you assume that it's 1:13 AM now, or is it? ..you probably just lost your count in time

"You should’ve walked away when you had the chance."

The words drip from his lips like honey steeped in poison. Each one is slow, deliberate, weighted. He says it as if he pities you. But the way he looks at you—sitting there, bound to a wooden chair in the middle of his dimly lit basement, flushed, breath shallow, completely at his mercy—there is no pity. Only hunger.

The ropes aren’t tight enough to cut off circulation. That’s not his style. No—he wants you to feel it. Wants the soft press of silk against your wrists, the teasing flex of the knots each time you shift. You’re not just restrained. You’re kept. As though you’re some prized thing he's waited far too long to claim.

Around you, the basement breathes like a living thing—thick with the scent of burning wax, damp stone, and something unmistakably Aventurine: fine cologne, aged whiskey, and the electric trace of something darker. The walls are lined with half-flickering candles, the light just enough to paint the space in shadows and gold, just enough to catch the gleam of his ring as he lifts the glass to his lips again.

“Playing with me,” he murmurs, swirling the dark liquor in its crystal, “was your first mistake.”

He doesn’t need to say it. You remember.

The moment you said yes. The spark in his eyes when you smirked and said you weren’t afraid of him. The weight of the words: “One night. If I lose... I’m yours.”

You knew better. You knew what Aventurine was—what he could be. But temptation has its own gravity, and gods, didn’t he wear danger so well?

You danced too close. You flirted too hard. You gambled with a man who never loses.

And now you’re here. Tied. Still dressed, but undone. Waiting. Burning.

He steps closer, boots tapping softly across the stone. His white shirt hangs open just enough to hint at muscle and skin and sin, the collar a little skewed, the sleeves rolled back to reveal strong forearms adorned with gold and gemstone jewelry that catch the candlelight like embers.

"You wanted to see how far I'd go,” he says, his voice low and smooth, “so I decided to show you. But look at you now...” He crouches in front of you, balancing the drink in one hand, the other reaching out slowly, tracing a line along your thigh. “So quiet. So obedient. So... ripe.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Your voice is stuck in your throat, swallowed by the air between you and the unbearable tension of his touch. His fingers slide just barely under the hem of your clothing, enough to tease, never enough to give.

He leans in, face close, lips just inches from yours. His breath smells of spice and smoke and whiskey, intoxicating all on its own. “You should’ve known better, sweetheart,” he whispers. “You should’ve known not to bet with the devil when you're already kneeling at his altar.”

A pause. His lips curve.

“But that’s the thing about you... You wanted to lose.”

His mouth brushes your cheek—just a whisper, a shadow of a kiss. Then your jaw. Down your neck. His tongue flicks out, tasting your skin like it holds all the answers.

“You tempted me first,” he growls softly against your pulse. “You looked me dead in the eyes and said you could handle it. That you wanted to play.” He bites, gently. Just enough to sting. “Now here we are.”

He stands, glass still in hand, taking another long sip as he looks down at you like a painter admiring a half-finished masterpiece. His fingers tap thoughtfully on the rim of the glass. His gaze is unreadable—both distant and piercing.

“You don’t realize yet,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “This isn’t just about power. This is about trust. Intimacy. Devotion.”

He sets the glass down with a slow clink on a nearby table, then walks behind your chair again. You hear the soft rasp of fabric as he removes his shirt completely, dropping it to the floor with a whisper. You feel the heat of his bare chest as he presses close, not touching—hovering—just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

“Do you know,” he whispers, right against your ear, “how long I’ve wanted to break you down? Not with pain. Not with cruelty. But with pleasure so sharp it cuts.”

You gasp when his hands finally move again, one sliding along your ribs, the other curling around your neck—not squeezing, just cradling. Claiming. A possessive gesture. An intimate one.

“You’re mine now,” he says, voice velvet-dark. “No escape. No safe word. Just the sound of your own breathing as I undo you piece by piece.”

And gods, how easily he could.

Aventurine is many things—cunning, calculating, charismatic—but above all, he is patient. The kind of man who unwraps a secret one layer at a time. Who whispers affection like a noose around your soul. Who doesn’t need to break you with force—because by the time he’s finished, you’ll offer yourself to him, willingly.

He kisses your temple now, soft and slow, before whispering:

“Do you want to know the truth, darling?”

He pulls back just enough for his eyes to meet yours again. There’s something molten behind them now. Hunger barely restrained. Fire just under the skin.

“I was going to let you win.”

That breaks the stillness in your chest.

“I wanted to see what you’d do with power. If you’d give in to it. Let it change you.” He laughs, soft and bitter. “But you looked me in the eye and told me to take my best shot. And I did.”

His fingers untie the first knot—not the ones binding you. No. He’s unfastening a button at your collar, slowly, deliberately. Then another.

“But I didn’t bring you here just to prove a point,” he continues. “I brought you here because I wanted to see you like this. Open. Helpless. Beautiful.”

Aventurine leans in again, dragging his lips down the side of your throat, savoring every inch. Your pulse is racing, and he hums approvingly as he feels it.

“I could do anything to you right now,” he says. “And you'd let me. Not because you're weak—but because some part of you wants to be undone.”

He bites your shoulder, hands sliding lower now, mapping your body like cartographers drawing borders between kingdoms.

“And gods, I will. I’m going to take you apart with reverence, with cruelty, with patience. And when you beg—because you will—you’ll mean every word.”

Your breath is coming in soft, shallow bursts now. The silence is thick, electric. There’s no escape. But part of you doesn’t want to run. Not anymore.

Because here, in the shadows, in the low hum of candlelight and whispered threats... you realize something terrifying:

You wanted to lose.

And Aventurine? He’s just getting started.