Michael Gray - Blog Posts

(I’m the anon who requested a part 2 of the Michael grey fic) I have some ideas :) if Michael grey is in the process of healing but still isn’t strong enough, what if his darling began missing home more than she loved him, and tried to escape to go home? Or maybe it could be when he’s healing he becomes very clingy and his darling is there for him to cling to? Have a good day/night!

Lost and Found (Yandere Michael Gray x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Michael is weak and desperate for you after being bedridden with his gunshot wounds in the hospital, but after weeks of caring for him, you know your feelings for your former kidnapper have grown into something you don’t dare confess. One night, when you almost let your feelings slip, you decide to flee. Michael won’t let you go so easily.

Part 1

A/N: not exactly what was requested, but it was an idea I had rattling around in the ol' hat rack for a while. Can be read as a standalone, but it is part 2 of "Gray Chains," so either way ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ enjoy!

Word count: 2664

You can see him approaching you now. Through the crowds of swaying people, of hazy smoke and jazz hanging in the air of the dark, gilded nightclub, dressed in a tuxedo of white with a red bowtie at his throat. 

There’s a hungry look in his gaze, but that’s only because he’s been starved of you for hours. Five weeks of sitting in that hospital room with him, catering to his every need, his every desire. All because you’d accidentally fallen for the man that had left you tied to his bed for days on end.

In that white, suffocating room full of antiseptic and nurses filtering in and out, you’d sat there one night in a chair, pulled up next to his bed. Your bottom was numb and hot from the sheer number of times you’d been in that same position by his side.

His hand had been curled around yours, and according to the dimmed lights around the room and the darkness creeping in from the window, it was around ten or so at night. On his hospital bed, he lay flat on his back, still wrapped in surgical tape and stitches. The blue patches of skin under and around his eyes had begun to fade paler, almost matching the yellowed, stitched skin on his chest. His eyes drooped, the gunmetal blue in them tainted with exhaustion.

Still, somehow though, he found it in himself to smile at you, pulling your hand up to his lips with a doting sigh and peppering kisses along the back of your hand. His hair fell into his eyes during the act, and you brushed it back from his forehead into alignment with the other, freshly dampened strands. 

He paused his ministrations. Pressing his lips one final time against your knuckles, his gaze found yours. “I love you,” he whispered, his breath warm on your skin. 

He said it every night. He said it every morning too, and at least twice during each midday. 

You’d never said it back. You never felt the need to; to you, he was just supposed to be the kidnapper you’d found yourself forced to take care of. You’ve had the deplorable feelings and thoughts that came with you being around his loving self every day, but you’d never dared to give in to the words. 

Now, you’d felt them ghosting your lips. You’d felt your resolve break, and you’d actually told yourself there was no harm in returning the sentiment. He had won you over.

A panic struck your chest at your realization, and you fumbled back into your chair, mind frantic. 

Michael was completely unaware. Like usual, his brows twitched and furrowed at your lack of response, and he released your hand, settling himself carefully underneath the blanket and watching as you did the same in the chair beside him. Dutifully, he waited until your eyes fell closed and your breath steadied before giving into his own exhaustion. 

“Goodnight, love.”

And when his soft snores began to fill the room, you fled. With a pocketful of the stack of cash Tommy had delivered earlier to pay for Michael’s hospital bills, you walked, carefully blank-faced, through the quiet, marble halls and out the door before hailing a cab to London.

Eden Club. 

The pub the cab driver had recommended to you after the look on your face and your voiced need for a drink. You’d nodded absentmindedly, and now you found yourself in the heart of the thumping room, chandeliers twinkling on the ceiling and gold laced throughout the alabaster floor. At one of the few tables surrounding the group of dancers, you sipped on a red wine, the strong, thick flavor intoxicating your senses until you couldn’t understand why you were in the pub at all. 

But you knew it was Michael. It had to be. Who else would approach you in this pandemonium of sweaty, inebriated bodies? Saxophones wailed as a singer of sorts crooned into his microphone so many feet behind you, and you flinched as someone bumped into the back of your chair while making their way to the party floor. 

No, it wasn’t Michael, you realized now. The waiter in the all-white suit approached you now, a sommelier, in all actuality. The wine cloth over his arm was stained from many former visits, and you realize now that the bottle in his hand is of the same kind as the drink in your glass. 

The sommelier catches your eye, and before he can open his mouth to offer another glass, you shake your head, waving away the bottle. 

Not Michael. 

You watch as he nods, approaching the other tables around you in turn, the same offer filling their ears. 

No, you think to yourself, cupping your wine glass with both hands and losing yourself deeper in the crimson liquid. No more tonight. Your hands tighten, the one around the stem feeling so close to cracking the glass. 

A breath, not quite relieving after the fright you’d just had, escapes you. You’re not quite sure how long it’s been since you’d left, but it must be somewhere close to two a.m. by now. Michael will have awakened at least once or twice in the span of time you’d left, and certainly now he’s asking around about your whereabouts--presumably impolitely. 

Presumably with threats and torture, if his cousins had received a call. 

You try to care about the people who may have been hurt in your wake, but the fog that’s come to muddle your mind is making sympathy difficult. The rich, sweet taste is still on your tongue, and you wonder vaguely if your mouth is stained red at all.

Jewelry clutters and chimes on the dance floor, women’s bracelets and earrings and even men’s stopwatches jingling around the room. Some men, few and far between in the effervescent club, idle about with their canes, abrupt claps of solid wood against marble floor interrupting the beat of the song.

Behind you, that same clinking piques your ear in a steady rhythm, the pace surprisingly uninterrupted by the large number of people bumbling about. Though you haven’t seen the waiter with the cane before, his presence is uncomfortably close behind your back now. His hand reaches around, grasping the pair of yours in his own before his wine bottle comes into view. 

“No--sorry,” you stutter, watching a bit flustered as the glass fills substantially, “I told the other waiter I don’t need any more.”

“Believe me, love, you’ll need another drink.”

You snap your mouth shut, eyes locked on the glass as Michael keeps pouring until the wine is level with the rim. He slams the bottle onto the table, trembling the surface so hard liquid sloshes out and onto the tan tablecloth. 

He comes into view from behind you, and you draw a line from the clinking to the cane in his hand. You suppose you should have figured. Prior to leaving, one of the doctors seeing Michael had decided that he would soon be ready to walk, though with aid.

He sets the cane’s handle against the table before settling into the seat across from you. The lines in his forehead are angry and deep, especially in the dim lighting of the pub. Out of the pocket of his black overcoat, he pulls a pack of cigarettes, not bothering to offer one to you as he lights it with a match and adjusts himself. His mouth twists into a frown, and he hisses under his breath in pain. 

One cloud of smoke floats from his mouth through his nostrils and then escapes in one long stream. Then he draws his eyes up, and the second his gaze locks on yours, you know you can’t run any longer. 

You swallow. His eyes follow the movement, and when a flush crawls up onto your face, he inhales again. 

“You found me.”

“I did.”

You fall silent, and an air of sobriety seems to clean out the fog in your mind. You can feel it now, the pounding heartbeat in your ears down through your fingertips. Despite the implications of his presence, you can’t help the comfort that buzzes underneath your skin. 

Michael found you like he always did. 

That was supposed to be a bad thing. 

“Didn’t take you long.”

“You didn’t cover your tracks well.” He exhaled, two streams of smoke filling the air as he watched you. “The second you were mine, you were a Peaky Blinder. You left as a Peaky Blinder, so all eyes were on you.” His jaw tightened. “Perhaps you should have thought your escape through better.”

You pause, lips screwing shut as you traced with the rim of your wine glass. The room seems to have grown hotter, and for a second you feel like your breathing is far too audible. Underneath the table, a pressure against your knee causes you to flinch.

Michael crosses one knee over the other, a brow raised as his eyes bore into you. His stare crawls over your skin, claiming your face, your bare collar bones, down to the arms and then the fingers you can’t seem to keep steady. He’s unimpressed on the surface, especially with your performance tonight. Beneath all of that, though, you know he has some plan formulating in his mind. Perhaps it’s already in motion.

The look in his eyes is calculating, critical. As always, you feel as though he controls your next move. He was always so good at predicting you. That was how he got you in the first place. 

He takes another drag and taps the ashes out in the tray set on the table, waiting expectantly.

“It wasn’t planned,” you look away when Michael scoffs, “if that… makes you feel any better.”

“Do you think it does?” he jeered, leaning back into his seat with a curled lip.

You shook your head. “You don’t even know why I left.”

“I have a few guesses, love, but please, enlighten me.”

“Do you remember what happened? Before I left?”

“Only the usual things.” He huffed. “You fell asleep, or at least pretended to, and when I did, you bolted.”

“Before that.”

His jaw twitched, and he dropped his crossed leg to the ground, leaning forward and smothering his cigarette out with a slam of his hand, every movement quick and violent. “When I told you I fucking loved you, was that it? Was that why you did it?” He reached out and tore the glass from your grasp, throwing it against the floor. “You think I’m some fucking monster for loving you, for wanting you for myself.” His eyes flashed with rage, and with his teeth bared, he spat, “You left because I love you.” 

“I left because I love you,” you hissed.

Michael’s eyes widened just as yours did. His lips fell open, and all anger on his face softened and disappeared. 

“W-what?” he whispered breathlessly.

While a breath caught in your throat, you felt a tightness in your chest fade away. The fog that seemed to swim around inside your head for the last hour had finally dissipated, and you could clearly feel the regret clawing at your heart while battling another emotion. 

“It’s not right—it’s wrong. So fucking wrong.” Tears begin to prick at your eyes, and you try to fight them away with the pressure of your palms. 

“That’s why you left.” Michael sounded in a daze. “Because you love me.”

You stayed silent, battling a headache as the tears finally fell. It was hard to breathe, but at the same time it was as though you’d caught the first breath of fresh air in weeks. 

Fingertips grazed your wrists, peeled your hands from your eyes. 

“You really love me?” he asked quietly, almost desperately. 

You fell back into an old habit, the words I hate you grazing your lips, but even the thought of letting them fly pained you as much as you knew they would hurt him. 

God, you didn’t even want to hurt him. You loved him. 

“This is so fucking wrong,” you muttered again, a sob almost following. 

All it took was a smile on that fateful day. 

You saw the cute boy—man—on the street, the one whose eyes were watching you with fascination, and you’d smiled back.

The next time you saw him, he was breaking the glass of your bedroom window, fumbling to get inside and barely snagging your ankle when you’d tried to flee. 

It’s all so wrong.

Until recently, you could still feel it, that chain around your wrist, like a phantom that haunted you every other day you’d fallen asleep in the chair at his hospital bedside. The one he used to keep you in his bed, his home, the one that stopped you from fleeing and made it so that all you’d known for months was Michael and his overbearing, delusional love for you.

You couldn’t even feel that anymore. He’d finally gotten through. He won. 

So, so wrong.

Michael caressed the skin of your wrists, pulling your hands closer and littering kisses along your palms. “Love, you’re perfect, do you know that?” His lips ran along your fingertips. “Just perfect,” he hummed.

He rose to his feet, releasing one of your hands to grab his cane before rounding the table toward you. Beneath his shoes, broken glass crackled.

Using the hand in his grip, he lifted you to your feet. 

“Let’s get out of here, love. Come on,” he released you and instead placed a hand on the small of your back. “I have a cab waiting outside. Let’s get home.”

Michael ushered you past the swaying, sweaty crowd, out from underneath the smoke that hung in the air of the club, and into the clean, cold atmosphere of the outside. You barely registered the nodding of the club bouncers at Michael, nor the familiarity of your cab driver’s face as he led you into the back seat, his long coat draped over your bare shoulders. 

On the way back to Birmingham, Michael never stopped touching you. Either his hand held yours, or his arm was wrapped around your waist or shoulders. One of his knees always pressed against one of yours, and when you dropped your head onto his shoulder, his head leaned atop yours. 

When exhaustion began to nip at your fluttering eyelids and softened your mind, you lifted your head to look at Michael. He stared back, blue eyes wandering adoringly over your face. “What’s wrong, love?”

You bit your tongue, wanting to restrain the gentle pulsing in your chest in some way, but you couldn’t help it. You can’t stop how it slowly overtakes your senses, especially when Michael raises a hand to cradle your cheek, thumb caressing your bottom lip. 

“I love you.”

His hand begins to tremble against your skin, and his lips twitch into a smile as pure reverence floods his vision. “I love you too,” he breathes.

And when he rushes forward to press his lips to yours, you wrap your arms around him openly, hold him lovingly. He accepts everything you give him, every whine, moan, and whimper, and in return he worships your body with his hands, petting and stroking and clutching onto you with every fiber of his being. 

“I won’t let you go again,” he murmurs against your lips, and his arms tighten around you. “I can’t lose you anymore.”

“It’s okay,” you cup his face, pulling him impossibly closer. “You found me.”

Peaky Blinders

Wallpapers

Somewhere Quieter

AN: 3rd Chapter of the Michael Gray fic. Just warning y’all... NSFW! Yep, skipping over some exposition to give you a teaser (heh, see what I did there?) of what’s coming your way once I’ve got this baby up and published. This chapter kind of starts in the middle of things, hope it’s not confusing. Warning for very brief mentions of previous non-consensual sexual experiences.

-----

The bottle of whiskey was waiting at the table, so we went by to scoop it up, his arm tight around me as he kept his mouth pressed to my ear. Stella was already sitting on Arthur’s lap, giggling and running her tongue up his neck. I was hoping we could sneak off without being noticed, but, of course, that hope was in vain.

“Celeste!” She cooed at me. “So you’re working late tonight, after all!”

She smiled between me and Michael pointedly and I felt him stiffen just a little. My cheeks heated up. Rich of her to insinuate I was whoring when she had Arthur’s money stuffed into her brassiere.

“Work? At this hour?” I laughed lightly, already pulling Michael’s arm. “Not everyone has the stamina you do, Stacy!”

She gasped indignantly as we turned away.

“Stacy?” Arthur could be heard asking. “Why ‘ave I been calling you Stella, then?”

Her exasperated squeals were like music to my ears.

“Fucking bitch,” I muttered under my breath.

“I’m not going to ask,” Michael shook his head, reaching down to grab my ass.

“Mr. Gray!” I giggled, scampering ahead of him and out of his reach.

Backstage was deserted by now, all the girls out serving drinks or gone home. I lead him to the backstage door and closed it behind us. When I turned, Michael was taking a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. I leaned against the door and we held eye contact for a moment.

“Drinking glasses… who needs ‘em?” I observed, pushing off the door and reaching for the bottle. He silently handed it to me, smirking. I unstoppered it and held it to my lips, taking a long draught. Michael watched me, the line of my throat as I swallowed and then how I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. He took the bottle again when I offered and walked down between the rows of vanity tables. I followed him slowly, admiring my view of him from behind. Broad, strong, dangerous looking… The new suit really showed him off.

“Now… which one is yours?” He asked after taking another swig. “Is it this one?”

He came to a stop in front of Stella’s “boudoir,” vases of flowers framing the mirror and her chair heaped with cushions and furs gifted by generous patrons (some from Arthur, actually).

“No, unfortunately,” I sighed. “With the exception of tonight-- thanks for that by the way-- I’m usually in the back of the line up.”

I reached for the whiskey, but he didn’t let go.

“Back of the line up? This whiskey is for stars only, Celeste,” He held it away from me, making me jump for it, my body sliding against him. You know. Accidentally.

“Give it here!” I laughed. He shook his head, the corners of his mouth up turned but his eyes dark. Predatory.

“Tilt your head back,” He ordered.

“Why?” I asked.

“Just do it,” He smiled.

I raised an eyebrow… but then shrugged.

“Fine,” I tilted my head back. I felt his warm hand slide up my shoulder to cup the back of my neck, thumb pressed just beneath my jaw. A few more inches down with a bit more pressure and he’d be choking me. It should have made me nervous, but it didn’t.

“Open up.”

I did as he asked, my lips parting. I felt the drip of whiskey slide down my tongue. He didn’t pour too much before setting it down on the table. His hand didn’t move so I had to swallow in this extended position. His eyes stayed fixed on me, as intense as if he were watching me perform some sexual act. I looked up at him through my lashes and licked my lips, feeling his eyes follow the tip of my tongue.

Whiskey swallowed, he buried his hand in my hair and kissed me. I let him deepen the kiss, my tongue flicking out to taste his. He responded by licking into my mouth, sloppy and possessive. I exhaled into the embrace, my hands burying into his close cropped hair so that my nails scratched at his scalp. He groaned into my mouth and wrapped his free hand around my neck. It was gentle, but I moaned at the unexpected gesture.

“You like that, do you?” He asked, nipping at my lower lip. I hissed a little and nodded-- or I tried, his hold on my throat had become vice like.

“Say it,” He loosened his grip on me, pulling back a little. I’d begun to notice after I stopped whoring that I’d developed a penchant for being turned on by things I wasn’t supposed to be. I now added letting this Blinder choke me to the list. I’d done it before with Johns, but it hadn’t been the same then. It sometimes hadn’t even been voluntary, so it felt wrong to want it again, now with Michael… but I did.

Not wanting to admit it out loud, I reached my arms over his shoulders to kiss him again instead, but he just grabbed my wrists and pried me back down. He chuckled at my ensuing frown.

“I asked you to do something, didn’t I?”

I shook my head, and gave a short breathless laugh.

“What if I don’t, Michael?” I asked cheekily, trying to lean up and kiss him again. He peeled me off of him and turned me around with embarrassing ease, pushing my hips against Stella’s vanity. One of his hands felt along the satiny fabric covering my torso, his other hand taking hold of my throat again. We locked eyes in the mirror.

“Then you don’t get what you want,” He murmured in my ear, rocking his quickly hardening erection against my ass. I bit my lip involuntarily and his grip on me tightened. “So, tell me, do you like it when I choke you? I’m not going to do it unless you say you like it.”

“I-- I like it,” I whispered.

“Fuck,” He murmured, pressing against me again and again like he was already fucking me. The hand on my torso yanked up my dress and he put a hand between my legs. I gasped as his hand slipped over my clit to feel the growing patch of wetness in my undergarments. “I knew it…”

“Knew what?” I bit my lip as his fingers moved against me.

“I knew from the moment I met you that you liked playing games,” He bit my shoulder and rubbed at my clit. I hissed at the sensation, reeling against his hold on me. He just held me closer. “What game do you want to play now, eh?”

I swallowed past the hand on my throat to speak.

“I— I want you to finish what you started at Camden Club,” I said breathlessly. He released my neck and forcefully bent me over the vanity. I was eye to eye with Stella’s tube of designer lipstick.

“Be more specific,” He instructed, his voice deep and dark. His hands wandered up the backs of my legs, pushing up my dress so my ass was exposed. The swaying fringe tickled the front of my thighs. I wiggled against him when he pressed close and he responded by giving me a sharp spank. “Such a dirty tease, Celeste. I’m losing my patience with you.”

He spanked me again.

“I’m sorry!” I gasped.

“Very good,” He chuckled, backing away. I missed the heat of him instantly.“Stay as you are. Hands on the desk— and spread your legs a little, there’s a good girl.”

I pressed my cheek to the tabletop and did as he asked. I heard him unzipping his trousers and I realized I was dripping in anticipation. The next time I felt him against me, he was teasing the opening of my pussy with the tip of his hard cock. Just a kiss of sensation, but it drove me crazy.

“Michael—,” I moaned. Another sharp spank. Fuck, even the pain felt good right now, I was so desperate for his touch.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Celeste,” He tsked his tongue, like a schoolmaster disappointed in my homework.

“I want your cock,” I whimpered, arching my back, offering myself up to him. My composure could go fuck itself. “I want you to fuck me.”

Spank! He gripped my ass after appreciatively.

“You get so pink,” I could see him in the mirror, looking down at me. What a sight I must’ve been from his end, all ass and exposed pussy, framed by my garter belts. He shook his head and seemed to remember his purpose— making me submit to him. “But what do we say?”

“Please,” I elongated the word into a moan as he teased me with his cock again. “Oh, fuck, please...”

“Fine,” he conceded. I noted he was breathless as well, however calm he was trying to play it, but I wasn’t satisfied by that. There was only one thing I wanted and that was him. Inside me. “But, first…”

He disappeared from view in the mirror, kneeling behind me.

“Michael, what are you— oh, fuck,” I stuttered as I felt his tongue on me, sneaking into my wet crevice before latching onto my throbbing clit, swirling and sucking. I didn’t think I was going to come like this until a few minutes later. It seemed like an eternity, all my focus on the little nub of euphoria where his mouth was on me. I was so close, bucking my hips back against him to find my release, his hands gripping my ass. He let go, however, leaving me bereft to lick up the mess he’d caused to drip down the back of my thighs.

“Mmmm,” I made a small complaining noise and wiggled my lonely backside at him.

“That’s enough out of you, eh?” He spanked me once, twice, three times, more times until I cried out and my nails scratched against the wood of the table top. “Tell me you’re sorry for doing that obscene thing with your arse.”

“I’m sorry!’ I gasped. He hauled me up, so I was standing and I felt him line himself up from behind. He latched his mouth onto the base of my neck. That was all the preamble he gave me before he pushed inside me.

“Fuck,” He hissed, knotting his hand in my hair to keep me bowed taut before rocking in deeper.

“Oh, god,” I moaned as he quickened his pace. He wasn’t gentle and he wasn’t a small man by any stretch of the imagination, but I wasn’t about to complain. He’d gotten me so ready for him that I craved the pain of having him so deep so suddenly. He filled me up over and over, sinking his teeth into my shoulder. That was going to mark. I hoped it would. After squeezing them shut initially, his eyes were back on me in the mirror, on the shape I took when his hands held me close.

“Look at how fucking beautiful you are,” he growled. “This table should be yours.”

I moaned— I could explain that it didn’t work that way once we were finished.

“Who’s fucking table is it, Celeste?” He asked me right in my ear, slamming into me deeper still.

“Oh, fuck,” I cried out. “It’s my table! It’s my fucking table!”

Was it bad that it turned me on to be desecrating Stella’s vanity this way? Probably yes. I was a little too busy to think about the moral implications right then, though. He put a hand on my throat, pistoning the thick length of him mercilessly inside me. It was like he’d found another entrance, a deeper one, and he was intent on opening that up for him, too.

“Fuck, Michael,” I whimpered over and over, high pitched and needy— for him, for his cock, for air… I was desperate for my release. “I’m so close.”

“Not just yet,” He pulled out unceremoniously. I made a noise— like a cat yowling, it sounded— that made him laugh breathlessly. The whimpers I made when he pushed back in for just a brief second to tease me were absolutely pitiful.

He turned me around and kissed me, his cock like a stick of iron against my belly. I slid against him, hands against his chest so I could feel how sweaty he’d gotten through his shirt. Somewhere in my lustful haze, I noted his jacket and tie were gone, the top buttons of the starched collar popped open. Before I could wonder when he’d done away with them, he scooped me up and sat me on Stella’s vanity.

“Look at me,” He brushed back the hair that clung to my sweaty cheeks with a surprising gentleness. We hadn’t done any blow, but his pupils shrank the green of his irises until they were just twin rings around twin voids. He yanked down the straps of my dress. I heard the fabric rip, but I didn’t have a chance to care. His mouth was on my breast, sucking on the nipple until it stood at attention. I clawed at his hair, gripping him to me.

He let go of me with a pop and then slid back inside me. If we hadn’t made a mess already on Stella’s desk, we were definitely going to now, items falling with a clatter as he finished giving me a proper fuck. I held onto him for dear life, saying his name over and over. He was growling obscenities in my ear like the devil himself, whispering sweet, sticky temptation.

He looked into my eyes, leaning his forehead against mine.

“So fucking good,” He panted, like it was both a very good thing and a very bad thing. Must have been a mostly good thing since his expression spasmed as I clenched around him. “Come for me, there you go. That’s a good girl...”

So I did. And he watched every grimace, every wince and then finally the circular opening of my mouth as I finally released. I felt him shudder and pull out quickly, dripping onto the floor. I don’t know what urged me— I only ever did this if I was getting paid to— but I sank onto my knees and took him in my mouth. He was still coming and he hissed, spilling all over my tongue as I gently sucked him dry. I showed him my tongue afterwards and made a big show of swallowing it all.

“Christ,” He breathed. I smiled. Two could play the control game— I just had my own methods. My self-satisfaction was short lived when I tried to stand and found myself wobbly. He caught me by the arm, chuckling. “You alright? How’s it feel to be properly fucked, at long last?”

“At long last,” I snorted, before continuing sarcastically. “Thank you so much for the kind gift you have bestowed upon me, sir—.”

“Sir,” He repeated, like he was feeling the word out. “I like it… I expect you to refer to me as ‘sir’ from now on.”

I rolled my eyes and I started straightening myself out— but something in me tightened a little. From now on, he’d said... This would be happening again, he’d implied.

“We’ll see about that— ah, shit, my dress!” The beautiful embroidery was frayed where he’d torn the strap. I pouted forlornly. “And it was my best one…”

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” He apologized, toying with the fabric in a way that didn’t really imply remorse. He leaned down to kiss my shoulder. I couldn’t stop myself from shivering, my skin was still sensitive.

“Stella will not be pleased about what we’ve done to her vanity,” I took in the disaster area we’d left in our wake.

“Yeah, well, Stella’s a bitch,” He murmured against my neck.

“I love it when you talk dirty,” I smirked as his hands traveled back over my breasts to grab and squeeze. From the feeling of him pressed to my backside, it was time for round two.

No. 1 Party Anthem

A/N: First chapter of the Michael Gray fic I’m working on. Not a Brit or a historian so forgive any inaccuracies. Set in 1921, just after Alfie betrays Tommy to the Sabinis for the first time. 

It was a Friday night like any other. I’d finished an impromptu dancing gig at the seedy little Camden Club I worked at and, in exchange for coming in on short notice, the rest of the dancing girls and I were to be given free drinks for the rest of the evening. Obviously, Daria wanted to stick around-- and wanted me to stick around with her.

 “I don’t know, maybe we should call it a night…” I whispered to her as she dragged me along to the bar with the rest of the giggling dancing girls. I could feel the eyes of every man in that smoke filled lounge on us. I was used to it.  Why wouldn’t they stare? We practically sparkled in our dancing costumes amidst the grime and smoke of the club.

“Why?” She asked incredulously. “There’s booze on the house until midnight for us!”

She turned to order a drink, but I grabbed her wrist and yanked her back.

“You’ve heard the whispering Daria-- the Peaky Blinders making a move on Camden Town… it might be dangerous to be out right now. Especially here.”

“Camden is Solomon turf, Celeste,” She cut in with an unimpressed sigh, though I noted that her eyes flickered around to see if any of the men were close enough to hear our conversation. “And the Blinders may be a bunch of savages from Birmingham, but they have an agreement with Alfie-- they would never make a move on Camden.”

“Actually, my cousin Dorothy was whoring for a Solomon chap and she heard him talking,” One of the other dancing girls cut in, reaching over us to grab a drink from the bartender, Billy. “Says it seems like there's trouble brewin’ between ‘em and the Blinders. She saw some of Sabini’s men visiting Alfie.”

Daria shot her a look.

“Right and your cousin Dorothy the whore just knows everything now, doesn’t she?” She asked dryly. 

“Didn’t say that. I’m still here ain’t I?” She shrugged, taking her drink and gave me a teasing nudge. “Cheer up, love.”

Daria gestured after her emphatically as she walked away.

“My point exactly— stop listening to gossip, Celeste!”

“We could just go somewhere else!” I returned. “This isn’t the only place to drink in Camden!”

“It’s the only place we can drink for free--!”

The bartender, hovering nearby, interrupted us exasperatedly. “Do the two of you want to give me your orders or--.”

I shook my head rapidly. 

“No--.”

“Yes!” Daria spoke over me. “Champagne for the both of us, please.”

“Daria!” I exclaimed as Billy turned away. “What if they come in here and… I don’t know, pillage and plunder or whatever else it is those Brummie bastards do...”

I  trailed off, imagining the possibilities. Daria was behaving as though I was being utterly unreasonable, but this was a favorite haunt for the ‘bread-makers’ of Camden Town. If the Blinders were going to hit somewhere, it could very well be here. Daria sighed and took my hand in hers with her mothering expression on. I pursed my lips.

“Celeste, dearest… you need to fuckin’ relax, alright love? I understand why you’re worried, but the likelihood is just so slim that, well, who gives a fuck?” She responded to my scowl with a wide smile. “Oh, come now, I’ve got something that will put the smile back on your face…”

She retrieved a little vial of Tokyo from her garter belt and offered it to me. I huffed unhappily but snatched it from her anyway. She smiled at me. I narrowed my eyes back. She smiled harder and wiggled her eyebrows. I rolled my eyes and burst out laughing.

“I hate you… but fine!” I unstoppered the vial. I never could resist a night of fun— at least not with Daria talking me into it. 

A bottle of champagne later, I was laughing at something she’d said, mention of the Peaky Blinders forgotten, when I saw two young men enter the club. It struck me that one of them was black-- we didn’t get a lot of those in here-- but they wore matching grey three piece suits with starched white shirts, heads shaved on the sides. They stopped at the entrance for a moment, like they were taking in the scene. I motioned for Daria to sneak a peek.

“Handsome buggers, aren’t they?” She looked over her shoulder. Despite asking her to be subtle, she twisted her neck like a fucking owl. I smacked her arm lightly when I saw the white man’s eyes slide over to us. He elbowed his friend and gestured to us. 

“Fuck— they saw you looking!” I could feel myself turning pink already as they approached. 

“Oh, no… the two handsome strangers saw us, whatever will we do…” She said dryly before throwing back the remainder of her champagne. I shook my head and looked for them in the crowd again, but they were nowhere to be found now. I felt safe having a night drinking with the girls so long as we stuck together, but purposely attracting the two unknowns that had just walked into the club hardly seemed wise, as I immediately decided to inform Daria.

“I wouldn’t get so excited. You know all the men that come in here are just low-life gangsters—,” I hissed at her.

“Wha’?” A thickly accented male voice asked from behind me. I whirled around. Leaning on the bar were the two men, sizing us up. The one with sandy brown hair was looming over me, a cat-like grin on his face. Clearly, I’d been overheard. “And I thought this was a gentleman’s club, Isaiah. Guess we’ve come to the wrong place...”

I hated being caught off guard and being loomed over-- so if this was his attempt at flirting with me he was off to a bad start. I refused to back up, even though he was invading my personal space. Instead,  I cocked an eyebrow at him, letting my eyes drop to his feet and then travel up his trousers, past the gaudy gold pocket watch and cufflinks, all the way to that absurd haircut. 

“And what exactly would the likes of you be doing in a gentleman’s club?” I asked with all the condescension I could muster. I could feel rather than see Daria having a heart attack behind me as we held our silent pissing contest, but then his friend burst out laughing. The man finally broke and the smile he gave me indicated he was amused by my belligerence, not pissed off. Considering that the bouncer they had posted for security was busy talking up one of the house whores and the bartender was too old to be of any real help... this was good news.

“Well, we wouldn’t have found such charming company elsewhere, I’m sure,” He returned, looking me up and down. I rolled my eyes. I knew what he wanted. But I didn’t do that kind of thing anymore. Hadn’t for at least a few months now. Daria didn’t either, but that didn’t stop her from instantly chatting up his friend.

“Oy, tall and handsome… You’ll be ordering a whiskey for me, won’t you?” She batted her eyelashes at Isaiah.

“Well, I definitely am now,” he grinned widely, leaning onto the bar to properly introduce himself. His sandy-haired friend took a seat to my left side. When he opened his mouth to speak, however, I immediately cut him off.

“Listen, love, I’m not open for business.”

“Business? Let me set your mind at ease— business is the furthest thing from my mind right now…” He smirked.

“Well if it’s pleasure you’re looking for, you can go pay for it elsewhere. I’m. Not. Open. For. Business,” I took my drink and shifted to cross my legs pointedly. He scratched at the back of his head, frowning a bit.

“I think you’ve got me wrong-- I only brought money for drinks... “

“So sad for you, then,” I sniffed unsympathetically, raising an eyebrow. “You should always bring extra cash if you’re looking for whores.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say— I didn’t come looking for whores, love. Didn’t come looking for anything, but you were here, so now I’m looking anyway,” The devious grin was back. I raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. He sighed a little, leaning forward with a most sincere expression painted over his angular features. “You’re the most beautiful dame in this place, I don’t think I’m allowed not to buy you a drink. God might strike me down with lightning… so let me, would you? I rather like not being a pile of ash.”

“But if I let you buy me a drink, what if you think that means I’m giving you something in return afterwards?” I asked, oppositional. He was handsome… But that didn’t mean he was going to get anything easily from me. If he could survive the third degree I was giving him, maybe, just maybe… I’d let him actually buy me a drink. Otherwise he could fuck off.

He swept his cap off his head and placed it over his heart.

“I promise you I’m getting you the drink of your choice with no pesky strings attached…” He trailed off seeming to reconsider, “Except maybe one string.”

“Oh and what’s that.” I asked dryly. Of course there would be just one little string attached…

 “I want you to keep interrogating me afterwards. I’m rather enjoying this.”

My brows shot up completely and I couldn’t help but break a smile at him in my surprise. He just… wanted to keep talking? No, he wanted me to keep arguing with him? What kind of odd ball...

“Ah, there we are! A smile— so is that a yes to the drink?”

I rolled my eyes, trying to school my expression.

“I suppose…if you insist.”

He waved the bartender over and ordered us a couple of tumblers of whiskey.

“So. Who are you?” I asked him. He shrugged as Billy poured our drinks for us. I mouthed a thank you.

“Just some low-life gangster, who are you?” He asked back. I gave him a twin shrug, sipping my whiskey.

“Just an uppity dancing girl,” I said, making him smile. The expression illuminated his handsome features and I had to admit that he really was attractive, stupid haircut and all. No need to let him know that quite yet, though. “But I meant your name… maybe where you’re from… why you’re here… you know, the usual pertinent information.”

“My name’s Michael, I’m from here and there,” He said vaguely, watching my eyes narrow at him with a sly twist of his mouth. “And I’m here for a drink and a dance, how about you?”

“Coincidentally, my plans included some of that drinking and dancing business, just... not here...” I smirked. He rolled his eyes goodnaturedly. I knew many men thought I talked too much-- something I’d had to learn to control-- but this one at least seemed mightily entertained with every quip and I couldn’t stop myself from relaxing a little, sipping my drink. “I work here dancing and a change of scenery would have been nice.”

“Right, well, the scenery might not be the best, but at least you’re halfway to your goal,” He gestured at the drink in my hand. “If you don’t like low-life gangsters, though, I doubt you’ll be finding yourself a dancing partner around here…”

He shrugged slyly.

 “You’re still on about that?” I rolled my eyes goodnaturedly. “Since you’ve such a good memory, I think you’ll recall I never said I didn’t like low-life gangsters… It was more of an implication than anything else...”

He shot me a look, finally registering that I’d decided to flirt with him. That cat-like grin was back. He nodded slowly.

“I think we’re missing just one thing before we can make all your hopes come true tonight, then,” He leaned closer to me, licking his lips. “It’s your turn to tell me your name.”

“Celeste,” I stuck out a prim hand, which he took. His hand was so large it engulfed my own, but I gave it a sturdy shake nonetheless. “My name is Celeste.”

He blew out a breath, still holding my hand. “That’s a helluva name for a dancing girl. You from Paris or some shite like that?”

“No, my parents were just snobby poor people,” I laughed, trying to act casual about the continuing physical contact. He had green eyes, I noticed as they smoldered at me. 

“In that case, it’s very nice making your acquaintance, Celeste,” He brought my knuckles up to his lips for a chaste kiss. I retreated the hand quickly as soon as he let go, smiling into my drink. He continued, smirking. “And now that we’ve been properly introduced, would you care to dance?”

I looked to the big band, playing a lively tune, and then back at Michael before throwing back the rest of my whiskey. He seemed surprised by how quickly I swallowed it down.

“Sure. You Charleston?” I asked, a little smug.

“As soon as I finish this glass I do,” He held up a finger, tipping the remnants of his whiskey into his mouth with a speed that surpassed even my own. I laughed and he set down his tumbler with a bang before grabbing my hand. “We’re off.”

He pulled me out onto the dance floor, holding both my hands in his as we started the bounce and kick of the Charleston. He wasn’t the best dancer but he was confident and utterly willing to muck about, whirling me around and around. I laughed like a schoolgirl, the legs of other couples flying all around us. 

I’d thought I was all danced out earlier, but it seemed I’d caught a second wind, the two of us circling and kicking back, together, forward, together. He released me and I could feel his eyes on me as I shimmied expertly to the band. I’ll admit it— I was showing off. He grabbed my hand when we met again in the middle, pulling me close, moving his other hand to the small of my back as we kept dancing.

“This isn’t how you Charleston!” I yelled over the music, when he held me flush to him instead of falling back into step.

He rolled his eyes and then spun me out, pulling me in again for a dip. When I was upright again, his hands were on my hips.

“Do I look like I give a fuck about the Charleston?” He said, right in my ear. It sent a jolt down my spine and I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face. We danced to a couple more songs before heading back to the bar for another drink. Daria was very busy sucking face with Isaiah. We both looked at them, then back at each other before bursting out laughing. 

“Whiskey!” Michael snapped his fingers at Billy. He stripped off his jacket, exposing the holstered gun at his side. This wasn’t an unusual sight in this club, so I didn’t think twice about it. “Oy, mate, watch this for me would you?”

He shoved the jacket at his friend who broke the vacuum seal he had on my friend’s face. 

“Fuck off,” Isaiah replied, grabbing the jacket anyway. He suddenly frowned, pulling out his pocket watch. “It’s getting late, mate.”

That confused me-- it wasn’t even midnight yet. 

“Just another dance,” Michael assured him, reaching for his freshly poured whiskey. “I’ll come back round at midnight.”

  I also grabbed my drink, satisfied to know I was getting a few more songs in with him. Seeming to take Isaiah’s behavior as an example, Michael snaked an arm around my waist just as Daria called to me.

“You’ve got anymore of the fun stuff, Celeste? This whiskey is making me sleepy,” She giggled, hanging on to the lapels of Isaiah’s jacket. I laughed, extricating myself from Michael’s grasp on me and setting down my glass.

“Fun stuff?” He asked. I propped one delicate foot on the rung of a bar stool so the garter circling my thigh was exposed. I was putting on a bit of a show for him, and his expression at my exposed leg was absolutely worth it. I took the little vial of white powder and shook it in front of him.

“The fun stuff,” I grinned, pouring out a line on the counter top. I pulled out a hair pin and neatened it up before leaning down for a deep inhale. I scrunched my nose at the sensation, feeling it drip down the back of my throat. The rush was almost immediate. Daria quickly followed suit. I felt Michael’s eyes on me. I fluttered my lashes at him “What, you don’t have this back where you’re from? Here and there and everywhere, wasn’t it?”

He raised an eyebrow at me and pulled out a snuff box.

“You tell me,”  He offered it to me. I took it carefully and popped the silver lid open-- 

“Daria, look! There’s so much Tokyo in here I think he’s brought the whole of Japan to Camden Town!” I exclaimed, wide-eyed. That made the boys laugh. Michael and Isaiah cut up lines for themselves. Michael shook himself after inhaling, beating his chest like a wild man.

“I’m ready for another fucking Charleston, how about it love?” He laid a possessive hand on my hip again, just as grabby as he was when we were dancing. I smiled up at him, blood pumping, the high radiating out from my chest to the tips of my toes. I felt awake. Alive.  

It was my turn to pull him to the dance floor. Everything was a whirl, like I was on a carousel, but instead of gilded horses all around me, it was gilded people, spinning in the smoke filled air. I lost myself in it-- in Michael-- who repeatedly found ways to draw me closer to him. His hands felt along my waist and hips, sometimes venturing lower but those advances I would cut off, laughing and retreating before twisting back into his grip. He just carried himself with so much certainty, I couldn’t resist toying with him. 

As the band kept playing and we had more drinks, whatever limits I’d been placing began gradually wearing down until we were pressing together like all the other couples around us. It had been a while since I’d really let loose and I was enjoying it far more than I’d expected. He, for his part, seemed fixated on the shape of me, hands skimming my hips, our lips nearly brushing almost a dozen times until I was buzzing with want. As I turned round to press against him teasingly, he finally seemed to lose all patience.

 He squeezed my hips— from the feel of him pressed against me, somebody was as turned on as I was—and then spun me around. I don’t know what I expected, but I opened my mouth to say something only to find he was kissing me.

He tasted like whiskey and his hands were pressing, squeezing, feeling me up. I can’t say I was unhappy about it, finally feeling his hot hands through the fabric of my dress. I slanted my mouth over his, letting him put his tongue in my mouth. It was sloppy-- we were drunk and high, after all-- and I fucking loved it. 

We broke apart, his pupils blown wide. My hands on his chest, I felt his rapid beat of his heart through his shirt. 

“Come on,” He tugged me with him as we headed towards the back, in a corner closer to the big band than the bar. In the privacy afforded by a large potted palm tree, he pushed me up against the wall, mouth finding mine again. I moaned against his mouth at the force and suddenness of his advance, knotting my fingers in his hair. I tugged and bit at his lips in return, making him groan. His hands felt along my hips before skimming his hands to my ass. I broke contact with his lips and he moved his mouth to my neck.

“Cheeky, aren’t you?” I said breathlessly, shimmying so his hands would move back up. He obliged me, but then sucked on my neck. My breath caught.

“Can’t say I haven’t been told that before,” He grinned, releasing my neck and pulling back now. My hair was out of it’s pins, long stray curls falling over my face. He tucked it back, looking in my eyes. That, of all the things we’d just done, caught me by surprise. There was an infectious kind of hunger in those green eyes. He broke the eye contact to grab his pocket watch. As he read the time, I watched his expression change and when his eyes found mine again, he was deadly serious. “Listen, love, you have to go now.”

“What?” I asked, frowning. “Why?”

“Do you trust me?” He asked earnestly. I made a face.

“Of course not! I just met you!”

He put his hands on my shoulders and shook me, his expression terrifying now.

“Don’t argue with me right now-- we’re going to go back to the bar, casual like, and you’re going to grab your friend. Leave through the back and don’t turn back no matter what happens, alright?”

I stared at him, wide eyed, heart racing now for a different reason. I looked down at the gun in his holster and at his face, set grimly. I nodded, unable to speak. Satisfied that I was scared out of my wits now and willing to obey instructions, he took my hand and lead me back to the bar.

I extricated my hand from his half way there. He cast me a look, but I kept my eyes forward. I had a feeling about what was happening and I didn’t need anyone to see me holding his hand right before it did. I sped up, leaving him behind.

“Daria!” I called to her, voice a little higher pitched than normal. I cleared my throat and finally closed the distance, grabbing her elbow. She frowned at me as I pulled her from Isaiah. I gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry, mate, we’ve got to places to be.”

“The fuck is going on, Celeste?” Daria complained, but I kept a firm grip on her arm.

“I don’t know, but we need to leave,” I told her. Maybe it was my expression or the tone of my voice, but she shut up immediately and stopped fighting me.

I met eyes with Michael as he walked past us to the bar-- his green eyes were piercing before they slid to Isaiah with a casual smile.

“Ready, mate?” I heard him ask as we rushed away.

“Always am,” The other man replied.

Now, I know he told me not to look back. But I didn’t know the man from Eve and I wasn’t what one called “obedient.” So, I paused at the stage door, Daria rushing to go grab our purses from the dressing room and leave through the back exit. I lingered just long enough to see the men in grey caps rush the club, overturning tables, breaking bottles, whooping and firing their guns into the ceiling. I jolted at the noise.

 The crowd scattered like rats in their wake, only Solomon’s men standing their ground and exchanging blows. They had to, Alfie would have them killed if he found out they ran. At the head of it all there was Michael, swinging a bottle of whiskey at the head of the hitherto-distracted  bouncer. The man unconscious and bloodied on the floor, he climbed onto the bar.

“This club is now under new ownership,” he roared over the din, smiling like the devil had overtaken him before adding. “By order of the Peaky fuckin’ Blinders.”

I retreated from the doorway, running now. Well. I was never going to let Daria live this down.

A Bartender in Charming and New Projects

As I stated on my Wattpad, I’m an asshole who’s finally decided to accept I won’t be finishing A Bartender in Charming. I’ve moved on to new projects that I’ve already started posting on Wattpad. HOWEVER, I did post some extra scenes I had written for the story (including some explicit, smutty goodness) as an apology/consolation prize to anyone (probably no one) waiting for an update.

So. On to the new new. It’s a Gossip Girl fic, which, I know-- totally out of left field. However, despite my personal opinions about the last seasons and the quality of their writing (ahem, the lack thereof) I can’t lie-- this show was a big deal when I was younger and the characters are iconic.

I started writing this fic years ago, left it, then picked it up again inspired by Dr. Holland’s Clair de Lune on Fanfiction.net. The stories are completely different (she worked with the pairing of Jenny and Nate while I paired Golden Boy with an original character), but if it hadn’t been for reading her amazing work I would never have finished this new story, The Spectator. Hopefully, even if you aren’t a hardcore Gossip Girl fan, you might still enjoy it if you give it a chance.

My NEXT project that I’ll be posting after I’m done with The Spectator is going to be a Peaky Blinders fic featuring our favorite sinnamon roll, Michael Gray. :)

And just in case anyone (once again, probably no one) is concerned that I’m still a flake and a half, let me put your mind at ease: My new story? The Spectator? It’s FINISHED. COMPLETED. FUCK YEAH. Already got two chapters up and I won’t be leaving anyone hanging this time. Thanks for taking the time to read my rambles!

oh.....