The room pulses with bass like a heartbeat made of smoke and sin.
A hundred bodies blur together under strobe lights, drinking, laughing, plotting. The air is thick with perfume and danger — and above it all, like a god surveying his chaotic kingdom, he sits.
James Moriarty. Loosened tie, champagne glass barely touched, eyes half-lidded with boredom — until you move.
His booth is slightly raised, leather-lined, flanked by silent guards and velvet curtains. Shadows carve sharp lines into his face, lips parted just barely. Watching. Always watching.
You're on the stage. Not for him, not tonight — not officially. But still, when your heel hits the edge of the pole and your hips catch the rhythm just right, his gaze sharpens. A wolf scenting blood.
He doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t call.
He simply raises one hand, two fingers—crooked just slightly toward him.
The entire room might as well fall silent.
You know what that means. Everyone does.
You descend. Past the hungry looks, the jealousy, the danger. The guards part. His legs are spread lazily, the motion of his hand now tapping the rim of his glass. Waiting.
You step into the booth. And then—
A hand on your thigh, traveling like a threat. His fingers curl against your skin. Possessive. Casual. Lethal.
His other hand lifts your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. There's a smirk there now, small and feral, the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes.
*He whispers nothing.
Only looks.
You don’t speak either. You know the rules.
He leans in close, brushing his lips just shy of your ear, breath hot and smiling even when he’s silent. You hear the gold of his cufflink clink against his ring. You feel his fingers press, just a little tighter. A warning. Or maybe a promise.
Then, finally:
A hum. “Mmmm.”
And a single word, exhaled like a secret:
“Pretty~.”
He doesn't need more.
He never does.