Cass 🌀

The knocks on your door come quick — a little overzealous, really, knocking a little more than is comfortable in the span of 5 seconds.

You take your time; put down your gin and tonic, set aside your laptop, slide on your fuzzy slippers. You even take a moment to look at yourself in the mirror in the hallway — your hair, damp from the shower, hanging past your shoulders; the oversized t-shirt that you're pretty sure is his, the little peek of your panties beneath it.

Ur bf has gone crazy lol, BB's message had said. The tone was entirely serious. Idk what happened but he really scared me.

Daniel is not your boyfriend — sure, he pays for your dinner and drinks (not that you're hurting for money — it just makes him feel ever so manly), and he walks you home, covers your cabs… You fuck regularly, and he refers to you as his girl for social brownie points when he's networking (which you've scolded him for more than once — ew, don't ever do that), but you're very deliberately withholding the title until he deserves it. Which will likely be never.

You tend to regard him as more of a pet that you keep around for your amusement. He can be sweet sometimes, if not stupid; a massive pushover, which is just your type, and endearingly, pathetically weak where you're concerned. Being around him is a constant power trip. How could you ever feel powerless when there's a guy tripping over himself to please you?

But then, of course, nothing stays perfect for too long. His new job in the Mayor's office has been throwing a wrench in your works. Wilson Fisk is a psychopathic asshole — your father has done enough business with him to attest to it — and he gives you the heebie-jeebies, but Daniel likes him for whatever reason. You think it's a little embarrassing, but whatever — the guy ended up Mayor, so clearly enough people were up his ass.

You've already had an inkling that the job is making him a little too big for his britches. He's a little less lenient — pushing back in that gentle way of his when you urge him to stay out longer, stay in longer, buy you this, buy you that. And then BB's message came, and what else can you do? There's no point in having a dog if it's untrained.

"Danny!" you exclaim as you open the door, a brilliant grin on your face. "What're you doin' here? It's almost tomorrow."

He's got these round, hazel eyes that always look a little sad, like you just stole his ice cream and squished it on the ground — and he fixes you with them now, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon. Up, down. Takes in your hair, your bare legs. The dewiness of your skin, fresh from the shower and perfumed. When you pull the door open further he shuffles inside, jaw set, but seems to think better of the slump in his shoulders: as you close it behind him, you see him straighten up in your peripheral, puffing up his chest as if to bolster himself. It would almost be charming if he hadn't been behaving so poorly.

You turn the lock (you might be living in the Upper East Side, but nobody's lived long in New York being careless), and when you turn around he's right in front of you, chest to chest, nearly, his head bowed to meet your gaze. The air between you tenses and stills. It's electric, that precipice — that moment where you meet eyes and know that things are only a moment from tipping. Your stomach swoops pleasantly.

(Control yourself, Jesus.

…

You were voted most likely to become a dictator in high school.)

"You okay?" you ask, blinking innocently. "You look a little ragged—"

"I'm gonna talk, and you're gonna listen," Daniel interrupts, voice shaking. "I've — I've taken a lotta shit from you, okay? So I'm — I'm gonna tell you how things're gonna go from now on."

You raise a brow.

"I work for the Mayor of New York," he says. "I'm basically his right fuckin' hand man—" He is decidedly not his right hand man— "and I work hard, okay? It's nothin' to sniff at. And I don't ask for much, I spoil you like a princess, so either you get to respecting me, or we're through."

His breathing is heavy again. His eyes are wide, like he can't believe he just said that to you, spoke to you like that. It must've taken a lot of courage. You wonder if he practised on the cab ride over, muttering beneath his breath, red in the face at the thought.

Slowly, a gentle pout coming to your lips, you smooth your hands up his arms. The cotton is impossibly soft for how tense he is beneath it; it was one of the first things you taught him. A good two piece, and you can weasel yourself in almost anywhere. Nobody listens to the schmuck in the ill-fitting suit. His Adam's apple bobs as your fingers trail to his shoulders, then, inching closer and closer to his neck. You take hold of his tie, rubbing your thumb over the width of it. Navy blue, spotted with periwinkle. You told him once the colour suited him and he's worn it ever since. It's a nice tie. Cashmere, you think. You can sniff the stuff out like a hound.

In the blink of an eye, your grip tights, yanking him down roughly — and with a yelp like a wounded dog, he follows, almost butting into you head first. He's so close, now: you can feel the heat of his quickening breath against your lips, the curve of his stomach against your front. He always runs so warm, Danny.

"Did you mean to say that?" you say, tilting your head. You pull harder. A tight, choked sound gargles in his throat. (You aren't actually choking him — he'd like it too much. Probably cum in his pants. Wouldn't be the first time.) "Maybe you got a little confused, Danny; I know you're losing out on sleep with the new job. I don't like when people talk to me like that, okay?"

Another sound of indignation. "I — you —!"

"No, no," you say, eyes narrowing. "That's okay, you don't need to speak. That's no way to talk to me, is it?"

His eyes are wide, his mouth open in that stupid way of his. It's difficult to render him speechless. He likes talking. Whether he says anything worth listening to is another conversation entirely.

Idly, as if warmth isn't pooling between your legs at the sight of him literally bending to your whim, you let a hand drift from his tie. Down his chest, and his soft stomach, to the front of his pants — and lo and behold. A breathy grunt escapes him when you tighten your hand over the bulge that tented his trousers.

"Oh," you coo. "Did that get you hard? Or did you pop a boner in the cab, thinkin' about how bad you were gonna put me in my place?" You snort. "Oh, you really stuck it to me, didn't you? You poor thing. Are you disappointed?"

He gives something between a nod and a shake of his head, and you roll your eyes. Classic Daniel — couldn't even commit to a yes or no. Really, the mind boggles, but you suppose he's really found his niche in politics, being as weaselly as he is. His gaze has dropped to your chest. God, he's weak.

"Look at me, Danny. C'mon, yep. Listen — I know you have no problem being Fisk's bitch, sweetie," you said. "But you're not, are you? You're my bitch, Danny. I had you first. 'Kay?"

Daniel swallows. His cheeks are flushed. Easy. "I… I… fuck, okay. Y—yes. Yeah."

"The correct response is yes, baby."

"…Yes, baby."