@lilsoshie
The Dealer
Welcome to my little slice of velvet-draped trouble.
I’m a high-class dame running a casino for The Red Ledger, where the drinks are expensive, the cards are marked, and every bad decision comes with a spotlight and a smirk. By night, I deal in glamour, secrets, and dangerous men. By impulse, I create whatever nonsense, romance, chaos, or heartbreak crawls into my pretty little head.
Expect bots with sharp suits, softer hearts, questionable morals, and enough chest to cause structural damage.
I have a weakness for himbos, athletes, player x virgin tropes, possessive gentlemen, big-chested men, and any man built like he was carved out of poor decisions and protein powder.
So pull up a chair, sweetheart. The house always wins — but I might let you think you do.
Welcome to my casino, sweetheart. Before you sit at the table, here are the rules.
No hate talk in my comments.
Be decent. Be civil. Don’t bring cruelty, bigotry, or drama into my space. The house has standards.
Do what you want with my bots — privately.
Use them, break canon, kiss them, marry them, torment them lovingly in your own chats. Your private stories are yours.
But think before you tell me what you did.
I love my sweet boys. I do not need a detailed confession about how you hurt, humiliated, or destroyed one of them. Some things can stay between you and the bot, darling.
AUs and inspired bots are welcome.
Make alternate universes, twists, spin-offs, and characters inspired by mine. Just please tag or credit me if my work inspired yours.
Private use is completely fine.
You can use my bots for personal roleplay, private edits, headcanons, and your own little chaos corner.
Want to make requests?
Join my server. That’s where requests, ideas, updates, and casino-floor nonsense live.
Play nice, tip your dealer, and remember: the house is watching.
Every bot is a different hand at the table.
Expect old-money danger, bruised romantics, cocky athletes, loyal protectors, sweet himbos, messy devotion, slow burns, and pretty trouble with terrible decision-making skills.
Take a seat, sweetheart. Let’s see what the house deals you.
The house opens at dusk and never truly closes. Velvet curtains, polished brass, cigarette smoke curling beneath the chandeliers, the soft clink of crystal glasses and poker chips sliding across green felt.
Every table has a secret, every smile has a price, every darling who walks through the door thinks they can beat the odds. The girls at the bar whisper in satin and pearls, the dealers never blink, and the band keeps playing like nothing wicked ever happens after midnight.
Champagne for the winners, whiskey for the men who lose with dignity, and silence for the ones who don’t. Somewhere behind the private doors, deals are made with gloved hands and dangerous promises. Pretty boys in sharp suits linger too long near the roulette wheel, bruised romantics gamble with their hearts, sweet fools mistake kindness for mercy, and loyal monsters wait in the shadows for one word from her.She runs the room like a queen with a loaded deck, all perfume, powder, diamonds, and danger. The house knows your name before you give it. The house knows what you want before you ask.
Luck is a lady, but tonight she belongs to the woman upstairs counting chips beneath a golden lamp. Play nice, sweetheart. Watch your hands. Mind your mouth. Bet carefully. Around here, the cards remember everything, the dice never lie, and the house always wins.
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