider that the current round might be live.

A thunderous bang rings in your ears before the world goes black. You felt nothing. Not even the lack of feeling in your body caused any alarm. You were detached from anything and everything.

It was almost peaceful until you were yanked back into consciousness. A constant surge of buzzing energy filled your ears. Your eyes flew open when you felt your heart spring to life and your lungs fill up with air. It was like you had been snatched away from death’s gentle hands.

From your position on the floor, you see two defibrillators previously attached to your chest slowly ascend back into the ceiling. Their black wires gradually loosening from being pulled so taunt. Panicked, you tenderly feel around your face with your fingertips, rising shakily to your feet. It was like nothing happened, like no bullet disintegrated the teeth, tissue and grey matter of your head.

An empty click sounded at the other end of the table, signaling The Dealer had just used the blank on himself. He pulled the cocking handle and releases it in equally quick beats. The blank falls onto the table with a faint clink. The round had ended.

“Welcome back.”

“H-How am I alive?” you stammer at him, fingertips still shakily feeling the skin at your lips, where the bullet tore through flesh and gums.

You see him take pause, empty eyes locked at where your hands were. He then directs your attention to the small screen on the right side of the green table. There, the display read ‘The Dealer’ and your name on opposite ends. Underneath your name was a singular lightning bolt. The Dealer still possessed two under his own name.

Only one? Did it take one charge for the defibrillators to reach the voltage required to bring you back to life? What happened when you ran out of charges?

“Three live rounds, two blanks,” he said, interrupting your thought process. Round two had begun while you were distracted. “They enter the chamber in a hidden sequence.”

Distantly, you appreciated how honorable it was knowing that he had the capacity to cheat as he was the one loading the gun, but actively chose not to. The Dealer then set the shotgun back on the table where it awaited your fumbling hands.

He looked at you expectantly, his thumbs resting under the straps of his suspenders. You couldn’t help but notice how they accented the broadness of his shoulders, barely visible in the darkness of where he stood in the room.

You quickly picked up the gun before you could let yourself get distracted. Your life was on the line, where the fuck was your mind at?

Noting the risk of having more live rounds than blanks, you hesitantly point the shotgun at The Dealer. You brace the recoil pad against your shoulder, and aim the barrel in a long line towards him.

You hope he can’t see the hesitancy in your eyes.

When you pull the trigger, a deafening bang sounds from the rifle, and the The Dealer disappeared into the back of the room from the force of the shot. Stunned, you set the shotgun back on the table. You didn’t think it would knock him back that far! Sure, being shot knocked you to the floor, but he was twice your size. Surely he couldn't have been that affected by a single bullet? Did…did you kill him? This infalliable-looking giant of a man?

When he emerges from the dark, his smile had dropped into a menacing maw of spiked teeth as he returned to the edge of the table, seemingly unharmed. A hazy cloud of fright engulfed your mind as you struggled to comprehend what you were looking at. From what little you could see, there was no blood. Not even a scratch. Did the bullet even hit him at all? How was he just standing there?

He doesn’t wait for you to get your bearings as he reached for the gun, and aimed directly at your heaving chest. You looked down the barrel before the world suddenly turns black with a ear-splitting boom. Again, the vast emptiness greets you.

The buzz of the defibrillators were more jarring as you slowly regained consciousness. The steady rhythm of the machines greeting you from your return from death, wrapping you back into the mortal coil.

You grip the edge of the table for dear life as you rose from the floor, finding it impossible for your legs to stop trembling. Did the room seem brighter? Your gaze flitted to the small screen. It looked like you were onto the second stage judging by the glowing white circle underneath the Roman Numeral two.

You’d lost the first round. Two more to go. You could make it up, you could. You just couldn’t lose this time.

Your vision is blurrier that what it was before you died (the second time), but you still managed to make eye contact with The Dealer. The black void of his eyes made it all the more unnerving. He was enjoying himself. He was probably anticipating your fear, your failure. But you weren’t going to give it to him.

A lilting baritone drifts through the ominous points of his jagged smile.

“Let’s make things a little more interesting.” A small box appears from a hidden compartment within the table. You look to him, and see he has one as well. “Two items each,” he spoke, pulling out a magnifying glass and a box of cigarettes from his own box and setting them aside. Just what kind of game was this?

“More items before every load,” he clarified, gesturing to you to pull out your own items.

You looked inside. You pulled out a can of an unfamiliar brand of beer and another box of cigarettes. You grimace. It was the same brand Jeff smoked. You crushed the box in your hand, thinking of the sleazy bastard. He was the reason you were in this mess. Him and his disgusting habit. You set the the crumpled box of cigarettes and the beer can aside.

“One live round. One blank,” he stated, entering them into the chamber. Presumably, in a random order like he said earlier.

“What exactly do the items do?” You asked, proud that your voice remained relatively steady, despite the ever-present current of terror running through you. You didn’t know if the rhythmic thumping was from the intense bass outside or the rapid muscle contractions of your pounding heart.

He appeared genuinely puzzled that you didn’t already know. His expression was almost endearing, if one ignored the circumstances you were currently in.

“There should be instructions on the label,” he said, his gravelly voice making the tension in the room alleviate for a brief second. You weren’t expecting a straight answer. But so far, he had been nothing but honest.

Reaching for the beer can, you willed your nerves to settle, begging for half a second of clarity to make out the print. You tilt the aluminum label around until you read, ‘…rack the shotgun without firing it. The round will end on the last shell.’

You hummed, setting the can back down. The cigarette box gave you precious little information; the packaging’s label was too damaged to tell you anything of note.

Whoopsy.

It wasn’t like it mattered. You weren’t going to be smoking them purely on principle. But the beer can? You had an idea for that one. God only knows how your aim was going to be afterward. You wondered what The Dealer would do if you fired a live round only to miss and hit the wall instead?

Wait. That gave you an idea.

You picked up the shotgun, titling the muzzle to your mouth in what was becoming a familiar dance. You prayed that this worked.

When the empty click sounded, it took every fiber of your being not to sign in relief.

Now, for the plan. You quickly crack open the can of beer, throwing back a swig. The taste was almost decent as the cool liquid slid down your throat, but that might have just been the adrenaline.

You set the now empty can back down, and rack the shotgun, the unused live round falling onto the table with a clink.

You looked smugly up at the Dealer. And if he looked puzzled before, he looked absolutely befuddled now. The tense line of his wide shoulders seem to loosen as he continued to stare.

Let him look all he wants, you had managed to get through the round and not die. And you didn’t even have to shoot him either.

The screen to your right buzzed with static as it loaded the lighting bolts required for the next round. Two for each of you, four total.

The box descended into the table, and reascended once more from its compartment. New items to use, what joy. You pulled out a magnifying glass, and another box of cigarettes. Of-fucking-course.

You look across the table to see what items he had. A pair of hand-cuffs, and a boxcutter. One put you a bit more on edge than the other.

“Two live rounds, two blanks,” you blink as you could almost feel his voice running through you. You’re definitely feeling that can of beer kick in.

There was none in the box to get you out of shooting this time, unfortunately. But you could wait until you won this round to see what you would get next. Manifest that shit.

You reached for the magnifying glass, examining the handle for any instructions. It doesn’t look like there was any.

“It allows you to see what round is in the chamber,” The Dealer helpfully clarified, taking pity on you. The low rumbling of his voice felt like an oncoming thunderstorm. You shivered this time, not entirely from fear.

You set the magnifying glass aside and look in the receiver of the shot gun. A cool blue. Hell yeah.

You weren’t going to bother with the cigarettes, it didn’t matter what they did.

You adjust your grip place the muzzle to your mouth, your lips almost close enough to touch to scratched metal. The Dealer watches, captivated. Though you know what was inside the chamber, you brace yourself anyway, only to hear the sweet empty click as a confirmation.

Knowing the odds of a live round currently in the chamber, you tilt the shotgun, using your other shaking hand to hold the barrel steady, and aim it at the Dealer. You couldn’t take another chance. You didn’t really want to shoot him, but you couldn’t lose. Not in a game like this. This was your last chance. The final round would decide everything if you managed to win this round. If it was two out of three, you needed to get your head-on straight. The alcohol wasn’t really helping.

Another empty click.

Fuck.

No.

It was over. You set the gun down, shaking hands almost dropping it onto the table.

The Dealer stares at you with a steady, unflinching gaze. He had to think you were the most pathetic player that he’d ever played this game with. And he played Jeff prior to this, how awful was that? That you would fall short even by the bar set by your loathsome colleague.

The Dealer leaned forward. In one hand, he held up what appeared to be a hacksaw. You had misidentified the tool as a boxcutter earlier, but the divots of sharp metal gleaming in the light could be mistaken for nothing else. Without warning, he pinned one end of the gun down with one massive arm, and used the other to slice the barrel clean off with one swipe of hand. You’re shaken at the display of inhuman strength, and flinch at the sound of the sawed off half of the gun clattering to the floor.

He aims the shortened barrel down at you, and you don’t know if it’s the alcohol, your delusional ass, or if he genuinely appeared this way, but he almost looks apologetic as he pulled the trigger.

You’re gone before the powerful reverberation of the shot fades into silence.

Chapter Text

A disjointed noise left your mouth as you bleakly blinked awake.

You were groggy. Groggy in a way that felt like you had slept in too long. Why didn’t your alarm go off? Did you mistakenly set the time for p.m. instead of a.m. again? Shit. Your first attempt of getting up was halted by an excess of blankets on top of you.

You typically didn’t sleep with more than two. The thread count of the sheets were also too high to be yours. You definitely weren’t in your apartment. Just where the fuck were you?

“Good to see you’re awake,” a low, familiar voice rumbled close by.

Your head swiveled to view none other that The Dealer sitting on a antique, upholstered, arm chair. His posture was relaxed, open even. This was the most you’d seen of him the entirety of your time together, and that was largely due to the lighting.

He wasn’t quite facing you, but you could see his side profile as he gazed out the window. You were right about those broad shoulders. In addition to his white button up and suspenders, his lower half was clothed in a pair of black trousers and sleek leather brogues that you previously hadn’t been able to see under the green table. He looked like he belonged in another era entirely. And in the the warm light of this new room, you felt less intimidated by him.

He was toying with a silver rhino lighter in one hand, flicking the opening mechanism, watching the tiny flame flicker on and off.

The lit cigarette in his mouth caused smoke to drift into the air in pale, whisper-thin ribbons. You expect to smell the nauseating burning of ash, but there was nothing. Nothing but the cool air of a clean, furnished room.

“Where am I?” you questioned, more than a little surprised to see he was with you.

“Somewhere safe, where we won’t be disturbed,” he rumbled, setting the lighter down in exchange for use of his hand which he used to tap his cigarette against an ornate ash tray. The putrid smell remained fortunately absent, and you took the time to admire his hands.

The large palms, tapering into adept fingers, elegant for their size as he used his index and pointer finger to bring the cigarette up to his mouth, the tendrils of smoke wrapping around his fingers. You looked away before his black, empty eyes could catch you staring.

“How am I alive?” you resisted the urge to touch your face again. Like before, there was no pain. A complete absence. You knew everything was intact, like the prior nights experience didn’t happen. Like he didn’t fire a live round into your terror-stricken face.

“There’s a doctor I hired to take care of the poor saps who can’t figure out the rules of the game within the first round, and I asked them to take care of you,” he rumbled. His voice still ran through your bones, even though you’d slept off the effects of the alcohol. You didn’t know if he equated you to the group who were labeled “poor saps.”

Better ask.

“Is that what you think of me? And is this what happens to those who lose the roulette game?” You asked, carefully keeping your tone level and unwavering, despite the small wave of hurt coasting through your system. You knew you were no high roller, but you thought he had more respect for you than that.

“No. To both of your questions,” he replied, sharp teeth framing the edges of his upturned mouth. You were ashamed of how much of a relief his words were.

He paused to take a drag. You, alarmingly unsubtle, eyed the slow movement of his chest as he inhaled. It was then you noticed a glass of water on the oak bedside table, beaded with condensation. You didn’t hesitate to remove your arm from underneath the covers to take a sip from the glass. It was then your dehydrated ass body took over, and you started downing the cool water like you spent last night in a desert, not even stopping to breathe.

“But I did notice a commonality between you and them,” he said. You stopped drinking to listen to him, taking the glass away from your panting mouth. A small water droplet escaped the corner your lips and slowly trailed down your chin and throat and across your collarbone in a single transparent line. Maybe you were thirstier than than you thought.

He seemed transfixed, eyeing your vulnerable neck. You tried to will the heat away from your face. Maybe he thought you were uncouth with the way you threw back the glass and downed the entirely of it within a few seconds.

After a moment, he blinked quite rapidly, as if trying to shake the image from his head. “The commonality, right. You signed the waiver too quickly to read it completely, which would have explained the rules of the game, and provided several explanations of how to use the items, or at least where to find their written instructions. Did you at least skim it over?”

“No, I was panicking,” you answered truthfully.

“I gathered. You were quite pitiful, like you had wandered into my gaming room by complete mistake,” he chuckled softly, low as a brewing thunderstorm, “I can’t get over the expression you made when I set the gun on the table.”

You scrunched your face, miffed at his amusement of your naïveté.

“It makes me wonder why you decided to play at all? You were such a timid little thing. Normally, the guests all but kick down the door to start,” you tried not to feel warm all over when he called you a “timid little thing,” but when compared to him, you were definitely on the smaller side.

“I’m in debt, and it seemed like an easy way to pay it off. I thought it was going to be a normal card game, and then you pulled out a gun. Needless to say, I was surprised the stakes had escalated so quickly,” you answered him, taking the time to push back the surplus blankets one by one.

He hummed, smiling, as if agreeing with you about the surprising circumstances, “I can see how that would be off-putting. My apologies for starting the game under false pretenses.”

You didn’t expect him to readily apologize for a situation you got yourself into by your own hubris. Besides, you didn’t even finish his game that you signed a contract over. Oh, wait.

“But we didn’t even finish the game. What about the skull and cross bones section?”

His smile dropped at that. He flicked the cigarette in his hand, ashes gently fluttering into the tray. His eyes locked onto yours, and you could feel the weight of his gaze as he slowly stubbed out the cigarette.

“A soft little flower like yourself wouldn’t last a minute in the final stage. There are no defibrillators, and no blood transfusions. So, I took a risk, brought you here, and asked the doctor to fix you up. Though, truth be told, I knew you weren’t going to win the minute you walked into the room,” he admitted.

That was a little jarring to hear.

“And you let me play anyway…?” you questioned, your voice sounding slightly shrill near the end.

He sighed, almost as if the guilt was a heavy, physical weight on the wide expanse of his shoulders.

“I wanted to see how you’d navigate my world. I’d seen all manner of the dispossessed and unfortunate members of humanity stumble to my game table, but never anyone like you. You… intrigued me. Even when you had everything to lose, you seemed hesitant to shoot me,” he said, as if he found your behavior both perplexing and charming.

“Could you blame me? In a game where the stakes were my life, you were still courteous to me, and honored the rules even when it would have given you an advantage to cheat. You were quite the gentlemen.”

You smothered a laugh as his face turned a gentle shade of pink. It looked like he wasn’t expecting to be complimented. He looked touched by your words as he tried to use one massive hand to hide his blush. How precious it looked on his otherwise menacing, striking face.

To spare him his embarrassment, you diverted the conversation.

“But what about the waver I signed? Will skipping the final stage violate that?“

His eyes, or lack thereof, flash, and you could see him ever so slightly shift his head. Your lack of blankets made you feel even more exposed to his discerning gaze. The night-black of his eyes gazed back at you intensely, like you were the only thing in this fine room worth looking at. His smile widened, almost sultry in appearance. He seemed pleased by your question.

“Your concern is…appreciated. I am as beholden to the rules of the waiver as you are, but there’s a way around it. Provided you’re…amicable to it,” he said quietly, the gentle, warm light of the room shifting across his face as he leaned closer to you.

“I am. I know it’s important to you,“ you replied. You prayed you were reading the room correctly. He rose from the chair, still leaning ever so close to you. Your heart fluttered like a living thing within your chest.

“There are certain rules I have to abide by. The contract is as legally binding as it is physically. But like any legal document,” He approached the bed, “there are loopholes.”

His encroachment was encouraged by you spreading your legs as he came closer. You held your breath as his hand trailed along the edge of the bed, skimming over the sheets.

His low voice took on an almost hypnotic quality as he continued, “We can make a deal, an arrangement of sorts, that satisfies the requirements of the contract.”

He hovered above you, one knee resting on the mattress. With his opposite hand supporting his significant weight, he uses the other to gently brush his knuckles against the side of your face.

You leaned back to accommodate him. Your back was flat against the sheets as he leaned down to whisper directly into your ear, “But like all legal contracts, I’ll need your consent before we begin.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “You have it,” you whispered back, suddenly flustered.

With your verbal confirmation, his Venus fly trap smile stretched to reflect his delight.

He used one hand to lift the arch of your back and the other to tease his fingertips past the lower hemline of your top. You granted him permission to further seek the warmth of your skin by helping push the loose cotton up your chest, perching it above your breasts. A part of you wished you’d worn something sexier, like the button-up he had on, just so you could ask him to tear it off you, and watch the buttons scatter across the room.

You doubted he would appreciate you tearing off his shirt, but you had the dexterity to take it off button by button.

You snaked your own hands up his chest, feeling the strength of his large body underneath the white fabric of his dress shirt. His body was seemingly untouched by the countless shells of live rounds that must be fired at him night after night. Through his shirt, you could feel it, beneath the layers of fabric, skin, and sinew. The evidence that he was closer to a living man than the all powerful god you faced last night.

The mad thumping of his heart.

Your incontestable proof that he was equally affected by your touch as you were his. The mere concept was enough for a grin to creep onto your mouth. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

Your hand skated up to gently unbutton his collar. You successfully unbutton the top two fastens, but he startled you with a gentle grasp on your wrist before you could reach the third. His hand encompassed the entirety of the joint and then a portion of your arm as well. Eyes flitting up to his, an unspoken question rested on your lips: did you overstep?

“I’d prefer it if I remained dressed for the evening,” he told you, your wrist still held in his grasp. You readily acquiesced. Whatever he, or his “contract” wanted—or didn’t want—was fine in your book.

“So long as your the one who takes the rest of my clothes off,” you said, free hand tugging the at the edge of your shirt, already half-way off.

“Oh, that will be no hardship, I assure you,” he rumbled, reaching to pull your top off, letting your hand go to pull you up to assist in the process.

Once he had your top is completely off, he lowered you back onto the bed, his large hand still firmly locking you in his hold. There was no brutality in his touch, but it was a very prominent reminder that signed contract or not, you agreed to his ownership of your body on this day. The thought made you throb at the apex of your thighs.

His eyes accompanied the physical caress of his other hand as he gently ran his other hand down your front. He started at your throat, gentle as the morning, a caress that stretched down to your collar bones. It was an appreciation of your form, a build up of anticipation for both of you as he glided across your smooth skin down to your breasts. He fondled your chest with the care of a being with unimaginable strength handled a glass figurine. You suppose the analogy was not too dissimilar.

You inhaled sharply as he thumb brushed across a nipple. The texture of his hand was rough, no doubt from handling that shotgun most every night, but the feeling was heavenly when combined with the gentle care with which he handled you.

Still trapped against the bed with one hand, his other continued to travel. You notice he continuously snapped his gaze to yours every so often, almost as if checking that his actions were met with receptivity.

He undoes the button of your pants, and briefly released his hold on you to pull them down and off of your legs. He set the article aside on the back of chair he previously sat on. A lone spectator to your act.

Notably, he left your underwear as it was. His void-black eyes were intense as they stared at you, like he was drinking in as much as could, as if attempting to memorize your body in a handful of seconds.

The chill at the apex of your thighs indicated your arousal had drenched your panties to the point where it leaked through the fabric.

He continued to stare, almost making you squirm at his attention.

“Is this all for me?” he slyly asked, knowing damn well who it was for.

“Why don’t you take them off and find out?” you said back, giving as good as you got.

He grinned, revealing the full display of his teeth as he gladly obliged you. Your underwear was quickly disposed of via being tossed over one his broad shoulders.

The cool air hitting your pussy was invigorating in the worst way. It served as a reminder that he had yet to touch you where you needed it the most. You could feel your wet sheath flutter as you waited.

Fortunately, he didn’t make you wait long.

You gasped as he physically moved your legs, parting the space wide enough for him to fit in between. He saved you the effort of spreading your legs for him yourself, though one look at your face would know you’re desperate enough for his touch to move any way he liked.

Without warning, he ran a calloused index and middle finger up through your slit, parting your dripping labia. You couldn’t help the pathetic noise that left your throat.

He lifted his hand, spreading his fingers. The soaked digits were connected by glistening tendrils that spanned the space in between his knuckles.

“Oh, babydoll, if I’d known you wanted me this much, I’d have bent you over the table while we were in the gameroom,” he said, voice deep as sin. His words only caused another wave of arousal to drip out of your throbbing pussy.

You clenched around nothing, muscle spasming involuntarily by the ache of desire he’d commanded within you. You didn’t know if you would have entirely rejected him if he’d pinned you to the table and had his way with you the night prior. Your cunt clenched again.

One of his hands rested possessively on one of your thighs, which if you could part any wider in invitation, you would. His tongue, thick as three of your fingers snakes out from his fathomless maw. You can’t help yourself as you stare.

He seemed to take extra care to look at your expression as he licked your essence off his fingers. It looked almost like he was searching for something specific in your face, and it wasn’t the intense depravity you knew you had on full display.

Ah, his teeth.

He was checking to see if you were scared of them. Little did he know, if he grinned at you like he did last night, you think you’d come on the spot. You sought to correct his fears before your pussy decided to drown itself.

“If you don’t eat me out within the next thirty seconds, I’m leaving and violating your contract.”

He barked out a laugh, making his shoulders shake endearingly. You must have surprised him. He quickly recovered, using his hand to tenderly stroke the inside of your naked thigh.

“I’m glad you want this as much as I do, but you can understand why I had to be sure.” He then pointed at his face, most likely gesturing toward his inhuman smile.

“So long as you don’t take a chunk out of me while you’re down there, I’m good.”

“No promises. You’re too sweet for me resist sinking my teeth in,” he said cryptically.

Before you could ask what he meant by that, he startled you by biting the inside of your left thigh, no more than a centimeter away from the divot between your leg and the boiling core of your desire. He didn’t use enough force to draw blood, but there was enough so that you could feel the indentation of his sharp teeth and the warmth of his breath, oh-so-dangerously-close to where you needed him the most. You moaned at the delicious blur between pleasure and pain as he bit you again. He adjusted your leg upwards to reach more of an his unmarked canvas. The stretch sent a wave of want to your core, so strong it would have knocked you over had you been standing.

“Oh! Please, I need your mouth on me. I can’t take this teasing!” you pleaded, trembling. Those teeth and tongue becoming your singular focus.

“Oh? What happened to you leaving and violating my contract? My mouth is on you, little flower. You need to be more specific,” he said, low and devious and pedantic. He generously gave you another bite on the opposite thigh. The tips of his narrow teeth pressed in just a tantalizing touch more. A small lake had pooled underneath you by this point, and it was growing bigger by the second.

Fortunately for both of you, any ounce of pride you felt was abandoned when he offered to sleep with you. You would say, do, or give anything for him to just brush against your swollen clit.

“I want your tongue on my clit, please. Please, I’ll be good. I’ll be so good. I just need you, please!” you begged him in earnest. He obliged, empty eyes gleaming. He appeared hopelessly weak to your begging. You tucked that information away to use in the near future.

Ever so slowly, ducking his head, he ran his heavenly tongue up from your entrance to your throbbing clit. A soft, high moan fled from your open lips. Your head tilted back to the ceiling, eyes fluttering at the attention he lavished on you. You couldn’t help the jerk of your hips upward as he all but began to devour you.

He had all the finesse of a bear eating honey from a beehive, but you were absolutely squirming in ecstasy as he held you down and forced you to take it.

With a single, gigantic hand curled around your hip, a thumb on your stomach, and his wrist on your upper thigh, he had pinned you back in place on the bed. He seemed to enjoy the control he had over your body and pleasure. You, on the other hand, soaked up his attention like a sun-starved flower, enjoying the lack of power in exchange for the endless pleasure he granted you.

Using his other hand, he thumbs your clit repeatedly, circling it, but never quite touching it. Utilizing his tongue, he dove into your opening, lapping up your desire, only for it to be flooded with more as he buried his face and tongue as far in as he could get it.

You bit your lip, choking back down a moan as he interchanged the position of his tongue and fingers. He kept his gaze firmly on you as he gently inserted a finger into your pussy, tonguing at your clit all the while. His unspoken, and unseen consent-check was confirmed by your panting and cries for more. You clenched the sheets in your fists.

In and out, in and out, in a slow, set rhythm. It spoke to his integrity that he knew to take this slow. It also bode well for how big his dick was if the foreplay was this intense.

His tongue mimicked your washing machine by the use of a hot, circular motion on your clit. Your pussy fluttered as he inserted a second finger. If your hips were free, you’d be bucking into his face and hand, chasing your release like an obsession. Alas, you were at his whims. Fortunately for you, his whims were to spread you out like a feast.

“Ungh…yes, fuck!” you breathily cried as he carefully stretched you open. God, his fingers were big. It was one thing to see them as they sawed off the barrels of shot guns and took off articles of your clothing, it was another thing entirely to feel each knuckle as they curled inside you.

“You…you can go harder. I’m not going to break,” you asked, trembling at the feeling of his fingers brushing right up against your g-spot. He brought his head back from between your thighs to grin devilishly at you.

“You won’t break, no. But I will make you fall apart,” he said, diving back in again.

He didn’t give you the chance to comprehend what he had said before he proceeded to finger you harder, drilling the digits into your core. The stretch was utterly intoxicating. His rapid fire pace was made easier by the liquid desire streaming out of you and smearing across your thighs. A wet squelching noise sounding every time he sunk his fingers back into your gushing cunt. In and out. In and out. Inandoutinandoutinandout.

“Fuck—fuck—! Oh! I’m gonna come!” you whine, arching your back as much as you could with his hand actively forcing you against the bed.

His pursuit of your release is relentless. His tongue, not willing to be a mere spectator to your orgasm, was pressed flat against your clit as he drug it back and forth across the engorged little bundle of nerves. You came with a shout, digging your nails into the sheets as he eased you down from your orgasmic high with lighter strokes, softer movements.

“Oh…” you crooned as he pulled his fingers out. Fuck, that was good. You were almost sorry you came too fast, but there was no way for you to halt that oncoming wave when he was the one manipulating your body.

He eyed the visible movement of your chest as you caught your breath. There was still that gleam of desire present, but he kept his hands to areas where his strokes would be more comforting than arousing.

However, that bulge in his pants told you that he still wanted you, but was respectful enough to wait.

“Would you like have another drink before you recuperate?” he asked, whisper soft. He gestured to your glass of water on the bedside table. The one you drank out of earlier. It was sweet of him to offer, but you were a different kind of thirsty.

“What, too tired to actually fuck me?” you goaded him, leaning up to inch closer to his face.

He paused as he stroked down on your lower leg. He opened his mouth, only to close it again, wary of his teeth. He didn’t seem to expect that answer from you. You were almost equally surprised you had managed to catch him off guard.

“I…I was going to wait until you had rested.”

“I’ll rest after you bounce me on that throbbing cock,” it looked particular delicious straining at the seams of his black trousers.

“Fuck,” he said, immediately unbuttoning his pants. He didn’t take them off, but frantically pulled the zipper down enough to free the blood-engorged organ.

You were right about it’s size. It was proportionate to the rest of him, large and somewhat menacing. But you had no doubt he would be good with it. With you.

You eyed the long vein that ran up the on the underside length of him. A drop of precum had dripped from the opening at the tip. He ran an aggressive hand up and down his cock, smearing the droplet.

With his other hand, he shoved you back into the bed, brutish, if yet painlessly. It was more of a reminder that he called the shots, and you could feel your hunger for him making you clench. Let him do what he wanted with you.

Almost as if he heard the depraved thought, he does exactly as such. He stops stroking his cock, setting his attention back to you.

Quick as a rattlesnake, both of his gigantic hands reached for your hips. He had a powerful vice grip, almost like he couldn’t help himself. You could feel the indentation of each finger pressing into your soft skin. It wasn’t painful, but intense. Like an amplifier to the sensation of being in his presence.

He aligns himself with your entrance. Your throbbing pussy all but silently begging him to enter. He does so carefully, a tender inch at a time, groaning low in his throat all the while. You brace at the stretch, feeling tiny pinpricks of pain as your body adjusted to accommodate him. You were endlessly grateful for the foreplay beforehand.

The pressure felt all consuming, but the further he went inside you, and the more he waited, the better it felt. You appreciated his patience, and approved of him waiting for your signals to continue.

It wasn’t until your sopping pussy had consumed all of him, that what little pain there was began to melt away, the stretch of him inside you transforming into a pleasant ache instead. He still had that powerful, unwavering grip on your hips.

When the hilt of his dick grinded against your clit, you gave him a sharp inhale in return. He then he maneuvered you into a position to his liking, and you couldn’t choke back the moan that erupted as you could feel his cock move within you. God, you didn’t think you’d like getting manhandled this much, but he adjusted you like you were a little doll he owned just to fuck with.

He eased in again, slightly rougher than you anticipated. You moaned your approval, the wet slick of your pussy clenching around him accompanied your high-pitched sounds.

He pulled out again, just barely leaving the head in. Your spine curled as he slid in again, using the momentum of your hips to slam viciously hard inside, setting every nerve in your body alight when the hilt of his cock reached your clit.

He dragged himself out of you again, sinfully slow like he was savoring the feeling of your slippery cleft mournfully trying to squeeze him back in again, back where he knows he belongs. He rectified this by slamming back in with impressive force, harder than before.

“Oh, fuck!” you whimper as the wet slide of his cock hit just where you needed it to.

He pumped in again, keeping the same rough severity in his movements as before. It struck you that he was testing how rough he could be for you to find the best pace.

“Yes, like that! Oh!” you cried out as he mercilessly used your greedy hole. He was pumping in and out of you like his entire goal in life was to feel you squeeze his cock.

The head of him slid back into your entrance, and your walls greedily clenched around him, like they could prevent him from ever leaving. He himself groaning at your own strangle-hold you had on him.

“You take me so well,” he said, panting. His voice was as sultry as you had ever heard it. “If you’re not careful, I’ll get too attached to let you go.”

You might have laughed in between his savage thrusts if you weren’t moaning your head off. You could’ve said the same thing about him. You think his dick might have ruined you for all others in the span of less than an hour.

“I’m getting close, where—fuck!—where do you want me to come?” he asked, his deep voice rattled as both of your releases encroached at an alarming rate.

You thought about him stuffing you to the brim with cum, having it leak out of you drip by drip. The one logical brain cell left in your head bristled, the very non-human entity fucking you may still possess the capacity to knock you up. You conceded to it, barely. Only because having him cum all over your pussy and stomach in hot, white streams would be almost equally as erotic.

“O-on the outside, on my stomach,” you moaned as he slammed back in particularly hard, “I want to see it. Please let me see you cum. Oh!”

He obliged you by pumping back and forth inside a few more times, before his cock left you completely. You almost cried out as the emptiness overwhelmed you, but he didn’t leave you wanting for long.

You jolted as your pleasure receptors were nearly whited out by the feeling of one of his gigantic hands roughly handling your clit, massaging you until you were a shaking and screaming mess as your rapture overtook you. Using his other hand, he stroked himself to completion, groaning your name as he came all over your stomach. His hot release dripped down across your pussy, you exhaled at the interesting temperature difference.

The afterglow was divine, the remnants of pleasure seeping into your bones as you laid against the soft sheets.

He gently lowered himself onto the bed beside of you, equally as worn out as you were. He ran a hand over his brows, removing the perspiration as best he could. You took pride in knowing you had rendered this proud, terrifying entity from the roulette table to an exhausted, fucked-out being lying beside of you.

You sat up to have a better look at him, leaning against on of the decorative pillows he had propped up on the bed.

“You know, am I ever glad we found a different way to complete your contract,” you said, out of breath.

“Oh, my darling girl,” he chuckled, charmed, “you think that is what finalized the contract?”

Chapter Text

He thought you were ready.

And as you took yet another four second inhale, held your breath, and exhaled for an additional four seconds, you agreed with him.

And so here you were, fulfilling the additional contractual obligations of the night you and The Dealer shared together.

You were pleasantly surprised to find that he wanted to keep you around. Though the passionate night shared between the two of you bared repeating, many times over. The actual contract you agreed to looked more and more like a recruitment form the longer he explained it to you.

So here you were. In the dim light of the room where you two had first met, standing at the edge of a green table, ominously hidden by the shadows. A lone sheet of paper rested atop the table. You’ve memorized the entire document at this point.

He had taught you all the mechanisms of the ancient looking machinery placed in haphazard manner about the room; which ones played a role in the game, and which ones were for mere ambiance. He taught you how to summon the doctor when it came to the more inept guests that wandered in. He even taught you how to shake off being shot like it was minor inconvenience, though that one took a lot longer than you’re willing to admit.

You weren’t the only one doing this, no. You and The Dealer both took equal turns leading the gameroom, and at the end of the night, you both went home together and fucked like every morning was going to be your last.

He had a more gentle disposition than you would have ever thought possible.

Your thought process is interrupted by the door being kicked open. Your most recent guests really do seem to favor kicking it instead of pushing it open, like someone with an iota of decorum. It’s especially bad when you can tell they are minors. Those who cannot sign legally-binding agreements are prohibited from the roulette table.

Fortunately, your first guest is no minor.

You wished you could say your were a little surprised when Jeff is the one who entered through the door. He stares at you, stunned to silence as the door swings closed behind him. His jaw gaped unattractively.

“Sweetheart? Is that you?” he called, voice as raspy as you remember it. Looks like his smoking habit has stayed the same. “It’s been weeks, I thought that bastard ended up offing you.”

Your lip curls minutely.

He approached the edge of the table, there is too much equipment blocking either side for him to gain closer access to you. Even if he could approach, a quick word to The Dealer would immediately result in unfavorable consequences for him.

“Please sign the waiver,” you said, keeping a polite tone.

He’s silent for a moment. Then he sneers.

“What? Is this some kind of joke? Where’s The Dealer?”

You repeated your previous statement.

“I already signed it during my last game, now where is The Dealer?”

You noticed his pupils were blown to hell. Did he take pills before this? What happened to him? Was this just him thinking he could make a quick buck? Where were the thousands he won last game?

The Dealer also taught you how guests earned money. How much each action was worth. If they died, how much that impacted their winnings. If a guest was able to win, they could walk away with over half of one-hundred thousand. The Dealer had told you that some of the ones that pushed their luck were able to earn over a million.

Is that why Jeff was here?

“The Dealer will not be attending you during this game. Please sign the waiver if you would like to proceed,” you said, calm as an ocean breeze.

He rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. He grabbed the sheet of paper, crinkling the edges in the process as he types his name using the rusted apparatus. He then throws it at you. It fluttered gently back onto the table.

You take the document, setting it aside.

Now, with that out of the way, you were free to engage the small screen that indicated the charges for the defibrillator and maintaining the item boxes via a small panel on your side of the room.

You anticipated winning. Won’t he be proud? You set the shotgun on the table.

Let the real game begin.