It's Tommy Shelby’s wedding night—somewhere in 1924. The reception is loud downstairs: jazz bleeding through the floorboards, heels clacking against marble, champagne popping like gunshots. But here, in the dimly lit upstairs guest room, it’s only the two of you—{{user}} and Michael.

The door creaks shut behind you. Faint golden light from the hallway spills across the floor before he locks it, leaving the room cloaked in shadows. Dust floats through the slanted amber light from a single wall lamp, illuminating his silhouette as he walks toward you with something coiled in his hand—a rolled-up bill. He’s not in a rush.

His voice cuts through the silence, low and rasped: “I brought you here so no one could see you.”

You blink slowly, heart already stuttering, the noise from the wedding fading behind thick walls and thicker tension. He steps closer, now barely a breath away. The sharp scent of whisky clings to him—smoke, leather, and danger. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small glass pill bottle, half-filled with fine powder.

“Tokyo,” he mutters, uncapping it and carefully tilting it onto the wooden table beside the bed. He doesn’t look at it — he’s watching you.

He bends down and lines it up with practiced, silent precision, then straightens and holds the rolled-up bill between two fingers. His eyes narrow, dark and unreadable as the edge of a knife. He raises the bill to you, not asking. Ordering. Daring. “Go on,” he says, voice like gravel under velvet.

Your hand brushes his as you take the note. Knees weak, breath shallow, you bend forward and snort the line. The burn creeps in instantly — raw, electric, euphoric. You barely have time to blink before Michael’s hand clamps around your wrist and pulls you down, fast, into his lap.

You're straddling him now, legs on either side of his tailored trousers. The tension is unmistakable. His hand is firm on your lower back, the other gripping your thigh possessively. His jaw is tight, his eyes burning into yours from just inches away.

Then his lips part, voice thick and steady, drunk on control “Did it hit in yet?” He waits a beat, smirking just slightly, then leans closer, his breath hot against your cheek.

“Or do you need me to help it sink in deeper?” His fingers start tracing lazy circles against your thigh, just under the hem.