#dominic pascal

Companion piece to:

Cigars - Chicago's most feared mafia don comes home to find a surprise in his study.

Old Fashioned Manners - You return home to find Chicago's most feared mafia don in your house.

There’s lipstick on his cheek, Dom can’t stop looking at it as he stares at himself in the gold gilded mirror in his bathroom, his shirt hanging open, a strand of his usually coiffed hair falling across his forehead.

He should wash it off but the stain, it’s like a brand, reminding him of the press of your body against his as you kissed him goodbye. Your soft curves against his hard edges.

He wonders what would have happened if he decided not to be such a gentleman, if he’d kissed you the way that he had wanted to. If you would have yielded to him, or if like he suspects you’d be a force of nature, tearing the buttons off his shirt as he hiked that dress up your thighs, burying himself deep in you on that kitchen island.

He would have spent the rest of the night in your bed, his lips chasing over your skin, exploring every inch of you. Learning what made your breath hitch, your hands clutch the sheets, your back arch.

He strips off his shirt, tossing it in the laundry hamper but the mark stays, clinging to his skin the same way your perfume does.

When he steps into his bedroom, his gaze come to rest on his bed. The one that’s been empty since he killed Monica. He imagines you in the sheets, hair fanned out, skin flush and there’s a stirring in him one so strong that he ends up picking up his phone and texting your number.

I didn’t want to leave tonight…

You can always back, bring one of those fancy bottles of wine.

Tomorrow?

Actually, I was thinking tonight…

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Companion piece to:

Cigars - Chicago's most feared mafia don comes home to find a surprise in his study.

You’re welcomed home by scent of lilies.

Flowers that have no place in your house because you certainly did not buy them. They rest on the sideboard in your open plan kitchen/dining space, a rich burgundy that reminds you of blood.

You lean against the doorframe, surveying the man standing at your kitchen island in a seven thousand dollar with the shirt sleeves rolled up and a navy-blue apron you certainly don’t own. He kneads dough on the counter, the veins in his muscular arms popping as he exudes a power that gets you more than a little wet between your legs.

“Pour yourself a glass of wine.” Dom says, jerking his head towards the uncorked bottle of red residing on the set kitchen table. There’s a crystal bowl of floating candles in the centre, each one hand carved into the shape of a lily. “I thought maybe we could talk about your proposal while we wait for the dough to rise.”

“So, you broke into my house to make dinner for me.” You say pushing off the doorframe and reaching for the wine. It’s a Pinot Noir that costs over $25k at retail because it’s from tiny 4-acre vineyard in Burgandy. You raise your eyebrows, your thumb running over the red wax seal before you begin to fill both glasses.

“You broke into my home first.” He reminds you, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he drives his knuckles into the dough. “I thought it was kind of our thing.”

Our thing…

The way he says it sends a rush of heat through your body as you carry the wine towards the kitchen island.

“The flowers…” You begin, and he looks up for the first time capturing your gaze. His eyes are warm and dark, like honey being dripped across your skin. Your teeth sink into your lower lip at the thought of that, his strong hands guiding your legs apart as he licks it off your inner thigh. His gaze fastens on the action, his pupils dilating.

“I’m an excellent house guest.” He informs you, the scar on his upper lip deepening as he gives you that salacious smile. “I always bring a gift for the host.”

Oh, you like him, really fucking like him. Those old-fashioned manners wrapped up in nontraditional values. You didn’t expect that from a man who runs the biggest crime syndicate in this state.

“So, what are you making me?” You say, using two fingers to push his wine glass towards him.

“Pizza.” He tells you as he folds the dough again, driving his palms into it. “My nonna used to make the best pie this side of Chicago, she passed it down me as a little boy.” His nonna also used launder cash and smuggle heroin through the dozens of pizzerias she owned throughout the city. She’d managed to walk away untouched when the indictment came down in the 70s, starting up her business once again when the heat died down. “I had to buy in some groceries though, I gather you’re not a stay at home and cook kinda gal.”

“I’m not.” You say, slipping into one of the stools at the kitchen island. “So, if you’re looking for a trad wife to fill that big empty house of yours…”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Trust me if that was what I wanted I have plenty of pretty young things lining up to take up the mantle.”

“I noticed.” You say, your fingertips playing along the stem of your wineglass. “I also noticed you didn’t seem particularly interested in any of them.”

“They don’t want me.” He says frankly as he rolls the dough into a ball between his hands. He reaches for the mixing bowl he’s lightly oiled before placing it inside and covering it with a damp towel. “They want the prestige that comes with fucking the Head of the Pascal Family.”

“It looks like you learned your lesson from Monica.” You remark, sipping from your wineglass. His head jerks up, that honey turning molten as he fixes you with stare makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out. “Maybe not.”

“You know.” He states, his floured palms grasping the kitchen island, the skin across his knuckles tightening as he grips it. “That’s why you came to me about Vale?”

“Yes, I know she was his mole. That she was feeding him information on your operations to him over pillow talk while screwing him behind your back.” The words strike him like bullets, searing through his skin as he tries not to flinch. “You pretend to be the grieving widow but… we both know that her car accident wasn’t such an accident.”

“Who the fuck are you?” He snarls the words into the space between you, and in that moment you see the man from all those stories, the one that tore snitches apart by tying their wrists and ankles to two separate cars, who beat a cop to death for trying to extort him, leaving the body on the steps of his precinct. A betrayal like Monica’s, the punishment couldn’t be public like that. It was too intimate, too painful, it would have to look like an accident because anything else would mean that he was weak, that he’d let the snake into his bed and allowed himself to get bitten.

“You know who I am.” You say, swirling the wine around your glass. “And you know how I know what I know.”

He pauses, the cogs turning in his brain. You wait patiently, raising your glass to your lips as he clicks his fingers. “The sister.” His voice filled with disbelief. “The one that disappeared, the one that everyone thought the Flaconnis had burned alive in an oil drum out on the wastelands.”

“A good reason to go to war, no?” You say, your fingers hooking in the neckline of your dress, pulling the fabric away from your skin. His lips purse into a furious line as he takes in the bullet wound above your left breast, just shy of where your heart should be. “Since I didn’t want to marry, Stephen decided I was worth more to him dead. He put a bullet in me, dumped me on their land with the intention of gaining support from the other families so he could take over their territory. The only problem is he didn’t finish the job so when he went to get fuel for his little bonfire…”

“You escaped.” He summarises, his palm rubbing across his mouth as he stares at you. The edges of his lips curl up, an unexpected bark of laughter erupting from deep his chest. “The look on his fucking face when he came back to find you gone… I wish I could have seen it…”

A ghost of a smile crosses your lips as you release the fabric of your dress, covering the scar once more. “Honestly, I do too. I had enough of my own finances squirrelled away to vanish for a while, recover but now…”

“Now you want revenge.” He says, nodding his head with understanding.

“Yes. I know you do too for him turning Monica.” You say meeting his gaze. “I don’t give a shit about the rest of the organisation, you can have that, absorb it into your own. I just want to look him in the eyes as I pull the trigger, I want him to know it was me that terrorized him, that dismantled his life piece by piece.”

“What you’re asking for…” He leans over the counter, his elbows resting on it as it brings him into your proximity. You can smell the aftershave that clings to his skin. Agarwood, Turkish rose and amber. It’s a delectable scent, rich, smoky, woodsy with just the slightest floral hint to take the edge off. It tells of unspoken nights, of calloused hands roaming over bare skin, a gruff whisper in your ear as fingers squeeze your throat, raw heat driven deep into you. “…it’s going to require us working together… very closely. Things like this, they take time, planning.”

“I know.” You say conspiratory, tilting your face so the tip of your nose brushes light over his. “It’ll mean lots more wine, dinners, cigars, who knows what else we’ll get into.”

“I’ve been burned before…”

“I know.” You say earnestly, tapping the space above your heart. “So, have I. I can tell you I won’t betray you, but I know… it doesn’t make a difference, that actions speak louder than words so I… I actually have a gift for you.”

You break away, rising to your feet, returning to the purse you’ve left by the door. You dig around in it for a second, removing a black velvet box that usually used for bracelets. His eyebrows raise as you place it on the counter, sliding it towards him. He picks it up, his mouth flattening into a line as he open it, reviewing the item inside.

It’s a man’s finger, wrinkled and tanned with a huge gold signet ring attached to the base. In the centre is a polished red garnet, one that he recognises almost immediately as belonging his head of security.

“Monica wasn’t the only rat in your organization.” You inform him as he sets it down between the two of you. “Don’t worry, I took care of this one for you.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

Companion piece to:

Cigars - Chicago's most feared mafia don comes home to find a surprise in his study.

Old Fashioned Manners - You return home to find Chicago's most feared mafia don in your house.

The Lipstick Stain - Dom still wears your lipstick stain like a brand.

You’re wearing gold silk when you open the door. It clings to you in all the places that Dom’s fantasised about as he steps over the threshold and into your sanctuary. His mouth claims yours, a filthy, demanding kiss as he slams the door shut behind him, rattling the windows as his arm loops around your waist, hauling you against his muscular form.

Your teeth sink into his lower lip, and he moans at the burst of pain as he pushes you up against the sideboard, his arm sweeping your belongings off it and onto the plush carpet. You slide onto the surface, thighs parting for him and he takes up residence between them, his ramrod cock throbbing against your core.

You grab a fistful of his hair and that delicious pain prickles through his scalp, causing sparks to shoot through his nerve endings. He grunts as his mouth is pulled away from yours so you can place teasing kisses along his jaw. You seek out his pulse point, sucking on the tender flesh until he arches against you, driving his cock into warmth between your thighs. Your teeth graze his skin, biting but not breaking the skin, marking him as your own.

Fuck… how long has it been since he belonged to someone, since they scored his flesh with their desire.

Too long he thinks as your fingertips hook in the bottom of the t-shirt he threw on before coming over, drawing it up along his body. It’s been too long since he’s been touched by another person, since he’s felt their hands caressing his skin, their fingertips tracing over his scars with a reverence like the way yours are.

Monica used to hate them but you, you have your own scars, you understand the story they leave upon your skin.

His fingertips trace down your throat, caressing the curve of your shoulder, guiding the slender gold strap of your chemise down your arm so it falls away revealing the bullet hole that almost ended your life. His gaze fixes on it and you misread his interest, moving to push the strap back up.

“No.” His voice is rough as he speaks, his hand enclosing over yours. “I want to see it, I want to see every part of you.”

His fingers guide the strap back down, his mouth capturing yours as he does the same with the other. The silk starts to slip, revealing more of you as he guides it lower until your breasts are free and it pools around your hips.

“You are so fucking beautiful.” He murmurs, his lips ghosting over your soft skin as he cups your breasts between his rough palms, kneading. “I just want to get on my knees and worship every inch of you.”

“Promises, promises.” You tease and Dom decides to put his money where his mouth his and sink down between those thighs of yours.

He presses his face between your legs, inhaling the sweet scent of your arousal through the silk. His warm breath ghosts across your clit, making you lean back against your hands as his own slide under the chemise, grasping your ass pulling you against his hot, wanton mouth.

You keen as his molten tongue explores you through the silk draped there, the friction an intoxicating high as you rock against his face. His fingers grasp the fabric, dragging it down your thighs, leaving you completely bare for him. Your cunt glistens for him,  dripping all over the sideboard. His cock throbs with approval as he peppers kisses along your thighs, spreading them wider with his large hands so he can see all of you.

“So, fucking pretty.” He murmurs his thumb strumming up and down your clit, soaking it. “I think she needs a kiss.”

He leans in close, his lips brushing over your clit in a graceful flutter of butterfly wings. He knows that pleasure isn’t brute force, it’s delicacy, it’s giving your lover just enough of what they want but not quite enough.

“Fuck…” You drawl out, your nails raking over his muscular shoulders as he places playful, teasing kisses over every inch of your slit. “Oh God Dom.”

He smirks against your pussy as his knuckles rub against your seam. Your wetness coats the gold and onyx signet ring he wears on his finger, smearing it with your juices. Your teeth sink into your lower lip as the cool metal adds additional texture to your pleasure, elevating it with its cool edges. He sucks lightly on your clit, and your fingers grasp the nape of his neck, keeping him close as he eases a thick finger into you. Your breath catches and his own cock twitches, leaking into his trousers at how tight you are.

You haven’t been with a man for a long time, he can tell and he feels satisfaction course through his system, knowing he’s the one you decide to give yourself over too, the one you trust despite his reputation.

He crooks his finger and you let out the most beautiful sound as he hits that sweet spot. His tongue is back on your clit, delicate flicks that drive you higher and higher until you clench around his finger, until his name spills off your lips into the ether and you gush against his mouth.

He licks it up, that liquid ambrosia making his cock ache as he removes himself from your body and raises up between your thighs. Your head rests against the wall behind you, skin flushed as you look at him with eyes that spark like diamonds. His palms come to rest on either end of the sideboard, caging you in as his lips chase up your decadent throat, the heat from his body warming your skin.

“More?” He asks and you nod your head unable to speak.

“Ok honey.” He whispers, guiding your arms around his neck, your fingers lacing at the nape as he picks you up, wrapping your thighs around his hips. “Let’s go find your bedroom.”

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here! Or be a sweetheart and drop me comment or reblog.

Companion piece to:

Slim Jim - Dom meets the love of his life in an unusual circumstance.

Small Talk - Dom’s assumptions about being ghosted after the night you spent together prove incorrect.

The Shit Show - Dom’s plans to propose go array when he’s called out to an industrial fire.

Miami - Dom reflects on what brought the two of you back to Chicago.

Slutty - You remind Dom that he has a wife to come home to.

Masochist - Dom proves himself to be a masochist when it comes to work.

Handcuffs (NSFW) - Dom earns your forgiveness the only way he knows how.

Resting Bitch Face - You discover Dom’s been keeping secrets about Bishop.

Shady - Dom goes to great lengths to protect you.

Feral Bitches - Dom knows you’ve always been a feral bitch.

Harri (NSFW) - Dom knows exactly how to take care of you.

The Work Shirt (NSFW) - You decide to torture Dom when he works late.

Zombie - You return home to find Dom playing the cello for the first time in over a year.

A Shitty Husband - Dom makes a realisation after yet another long shift.

Another day, another week without seeing his wife.

Dom’s getting tired of this shit.

The exhaustion settles in his bones as he sags back into his chair, his fingertips rubbing the tender spot between his eyes where another headaches is brewing. He’s been getting more of them the days, it’s the caffeine he thinks. He guzzling the stuff trying to keep himself awake, trying to force himself to keep going.

His phone chimes, your name popping up on the screen.

Another nightshift, he guesses.

Your new gig, his new gig… they’re not compatible.

Dom doesn’t know what to do about it. He does know it’s coming to a breaking point, that one of you will have to give. Him with his thirty year career or you with your twenty five years of service.

It’s an impossible decision.

He sighs as he picks up his phone, his thumb swiping up to read the message.

Remember this? you’ve written.

The attachment is a picture of the two of you in Antigua. You’re clad in a lime green bikini he took off you with his teeth and he’s in a set of beach shorts he wouldn’t be caught dead in back the US. He remembers the scent of coconut sun cream clinging to your skin as he made love to you in a cabana, the sun setting in the distance as you came so hard on his cock you’d made him see stars.

Can we go back there? The next line reads.

His eyes, they fucking sting because he understands what you’re really asking.

Can we go back to being us?

All this pain, all this sacrifice… what’s it all for in end? A pat on the back, another couple of firehouses shoved onto this rotation. More sleepless nights. More time spent away from the woman he loves more than anything else in this world.

What is the fucking point?

There isn’t one, he realises. It’s just an endless loop that keeps going until he ends up in a world of resentment or divorce papers in his lap.

Dom, he can’t do this anymore, he can’t keep putting you in second place. Not after Miami, not after he came so close to losing you the first time.

We should book a vacation, he texts back before he writes his letter of resignation. Somewhere warm with sun, sea and just the two of us.

Love Dom? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

Companion piece to:

Slim Jim - Dom meets the love of his life in an unusual circumstance.

Small Talk - Dom’s assumptions about being ghosted after the night you spent together prove incorrect.

The Shit Show - Dom’s plans to propose go array when he’s called out to an industrial fire.

Miami - Dom reflects on what brought the two of you back to Chicago.

Slutty - You remind Dom that he has a wife to come home to.

Masochist - Dom proves himself to be a masochist when it comes to work.

Handcuffs (NSFW) - Dom earns your forgiveness the only way he knows how.

Resting Bitch Face - You discover Dom's been keeping secrets about Bishop.

Shady - Dom goes to great lengths to protect you.

Feral Bitches - Dom knows you've always been a feral bitch.

Harri (NSFW) - Dom knows exactly how to take care of you.

The Work Shirt (NSFW) - You decide to torture Dom when he works late.

Zombie - You return home to find Dom playing the cello for the first time in over a year.

It’s late when Dom gets home, far later than he intended.

Being the Battalion Chief for four firehouses has him run ragged. Everytime, he puts out one fire, another seems to pop up, taking up his time, his attention. Things he should be giving to his long-suffering wife, the one who’s been telling him to slow down over the past couple of weeks because she’s terrified of him having a heart attack.

“I’m not retiring.” He’d snapped at you when you’d brought it up over breakfast. “This is just temporary…”

You’d scoffed at that and you’d had a right to because you’ve both seen shit like this before, you’re damned if you do a good job because it means the budget cut was worth it and damned if you don’t because the blame is cast on you.

“I’m not asking you to retire, I’m just saying don’t put up and shut up.” You’d responded carrying your bowl to the sink. “Tell them it’s unfeasible, make a big deal out of it, otherwise next year you’ll end up with six firehouses and then we really won’t be seeing each other.”

Yeah… because that, that is becoming a problem.

He finds you asleep on the couch when he steps into the living room. One hand is placed under your cheek, the other tucked into your chest. His cello concerto is playing in the background, the one that got him into Julliard.

You were waiting up for him, he realises, his heart sinking as he sets his kit bag down alongside the couch. You must be missing him.

The back of his hand graces your cheek, his fingers chasing along the over your soft skin, stroking tenderly. You don’t respond to his touch, you must be too exhausted. He’s not the only one with new responsibilities, you’ve taken over Vehicle Crimes from Vito Trussoni after he was successfully ousted, and to say it’s a mess is an understatement.

He hasn’t even got to hear about the worst of it because you’re already asleep by the time he gets in after shift. The morning conversations are dominated by him and his issues, not by what’s going on with you.

Christ… he scrubs his palm over his features. I’m a shitty fucking husband.

Truly he doesn’t know how you put with him.

“I’m sorry Harri.” He whispers, leaning over and pressing his lips to your temple. “I’ll try to do better, I promise.”

Love Dom? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee