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You laugh it off, still delirious in exhaustion. "Jace, what time is it?"

He doesn't answer you, and you barely notice. After a hefty yawn, you follow his hold out of bed and pull pants on. You'd be more concerned about your state of undress if—once again—you weren't so exhausted.

"Listen," he says your name with such desperation in his tone. It's enough to sober your mind. "I'm want to let you in on something important."

Your eyes squint at what you might be lured into, but he pulls you in. The sight of his gaze steals your breath, and you bite your lip. Just his presence silences you, his hands are warm, and he looks at you so sweetly. Surely, whatever Jace wants to bring you into would be well worth it.

You nod, and he relaxes. "C'mon, Mike's waiting." He cooes.

You know Mike, the two of you have met a couple times—usually due to Jace. He's another interesting character, the way he conducts himself does light something within you. He's passionate, that much is certain, but he's also influential. You've always noticed how Jace falls under his spell, and you can't help it either. He's got a way about him that just draws you in, he's fun in a way that you can't deny.

Jace's hand is in yours, and you feel your pulse pick up as you follow. His grasp is comforting as you stumble out of the room. His shirt is off, which gives you the wonderful view of his thick and freckled back. He's muscle and mass, a delicious combination that brings a rise from between your legs. Maybe you'd get lucky and be lead to the threesome you'd had a few dreams about since you've met the pair.

He takes you outside of the dorm, and you start to wonder more about what exactly you've involved yourself in. Still, you follow, trusting your friend with your best interest. Jace begins to take you further out, and you find your nerves growing more tense. Maybe he sees it in your face or in the sudden strength in your grip, but he turns back and smiles at you.

"Don't worry, I'd never let anything happen to you." His voice fills your veins and flows into you. "You'll love this."

The two of you find Mike waiting in his car, playing a rock song you find brings some energy back to you. The urge to bop your head almost overtakes your sleepy disposition.

He grins at your approach, leaning his elbow out of the window. "Hey, glad you could make it!"

You shoot him a nod, and he returns it with a wink as he unlocks the car doors. Before you can claim the back seat, Jace leads you to shotgun. Mike takes your hand and pulls you in while your roommate finds a place in the back.

"Don't worry, killer. I won't bite unless you want me to." He pokes out his forked tongue, and you feel heat hit your face.

You shove his arm playfully, trying to hide your embarrassment in your laughter. "Where are you two taking me, anyway?"

Mike's smile remains, but there's an intensity you hadn't seen on him before. He glances at Jace, who leans casually against the back of the other's seat. Their eyes return to you, now more curious and cautious than ever.

"We're about to change your fucking life."

Now, you're really hoping it's the threesome.

The car takes off and you begin down the road, away from the college. The ride is fun, you sing songs so loud, the radio is pretty much useless and shoot the shit with two hot guys. You're having a good time, and this feels well worth the wake up. It's when the car halts in front of an abandoned warehouse that you start to sit uncomfortably in your seat. They've never taken you anywhere like this before. The possibility of being killed is now heavy in your mind.

Surely they wouldn't do that to you, right? Why would they?

"Guys, I—"

"Come on, quick." The command leaves Mike's mouth, and both men hurry out the car, Jace moving to your door to help you out.

You tug your arm from his touch, nervousness clear on your face. He blinks at you before holding his hand out to you, letting you take your time. Slowly, you let your shoulders relax as your palm lays into his. Jace hasn't steered you wrong before, he's always been there. The day of an exam where you forgot to study, he spent the whole morning refreshing you. Once, when you'd left your wallet at home, he bought your lunch. Sometimes he'd do it even when you did have your money.

You may not know Mike as well, but he also has his moments. You were stuck at a party, hiding in a bathroom and sobbing for a reason you no longer could recall. However, he found you and took you home without any issue. These two, they're your friends, they care for you. You can trust them.

You grab Jace's hand and follow, spotting Mike leaning against the doorway with a slight air of impatience. He brightens up when you two walk towards him hand in hand, pushing the door open with his hip. He disappears into the shadows of the building, waiting for you both to join him.

The first thing you notice, besides the unyielding darkness, is the stench. There's a heavy amount of dust that confuses your senses, but there is no mistaking that coppery smell and the sickly sweet one that joins with it. You hold onto Jace tighter, not sure what else you can depend on when the door slams closed behind you.

A lighter clicks, and you spot Mike's face glowing above the small flame. The sound of your name on his lips captures your attention and your dread.

"There's something missing in the world, nowadays." He lowers the lighter to a candle wick, the flame catching and growing even brighter. "But we've seen it in you, and we know you can see it too."

Your brows furrow, but before you can speak a word, Jace brings you closer. Mike lights more candles before standing and joining the two of you.

"I don't know what you mean." You mutter, worried to disappoint.

"You will." Jace whispers in your ear.

You should ask more questions, find out what that smell is, or even just run, but when Jace's lips are on your shoulder and Mike's press against your own, your brain fogs. Hands begin to search your body, and you can barely tell whose who in the dark. They move under your clothes and consume your skin with their touch. Your legs spread slightly as they grind on you in unison, and you moan against grinning lips. Mike drags his forked tongue over your mouth, and you feel his piercing brush your skin. Jace pulls you back against him, pressing his growing erection against the softness of your backside.

Fingers begin to push the waist band of your pants down before the tension is interrupted by a muffled scream. You flinch, and Jace catches you, keeping his firm arms around your body as Mike steps away.

He takes his lighter and, this time, takes a small can from the ground with him. Liquid drips out onto the concrete floor, but he's gone far enough from youthat you still can't see what he's doing. The sounds don't stop, and you're starting to feel sick.

Someone is here.

Flames burst up in a circle, following the trail Mike's left. It surrounds and illuminates a man gagged and bound. He panics further, but the fire doesn't reach him. The circle is just wide enough to simply make him sweat and keep him from escape.

The sight is terrible enough that you attempt to jerk from the hold you're in, but Jace doesn't release you.

Your fight begins to grow stronger, and Mike rushes up to you, hands up in a calming gesture. "Hey, hey."

"Don't you recognize him?" He asks, and you're forced to take a second look at the horror show in front of you.

It takes a minute, but you do. A dude you knew in high school that followed you to college and decided the sight of you having fun wasn't right. You assumed—at the time—that you both had grown out of it, but he still seems to hate you, and you can't understand why. He humiliated you at that party, he harasses you and spreads rumours about you constantly. Does that mean he deserves to be here, for whatever sick thing your friends are trying to get you to take part in?

Mike takes something from Jace—and only when it's pointed at the man—can you tell what it is. A knife with detailed engravings and decal, ritualistic in nature. This is all far too much for you to handle in your state of mind. You feel your eyes beginning to water.

Your body is trembling as you form words. "What the fuck is going on?"

He idly waves the knife in his hand, pacing slightly. "Our friend here loves to dish out pain, but he doesn't know it. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he's never suffered."

"So how can he really give something he's never had?" Mike's words are spoken with such ease that you momentarily wonder if he's rehearsed this.

"We've found something." His eyes don't leave yours for a second, locking you in his stare. "Something that brings not only pain, but pleasure and—this world is dripping with apathy, no one gives a fuck about anything anymore!" He yells, the sound making you flinch.

You see Jace move in the corner of your eye, and Mike relaxes in turn. "We want you to feel this with us, I promise then—you'll understand."

He turns the handle of the blade to you, and you find yourself completely stunned. There can't be a right answer here besides running, but the idea of having to abandon the only friends you have and go back to a life of solitude seems to ache you just as badly.

This man they've kidnapped, he's not innocent, far from it. He hadn't known pain, and it's not fair that you did.

"We want you to join us, we want you to show the world what we've discovered." Jace mutters against your cheek, his fingers intertwining with yours. "We want you."

Maybe it's the lack of sleep, the rush of arousal still lingering in between your legs or who the messages are coming from, but you reach out. Your fingers wrap around the blade, and you feel Jace's hold relent, allowing Mike to be the one to guide you.

"Show him what you got, killer." His voice lights your body up, and something else takes over.

It's a rush as you drag the man through the flames by his ankle, his body swiftly beneath you. Naturally, you hesitate, but Jace joins you, and Mike's hold moves over your hands. Every cut, every incision, and stab is aided with their help. You feel like a ghost watching over the scenario, as if Mike and Jace are in control of your body. A demonic possession that you allow with an eagerness.

Suddenly, you're sitting on the cold ground, and the knife is on your side. The body isn't moving, did you kill him? A cut drags on your waist, and you whine before lips are pressed onto it. You look into Mike's eyes as his mouth ventures down between your legs, finally freeing you of your clothes and underwear. Jace holds the blade against your throat, drawing bloody lines and cleaning them up with his tongue.

Your body trembles as they show you both heaven and hell with tongue and blade, blood and ecstasy. They devour you, and you know, even now, so much more awaits you.

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The thing is, for all of the barbs and hatred and vitriol that they’ve expressed between each other both verbally, physically—morally—perhaps—they always meet once a month for cards. Blackjack, specifically.

It’s the one that Matt can determine the braille on the embossed side the easiest, without giving away the game to Frank and Dex.

And for some reason, once you catch wind of it, the next thing on Frank’s mouth is “why don't you come along with us?”

“Who, me?” You ask with a wry grin. “I’m no good at betting games.”

“Don’t have to play—just keep Red company,” Frank jerks with his head over to Matt, who reclines on an armchair with a grimace of being caught out. “‘Specially when me and Dex wipe the floor with ‘im.”

“Gambling is not one of the virtues upheld by Catholics,” Matt mutters back in good-natured defense. You watch Frank chuckle at the gun he’s swabbing loose powder from.

“Yeah, neither’s dressin’ up at night and beating the fuck outta criminals,” Frank grins at you—you can’t help but resist a small smile of your own—“—But I don’t see you talkin’ bout that in your conversations with God.”

“Different strokes,” you suggest back with a chuckle as Frank sends you a knowing wink. You like him the best out of Matt’s alter-ego friends—something so bracing and without airs that he puts on for you.

“So, how’s about it?” Frank asks. “We’re meetin’ up tomorrow. Maybe it’ll get our third to stop runnin’ his mouth for a second.”

You doubt it—and yet here you are, sitting by the edge of the table, watching as the three of them exchange cards. Surprisingly—the fact that a veneer of civility is exchanged between the three of them is astounding to you, given the history.

Frank sits opposite you, working a stogie in the champ of his teeth that issues that acrid smoke in wreathing manner around his frame. He’s the dealer, interestingly enough. But you suppose neither Dex nor Matt would trust each other enough to let the other dole out the cards.

“Didn’t know Matt had a good luck charm,” you hear that husky, unfamiliar voice croon across the distance of the table—and so you turn to your left to look at the demon near-perched on your shoulder.

Watch the languid yet stiff way that he reclines at his straight-backed chair, his eyes watching you carefully. Perceiving everything that you do as you observe the nuances of this peace-time game.

“Gotta have something in his favor,” you send back easily, trying not to obviously bristle under that unnatural stare. There’s something uncanny in that handsome pair of eyes, in that set of that jaw that works rabid grin. He’s sizing you up.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Dex sends back, and finally his eyes drag off of yours to look across the table, to your right. “Wouldn’t wanna go home with his tail between his legs.”

At this, you finally turn to settle your gaze to Matt, who sits in unnaturally cool repose, a jaunty smirk that works over his face as he return ire of gaze in directionless sights.

“Don’t mind him—”—Matt says your name with a slant of possessiveness that even in this smoky room you cannot ignore—“—When we go home, you can tell me your honest opinion of him.”

When we go home—staking territory not quite claimed, cutting lines into the sand between you and Dex. It’s such a startling overture that you can’t help but cock up an eyebrow in game surprise, though you don’t correct him. Though Dex already is making suffused chuckle between his teeth as he lounges back in his seat.

“No need to lie to me, sweetheart,” Dex croons back, in bid to make you return your attention back to him, “I don’t get my feelings hurt too bad.”

“Is that so?” You ask calmly, pressing your cheek into the curve of your palm. “I find that a little hard to believe.”

He displays teeth at this, impressed by your advancing offense. His reply is calm, collected.

“The packaging the words come in make a lot easier to hear,” he sends back, and when his eyes trail hot fire down the length of your body, you have to ignore the tactile goosebumps that are sent up it.

You can feel the way that Matt bristles besides you, take in the sharp albeit subdued intake of air that he makes—and you find yourself stymied without word to defend yourself with.

“Alright, ladies,” Frank cuts in, finally removing the cigar from his mouth with forefinger and thumb, “Let’s go ahead and play real nice now, okay?”

Dex retreats against the plateau of his chair with a smirk; in your periphery, you’re aware of the smile that grows on Matt’s own face, though it appears to be little more than rictus in imitation of the expression.

And you sit on the high-legged stool that you’ve taken grounding in to be witness to this tableau before you.

“I can if you can, Dex,” Matt replies back with same composed litigational intonation you’re used to hearing. You just don't usually hear the inlaid threat that comes carried in this one.

“No problem, Murdock.” Dex says. You catch the way that his eyes dart back over to you in interest, before working to accept the cards that are sent careening in direct arc from the deal of Frank’s hands.

For a second, there’s only a brief moment of contemplation as they take straight-faced observation over their cards. Dex looks at the card that is paired with his ace—Matt stares in unyielding fashion across the plateau of the table, his thumb working over the card that matches his King.

Frank takes a sizzling drag, issuing thick, arterial smoke that further clouds the heady atmosphere of the room.

“What’re we thinkin’, fellas?” Frank asks, once he deems that enough appropriate time has elapsed for them to have decided their strategy.

“Hit me,” Matt says without hesitation—Dex appears a little more reticent before he holds up an index to summon his own. Frank dutifully doles out the gold-backed cards for them to accept, as they consider the merit of their choices or not.

It’s here that Dex speaks. “How about a wager?”

“What kind of wager?” Matt asks with such immediacy that you wonder if it’s been premeditated. Or, if he is just simply expressing outward tension that he’s seemed to carry since the onset of this meeting. You watch as his knuckles jut through the housing of his skin, white-hot and clenched as they hold the cards he has yet to reveal.

“Think you know what I’m bettin’, Matt,” Dex returns back. There’s something hooded in the shadows that fall over Frank’s eyes as he takes reckoning of this. “But because I know you’re nervous about losin’ em, I’ll start small.”

Losing ‘em? What does that mean? You think across the perimeter of the table where a chain reaction seems to begin; how Matt’s shoulders bristle and tick out in barely-restrained ire seething beneath the surface. Frank makes a knowing chuckle at this, exhaling gust of excess into the dissipating air, Dex’s grin grows a little wider at the reactions instigated.

“I win next round,” Dex says in such velvet manner, and he says your name without even looking so that you’re slow to react, slow to realize what part you play in this, “—Takes a seat on my lap for the round.”

“No. Absolutely not,” Matt grinds through his teeth, so averse to the idea that you can’t help but be rendered immobilized by this wager made without even your input. Thankfully, Frank intercedes, holding out a broad hand that wields still-lit cigar, embers fading into the darkness that seems to swallow up the table.

“Easy, girlies,” Frank cuts in, “Think we oughta hear if they wanna piece of whatever dick-swingin’ you’re doin’.”

And at this, three pairs of eyes drag over to you; Matt’s head swivels to you with immediacy, Frank keeps level stare opposite you, Dex’s eyes slink over like glittering snake in the grass. All three waiting to hear your contribution to this discussion of rights to you, now that you’ve been given entry into the game.

You don’t know what you’re thinking, save for the electric heat that is thrumming through your body, through the charter of your veins, in the pulse between your legs. Matt draws still—and you wonder if he has already sensed what you have yet to confess.

“I get to decide if I’m okay with what you want me to do,” You say with stilted, halted thought conjured on spur-of-the-moment, “And in the meantime—I sit on Frank’s lap.”

At this, you see ripple of emotion work through the trio: Matt seems to bear resignation, Dex smug victory that spirits over his face—and Frank hoots aloud at the debacle.

“Don’t mind if I do, honey,” Frank pushes back from the table with a screech upon the linoleum, clapping a hand to the meat of his thigh. “Why dontcha come over and keep ol’ Frankie company from these two idiots?”

“Gladly,” you say, and when you stand, you hope that no one notices the tremble that your leg bears as you find your footing. As you walk over to Frank’s awaiting lap with a hand that lingers past the taper of Matt’s back, something coaxing and reassuring that makes him settle only a little.

“Happy you joined the party, sweetheart,” Frank says as he ticks out his leg for you to seat yourself upon. And do so with ease, feeling yourself conforming to the shape of his toned body, the scalding heat that seems to roil off of him, tasting the motes of cedar and teak that his cologne makes in dizzying olfactory blend.

You, for your part, play along, trying not to openly exude the anxiety that is leaching out of your body as you take comfort in Frank’s body.

“Are they usually this…adversarial?” You ask as Frank makes motion to re-collect the cards. Matt and Dex both do so obediently as they share the heat of exchanged stares. Frank chuckles, and the laugh roils through the the two of you.

“Usually. But they don’t have such high stakes on the line like this.” With one hand, you watch as he takes the 52-pickup and works it in the machinations of his fingers; the other hand takes steadying buoy on the meat of your bicep, rolling a soothing thumb up and down the skin.

You can’t help but melt into the touch, to which you receive a chuckle from Frank that goes to all the accessible parts of your body it can.

“That so?” You ask as he places the deck face down, the crook of his wrist displaying expert flex of fingers and muscle. The cards are dealt out again. Matt accepts. Dex gloats. Both of them bear kings.

“Feelin’ lucky, Matt?” Dex asks as he spares no more than instantaneous glance to his concealed card. Matt keeps impartial expression, neutral as he rolls his thumb over the embossed braille.

“Do you?” Matt asks back, and there’s a type of confidence that he bears in his voice. He does not move.

“Any of you girlies need another card?” Frank asks. You find yourself needing to wrap an arm around his torso as he leans over. Something odd is taking tumultuous flip in the pit of your stomach as they both stare each other down.

“Easy, hon,” Frank grins down at you as you tick your arm round the span of his back, “Might not wanna letcha go, you keep hangin’ on like that.”

“Can’t help it,” You mutter back; again, you’re rewarded with thundering rumble of laugh as he takes another drag of his cigar.

“I don’t need another card,” Dex returns with such smug, slick reassurance that you can’t deny the way that your heart begins to uptick in tempo.

“Neither do I.” Matt says—Dex’s teeth show in baring of canines.

“Alright. Read ‘em and weep, kiddies,” Frank says, his hand bracing as he holds you to him. And both of them reveal their cards—for brief second, you forget rules of the game as you comprehend the numbers, calculate the totals.

Dex bears King and Ten: 20. Matt bears King and ace: 21.

“No fuckin’ way,” Frank chortles. Matt’s real, genuine smile finally breaks dawn on the horizon of his face. And something releases tension in the length of your body. But Dex still continues to grin as his eyes find visual purchase upon you.

“Go find yer man,” Frank directs, clapping you gently on the shoulder to coax you up and off the safe ledge of his leg. There’s something buoyant that makes the tread of your walk light as you round the footage of the table, pausing right before Matt who beams up at you.

“Hi there, stranger.” You greet. “Mind if I sit on your lap?”

“Been waiting for you to say that for a while now,” Matt returns easily as he scoots back. When you ease down upon him, there’s something that feels so oddly fitting about the way that you relax against the plateau of his chest.

His hand settles in careful anchoring against the slope of your waist. And how easily your legs intersect in the spread of his own as you thank your good luck.

In the midst of the cozy atmosphere, Dex accepts the new cards that Frank has metered out to the two of them; Matt has to accept his one-handed as he holds you like prized possession you are.

The careful tempo of his heart thrums through you in careful deliberation, rooting you back into the moment.

“Next wager,” Dex says in easy deliberation, without looking at his second card, “They give a kiss.”

You will yourself to stay calm in the safe harbor of Matt’s arms, keep your heartbeat steady. You can already feel the possessive clutch of fingers that are working over your flesh, kneading you in mooring rhythm.

“Didn’t know you wanted to try it that bad.” You reply back, more self-assured as you take residence in Matt’s arms. As he chuckles something relaxed into the press of your shoulder.

“Whatever’s good enough for him is good enough for me,” Dex sends back without preamble. “And I want a taste.”

“Yeah, well—”—Frank cuts in as Matt’s fingers clutch tighter at the statement. As Dex gives you smug grin that he takes aim with salacious wink at you—“—Gotta win first, Dex.”

“Hit me,” Matt says as he contemplates his cards—you can’t look. There’s something better, you think, in the privilege of not knowing until final moment. Dex again signals for another and appraises the score as Matt does similar.

“Any other takers?” Frank asks, Matt makes a jutting nod of his jaw as he rubs his hand up your forearm, letting you sigh into him.

“Didn’t know you were so good at this,” You murmur to him. “Holding people.”

“Comes with the LSAT prep,” Matt sends back; you can’t help but giggle at this admission. Dex sits across the table, stewing in myriad of indiscernible emotion.

“We ready?” Frank asks, taking silence as consent. “Show ‘em.”

Matt reveals the cards: a Jack, a five, a four. 19. Dex shows his hands: 10 and 10. Twenty.

“Think I want that kiss, sweetheart,” His voice drawls in cool tether that drags across the table. Urging you to come pay your dues.

You sit in the comfort of Matt’s lap for a solid second, still reeling over the shock—and find yourself moving against your own accord. Matt's hand clenches along the surface of your body for as long as able moment is given, until you have made free work of his grasp.

And then you cross the table, making way to those eyes that hunger after you with thirst yet to be slaked.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Dex taunts, his legs schooling wide for you. “Been waitin’ for this.”

“Yeah?” You ask as you find yourself sitting down on the firm musculature of his thigh. God, there’s not an ounce of give or fat on him—he’s corded steel in every inch of his body. “How’s that work?”

His arm encourages its way around your back, slinking to get access around your waist, your thigh, sending scald wherever his fingers reach. “Well, I hear Murdock talk about you so long—”

His thumb darts over the full of your bottom lip. “I can’t help but want to see you for myself.”

“Taste me, you mean?” You ask, arching your brow. There’s that flicker of that snake in the grass again, in the span of his eyes.

“Yeah,” He chuckles, “Somethin’ like that.”

When he kisses you, it’s like making contact with marble that breathes flesh and blood. His mouth slots against yours with such intense hunger that you can’t help but try to rise to the challenge, your hands digging into his scalp as his own ruck around your hips.

When his tongue presses against the territory of your mouth, you can’t help but give it back, working to establish the hierarchy of your own against his, tasting blood. Something in your roars for more.

He groans at this, at the adversarial nature of the kiss, at the way that you fight back. His tongue licks slow and leisurely against the landscape of your teeth, leaving after-taste of that iron that loiters on your soft palate.

And when he finally pulls away, there’s something glassy-eyed in the arc of his gaze. Something still hungering, but still momentarily sated as he regards you.

“Just like I thought,” Dex says—and someone snickers from behind.

You’re fairly certain it’s Frank, for you can all but feel the burgeoning hatred that radiates from Matt’s corner, where you can’t bring yourself to look.

“How about we up the stakes, Murdock?” Dex asks, and you finally bring it in yourself to use reserves of courage to look back to Matt, where he sits at full attention.

Where his jaw is set, his brow is knit, his knuckles clenched over span of table as he bears murderous thought all-but-verbally-articulated as he looks at you both.

“Name it,” Matt says, and Dex navigates his hand down the slope of your thigh so that he can track the nuance of your skin with his fingers. You swallow down whatever shiver your body wishes to make on instinct, ignoring the heat that is growing to life in marked pulse at junction of your legs.

“Whoever wins the next one gets to leave a mark on them.” Dex says.

“You can’t hurt them.” Matt warns. Something akin to adrenaline begin to resurface through your body at the notion—but Dex makes quiet noise of amusement. This does little to reassure you, as his hands keep that slow specificity of motion on you.

“Didn't mean knives,” Dex gloats, “I was thinkin’ more of a love bite, if you catch my drift.”

His free hand ghosts over your pulse, the rough pad of his thumb scraping to mark territory yet-claimed. “Right here.”

Matt looks at Dex, at you—and then turns to Frank. “Deal me in.”

“Thought so,” Dex says in such audible fashion that only you at close proximity—and Matt—can hear. Frank’s eyebrows, which have made slow ascent up the real estate of his forehead, finally settle down as he deals out this round.

It’s done in silence that is only demarcated by the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, and the subtle rasp of Dex’s fingers over your body. They both accept the cards without hesitation.

“Hit me,” Dex says, and Matt requests for similar. Again, you look away, finding something of comfort in the way that Frank levies arch of brow at you—but you shake your head in imperceptible fashion.

“Anyone else?” Frank asks. There’s no request given. “Alright, ladies—for all the money—”

Dex flips first. Ten, five, five. Twenty. Matt reveals his: ten and ten. Twenty.

“Fuckin’ tie,” Frank claps a hand to the table, “All my fuckin’ days—”

“I can share if you can, Murdock,” Dex says, but makes no indication to release you from his tenterhooks. If Matt wants to savor the delight of this draw—he must come to you. To him.

Matt draws up with such silent deliberation that you’ve never witnessed before: taking smart, deliberate strides over to the two of you. Looking down to you as you stare back up to him.

Dex tugs down the loose collar of your shirt with impatient insistence, his breath ghosting over your collarbone, hot and heavy.

“Hi, stranger,” You greet him weakly. Matt’s hand finds your chin as he gives you reconciliatory smile: no ill will borne this way. Only a need to make it right.

“Better dive in,” Dex warns, and then his mouth latches on the sensitive skin with such ferocity that you can’t help but whimper out a breathy moan at the drag of teeth, the lave of a needy tongue.

Matt is soon to follow, leaning down to the pulse that he exposes with the tilt of your head, drawing that vulnerable access of your body into his mouth with intensity that grows the longer he works against you.

And you, sandwiched in between the middle of them, as Dex marks claim on you he is happy to leave, the rugged scuff of his teeth; as Matt grates tongue against your neck to worship sanctity of the column of your throat—as you moan at the attention both of them are determined to win on the terrain of your body.

As you let yourself be lost to sensation, you know one thing: no matter who’s won, you’ve lost.

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While your role within Casterly Rock was not accurately defined by any official parameter, it was common knowledge among both the servants and the nobles who sniffed around the great Lannister name that you were somehow more than just a simple handmaiden at the great Tywin Lannister's beck and call. The second daughter of a minor noble from the Westerlands, your work at Casterly Rock had evolved from maintaining the personal fashions of Lord Tywin himself into something much more complicated as one heated night of discussion had led to you awaking in bed with the old lion himself by your side.

Since then, things had settled into something steady. You conducted your assigned role with typical grace and spent your free time split between the library, gardens, and Lord Tywin’s presence when called for. More companion than whore, you often found yourself engaging in conversation with him as he sought a perspective different to his own. Not that the physicality between you was scarce, but it certainly was not his focus as you typically shared his space.

The keep, however, was not blind and the unspoken rule was clear. You were a handmaid, yes, and you were not to be disturbed in your duties, but it was known that Lord Tywin held some regard for your presence and that offered you a security which could not be bought. Time had shown that Lord Tywin’s unspoken rules were, at times, more solid than the swathes of gold he ruled over.

However, that common knowledge did not extend to new visitors to the stronghold and it was only those unfortunate moments which lead to situations in which that wicked temper which roiled deep within your gut had opportunity to truly assert itself.

To be fair to yourself, it was temper which only flared when men took liberties they were not entitled to.

The hand on your shoulder, you could forgive.

The insult to your honour, you would not.

Balding and stout, the fool who had dared to not only pull you close to his stew-stained frame but also to loudly snarl that you were an ungrateful whore as you recoiled away from the stench of wine on his breath widens his eyes comically as you hold the short, slightly-curved knife which lives within your skirts to his thick neck.

"Say it again." You hiss, delighting at the small bead of blood which swells at the very tip of your knife where it presses into his skin. "You will not finish the word before your blood coats this pretty dress which seems to fascinate you so."

"You mad bitch." The fool splutters, his voice somewhere between fear and rage as he remains as still as he can to prevent any further damage to his throat. "You pull a knife on me? Here at Casterly Rock? Lord Tywin will surely have you-"

A throat clears loudly behind you but you do not flinch as a familiar, deep voice rings out from its unseen owner.

"Is there a good reason why my handmaiden has a blade to the throat of one of my guests?"

As though delivered by the gods themselves, Lord Tywin Lannister makes his presence known with the calm security of a man who knows he holds the power in any situation.

Standing in a vivid burgundy tunic, the dark clasps which sit across the chest are perfectly secured as they lead down to dark pants which are a comfortable and familiar staple as he conducts business across the privacy of his own stronghold. His expression is void of anything but its typically stoic firmness, an expectation that an answer to his question will be provided both immediately and with sufficient detail.

"I apologise for the disruption, my lord." You grit out from between your teeth as you pull the knife free and turn to offer him a soft, appropriate curtsey before returning the blade to its hidden sheathe. "Your guest here gravely insulted my honour and my father would burn with his shame of me if I did not at least attempt to defend it."

"A grave insult, you say?"

Somehow sensing that this interaction was not one which would work out in his favour as you were not immediately and severely punished for threatening such violence, the mildly intoxicated fool is quick to backpedal on the situation as he glances at Lord Tywin with open fear.

"No insult meant, Lord Tywin. I misunderstood the purpose of this," he pauses for only a beat, "maid. I assumed she wa-"

"You dare to assume any of my servants are for any aspect of your personal use?" Tywin's expression locks in without hesitation, his brow furrowing slightly as his eyes narrow. "You would dare to assume control of anyone in this castle outside of the tasks which I have personally assigned them?"

Allowing the silence to hang heavily between the three of you, the only sound to exist is the uneven breathing of the drunken fool as his panic steadily grows in the quiet. You stand passively, content to allow Tywin to exert the control which he so easily commands as you smooth the front of your skirt and watch stern eyes flick between yourself and the drunkard whose name you did not even know.

“Leave us.” Tywin commands after a moment, dismissing the fool with a short, sharp nod. “Do not touch another of my servants or I will deal with the matter more personally.”

Bowing and spluttering out apologies as he makes a hasty retreat back to the main halls of Casterly Rock, you watch the idiot leave with a vague sense of disappointment as you regret not having given him a slightly longer cut to remember you by. Tywin also watches him leave and the sound of his retreating footsteps echoes in the stony hallway until they are nothing but a faint memory.

You turn back to Tywin with a slightly raised brow as you repeat his own threat back to him, “And how would you deal with the matter more personally?”

“My rooms. Now.” Barely sparing you a glance as his voice remains perfectly even, Tywin turns on himself as he makes long strides towards his own personal quarters and you follow him quickly, knowing that whatever conversation he wishes to hold is one which would be much better suited to a private setting.

Passing through the winding halls of the keep, you cross very few others and those who do walk your path show the appropriate amount of respect to their Lord before offering you a much more familiar nod of recognition as you smile back at them and attempt to keep up with Tywin’s long steps. Before too long, you arrive at the thick, armoured door which acts as a final line of defence against any intruders who wished to enter Tywin’s private chambers and you pause to catch your breath as Tywin pushes at the heavy wood.

Tywin holds the door open to allow you to pass by and you do so with a small muttering of thanks. Walking ahead of him into the spacious bedroom, you head straight towards the large bed which sits on the furthest side of the room as you listen to Tywin lock the doors behind you to ensure a moment of privacy.

The room is bathed in red and gold, Lannister colours seeping into every possible aspect of the design while lions glare at you from all directions. The familiar room is busy but not cluttered; books and various pots of ink and parchment decorating many of the side tables with those which Tywin revisited most often being kept closer to the bed than others. You glance at them as you take a soft position at the very end of the bed – perching on the edge as you cross your ankles.

Tywin comes to a stand before you after ensuring the door is locked, deliberately leaving a small distance which forces you to tilt your head up at him in order to hold his eye. His expression, as ever, is difficult to determine but you can’t sense any anger hiding within the handsome, lined face.

"Why did you pull your dagger on him?” Tywin asks, the words holding the faintest disappointment. “You realise that I may now have to answer questions on why I allow my personal maid to carry a blade."

"I like the fear in his eyes. I'll remember it every time he looks at me but, more importantly, so will he." You answer honestly, instinctively smoothing the plush blankets on the bed before sitting on the edge of them. "Besides, who is going to question you? Who would be brave enough to look the fierce Tywin Lannister in the eye and question how he runs his personal homestead?" The appeal to his pride never fails to net approval and you slip it within your reply like a small boon.

Tywin made a soft noise in his throat somewhere between approval and irritation as he stands by the end of his bed, gazing down at the unrepentant look which you are offering him.

"What would you have me do with him?"

"Nothing. I want him to live with the knowledge that he's earned your ire and that his debt will come due one day."

Sighing slightly, the amusement which sits subtly in Tywin’s expression refuses to shift, "You are a wicked, petty thing."

"I dare to think that you like that about me. Would you kill him if I asked?

"That depends. What insult did he hurl to inspire such ire?"

"He called me a mad and a whore."

Tywin coughs at that, hiding a soft laugh behind the much rougher sound as he replies to the confession with a considerate hum.

"You are a pretty young thing who is clearly well-kept and takes great pride in herself. The assumption on his behalf is a fair one."

"Then I’m surprised that the great Tywin Lannister would allow the common man to assume that he fucks whores. I thought he had a reputation to uphold?"

"Hm, you are mouthy tonight.” Tywin chastises with a soft growl, his hand dropping to grip at your chin firmly and force your head higher to meet his own tilted neck. “Careful, little one, or I'll take real offense to those smart tones."

"You like it when I'm mouthy.” You fire back gently. “Everyone else is too afraid of you to have any real fun."

"Good. They should be."

Tilting your head slightly, you allow a decidedly more wicked expression to touch at your features as your eyes widen and your mouth curls into an inviting smirk. You bring your hand up to wrap it around his own, feeling the calloused skin as you stroke your softer digits across the roughened patches.

"Would the old lion like to see how mouthy I can be?” You offer with a purr, bringing your other hand up to play softly with your hair as you glance pointedly between him and his groin. “He did intervene and save an innocent maiden from an untoward bastard. That's got to be worthy of a reward."

"Innocent." Tywin repeats with a scoff, his lined face disbelieving, "But have it your way. I know when a battle is not worth fighting."

Standing by the edge of the bed, Tywin makes no effort to move as you run your hands up his covered thighs and make short work of the clothing in your way to remove his cock from its confines. He’s already mostly hard, the limitations of age not quite having sunk their claws into him yet, and you tuck the burgundy material of his tunic flush to his stomach as you shift it out of the way of your prize.

His cock juts from his groin with a shameless pride, ringed by a healthy thick patch of mostly-greyed pubic hair which adds a certain dignity to things. He’s as clean as ever, his hygiene of those unspoken things which you greatly appreciated about his person, and you quickly wrap a hand around his shaft to pull gently at his foreskin and reveal the slightly darker skin which covers his cockhead.

“You will need to move closer if you want your reward, my lord.”

Tywin takes a solid step forward, his right hand coming to rest on the wooden post which sits at the corner of the bed as he steadies himself in position. You pump your hand along his cock for a moment, enjoying the velvety heat of it between your fingers as you maintain a gentle, teasing grip. He grows harder beneath your touch, reaching full arousal quickly as you bring the head of his cock closer to your lips and dampen it with your tongue.

He was not a vocal man and that had proven itself across the various pleasures which you had shared between you. Whether you pleased him by mouth or cunt, ridden or splayed, no variant of pleasure seemed enough to break the stoic control which he held over his reactions and it was a game you loved to indulge in as you learned what little things made him tick.

Dragging your tongue across the underside of his shaft nets you a familiar hiss of appreciation as his cock twitches within your grasp. Finally, you bring him within your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and taking the head of his cock between your lips as you use your tongue to pull him deeper.

“Vain temptress.” Tywin mutters, his eyes dark and predatory as he snaps his hips forward enough to force you to accept another two inches of his cock – the sudden fullness within your mouth taking a moment to acclimatise to as he continues. “I know the game you are playing and you will never win.”

“The gods reward those who try, my lord.” You hum into his cock, accepting him back into your mouth as you set to work on showing a proper appreciation for his intervention. Pleasing him just as he likes, you split your attention between your mouth and hand – using both to ensure that his length was never without a moments peace as you habitually glance up to meet his gaze.

As ever, his focus is relentless. Eyes sharp and filled with an intensity which makes you feel like a butterfly spread wide and pinned to a board for examination, the thrill of them sends a fresh wave of arousal through your neglected cunt as you feel the dampness pressing into your undergarments. As though sensing your distraction by your own need, Tywin drops his free hand to your hair as he uses it to sternly guide you along his cock.

Content to be used, you allow him to set your pace as you hollow your cheeks and steal small breaths where possible as he pulls free and has you service him with your tongue. Knowing his business for the evening is clearly complete, there is a high chance that he will be yours for the night and the thought of a decent fuck to come makes you extra willing to please.

Before too long, Tywin’s hand tightens against your scalp with his fingers firm and nails only just scraping your skin as he pulls your head close – burying his cock deep within your throat without hesitation as he chases his own release with a selfish delight. Practised and relaxed enough to accept him without the shameful need to retch being too strong, you feel the telltale pulse in his shaft just before a low, satisfied growl slips free of his lips and he spills his release deep within your throat. Having no other choice, you swallow down every drop as you dig your thumbs into the leathery fabric which encases his thighs and use your grip to focus on pleasuring him through his peak.

His gasping breaths are still surprisingly measured but you drink in the low groan of desire which escapes him as he slowly comes down from his release and pulls himself free of your mouth – your lips plump and buzzing with use. You gaze up at him with wicked eyes, delighted in how quickly he had spilled within your mouth and you watch him tuck his cock away with a small smile.

"Is the lord of Casterly Rock satisfied?” You ask, voice only a little hoarse from the firm use of your mouth. “Does he require any further services this evening?"

Remaining silent as he walks to one of the many tables which litter the side of his private chambers, Tywin picks up a soft, clean handkerchief and presents it to you with an unspoken invitation. Plucking it from his hand, you wipe at your mouth to clean off the little pockets of mess which have accumulated at the corners of your lips and just above your chin. Nodding to him in thanks, you keep the handkerchief in hand as you slip further up the bed to lie against one of the pillows which litter the upper half.

Tywin only answers your question as he finally slips around the other side of the bed and drops to the plush sheets, immediately reclining at a sitting position to allow him to gaze down at you with an expression which is vaguely amused and satiated in its wants as some of the firmer lines across his face seem less settled.

"He wishes nothing more than to enjoy some evening wine and perhaps the company of his handmaiden a little longer if she would be so kind?"

There is, unsurprisingly, no one else around at the moment, but it’s not like a lot of people went up to the roof anyways; and they certainly didn’t during the middle of an alien invasion. You, however, were not currently experiencing the same level of concern as your neighbours, considering you’ve brought your binoculars.

The battle’s focused a few blocks away, and even without your binoculars you can see a green Optimus Prime-looking construct; no doubt one of Kyle’s creations. A look down at your phone shows that the livestream’s still going, someone closer to the area recording it from their window for the world to see.

It’s in that instant that an unfortunate sequence of events occurs. You watch your screen as something gets knocked into and bounces off of a building and goes flying off camera, in the direction of… your apartment building. Your eyes flick from the screen to the sky.

You’re starting to think the universe really hates Jordans.

You don’t get hit with the weight of impact. Just a whoosh of air that, if you weren’t already crouched down, would’ve knocked you off balance. You raise your head from your arms, blinking at the person in front of you, a chunk of something held above them.

“Hi,” He says, a slight smirk on his face, though his eyes show concern. “I’m Superboy.”

Your eyes drop to the insignia on his chest. “I can see that.” You glance back up at the concrete in his hands. “Are you gonna put that somewhere? Preferably not near me.”

“Right. One second.” He’s gone and back again before you can blink, holding his hand out to you. “You alright, uh…?” He trails off, realizing he doesn’t know what to call you.

“Y/n.” You say, offering your name as he helps you up. “And I’m still here, so I’d say I’m”—you catch sight of a nearing green glow and let out a nervous laugh—“in big trouble.”

Kon opens his mouth, a barrage of questions on the tip of his tongue—though he doesn’t get the chance to ask them, watching as Green Lantern stops short of barrelling into you.

You try not to think too much about the expression on your father’s face as he checks you over for scrapes and bruises. It’s an expression you’ve only seen a few times in your life, the most prominent memory of it from when you were eleven and your flu symptoms stuck around for a little too long.

When he sees you’re okay, his face shifts, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. You think you’re in the clear when he presses a kiss to the top of your head, but that assumption goes out the window the second he makes eye contact with you.

Hal squeezes your shoulders, gently shaking you as he bellows out a question. “Are you insane?!”

Ohh, Kon thinks to himself as the realization hits. You’re that Y/n.

You let out a little huff as you reply to your father’s (albeit rhetorical) query. “Dad, I’m fine. This guy”—You make a vague gesture towards Kon, who’s still hovering a few feet away—“caught the thing.”

“I have a name,” Kon interjects, though neither you nor your father pay any attention to his comment.

“He wouldn’t have had to if you were inside where you’re supposed to be.”

“Inside? Like, inside the building made of concrete with a bunch of windows that could break when something gets thrown at them and the shards could possibly embed themselves in my skin and lead to my untimely death?”

“You—” Hal pinches the bridge of nose, muttering something about alien invasions, children and grey hairs before looking back at you. “Stairs.”

Kon, who’s been, for the most part, silently observing the conversation looks between the two of you in confusion. “Stairs?”

You’re ready with another protest, but the look on your father’s face says not to push it. “Fine.”

“Good. Go. Now.”

“I’m going!” You head towards the door, pausing at the entrance to look back. “Hey, Superboy?” You watch as Kon perks up at the sound of his moniker. “I like your jacket.” With that you turn away, the door shutting behind you.

Hal turns his head to the side very slowly, eyes narrowing as he spots the grin spreading across Kon’s face. “No.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

dividers by @/ivy-vinezz and @/strangergraphics

do not copy, alter, repost, or translate my works. do not enter any of my works into AI. © @iridescentlightshow

CLARK KENT

Sunlight through glass - @cherryysunshine Mama, a bald man behind you - @stcrgazerlily Title of your sex tape - @annaevermore superman day - @kryptidfiles have you raised a ticket? - @devisedplan

JASON TODD

lipstick and a split lip - @batwngs like father, like trouble - @arfemiz Coffee Shop Revelations - @fanfictionwarrior-chills Just us and your friend roy - @fleurmarjorieargent Baby - @brucewayneisavirgin knight in shining armor - @vianawaits you melt up my body and all my heart - @flimsily-flimsy arkham knight - @torupng

DICK GRAYSON

you wake him when the baby is being fussy - @sakunai between the lines - @oncasette Background arobatics - @fancy-possum House tour - @ghxstrobins the proposal - @gglouise23

ROY HARPER

nothing seems to walk the same - @waltzingphantoms Iris - @amoebadue fratboy! Roy Harper - @moviecritc

CASSANDRA CAIN

first kiss - @kooriandr

TALIA AL GHUL

morning lights - @cherryvvave

STEPHANIE BROWN

girl, so confusing - @froggibus

KARA ZOR-EL

Rockstar! Kara - @pixelbfs

SUPERBOY PRIME

for research purposes - @athenxt

MULTI

pillow talk - @brinawing A little favour - @gothamorphosis Who is this ? - @dontyouworrydaddy

MISCELLANEOUS

Pretty isin't pretty - @crookshanks-07

KYLE RAYNER

Sunsets and honest opinions - @iridescentlightshow (platonic)

DIANA PRINCE

bicep shots - @sozzoe

The sparkling blue of the sea is almost the same colour of Dick’s eyes as he peers at you over the brim of his sunglasses. He’s grinning, head cocked slightly to the side, mess of dark waves falling into his face. Sunlight falls over his skin, catching on his freshly applied sunscreen and shimmering.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He pleads, “just for five minutes.”

Your answer comes in the form of you kicking yourself further back on your chair and spreading the pages of your book further.

“I mean,” he crouches to sit in the sand next to you, “what’s the point of coming to the beach if you’re just gonna read?”

Dick Grayson, as per usual, is absolutely relentless. He leans closer to you, sun-warmed skin tan and warm against yours. He squints to make out the words on the page you’re currently reading, eyebrows raising.

“I’m relaxing,” you say simply.

“You’ve got to be dying of heat. Come on,” he reaches for your free hand, “just take a dip with me.”

You dogear the page and set your book between your legs. “I know you, Grayson. It’s never ‘just a dip’ with you.”

His smile only spreads, a knowing look on his face. “What’s so wrong with that?” And as if knowing you’re halfway to caving, he rises to his feet, making a big show to stretch his arms over his head. His biceps curl, muscles reflecting the golden sunlight. You can’t help but look, can’t help but trace your eyes up from the tanned muscle of his thigh, to the defined look of his abs, to the shiny white of his teeth.

You sigh. It’s the greatest curse, and blessing, that you happen to have the hottest boyfriend on the planet.

“Okay.” You officially concede, ditching your stuff on the chair and rising to your feet. “Five minutes.”

Dick’s quick to run up to you and wrap his arms around you, squeezing you tight against his muscled chest. “You’re the best.”

“You’re relentless.”

“You love it.”

And unfortunately for you, you really really do.

Dick laces his fingers through yours and tugs you after him, the two of you making your way through the hot sand to where the shore meets the water. Gentle waves lap at the wet sand, your toes sinking into the soft ground. 

Dick wastes no time in running ahead and executing a perfect dive into the water, his body arcing and making a big splash as he hits it. You, not nearly as showboaty as Dick Grayson, slowly wade your way into the water until it’s up to your chest.

Dick surfaces, shaking his wet hair out like a dog. “The water is amazing.”

He leans in so close you can see the water droplets running down his face and purses his lips, pressing them against yours. The cold water on his skin rubs against you and soothes the heat that’s soaked into you throughout the day.

“You’re getting me wet,” you cringe.

“It wouldn't be the first time, right?” You smack his bicep. “Shut up.”

10k event | dc masterlist | navigation

Every time you gave her a new one, she put them next to the flowers.

For Zatanna, these flowers were her lucky charms. So, it became a mission for you to give her a flower right before her shows.

It didn’t matter what kind of flower it was. Roses, daisies, tulips… She kept them safe and sound thanks to her magic.

When you first gave her a flower, it was a rose.

She was at the backstage, getting ready for her show when you showed up.

“What is this?” She asked, a funny tone was etched in her voice. Of course, she found it silly…

“A rose,” You answered. “A gift before your show.”

And after that, you brought a new flower with you every single time. It was always just one. Never more than that.

Flowers were nice… She loved them. She loved receiving them from you. Her whole room was full of them.

But as her shows continued, you felt like flowers were not enough for her. Not because she complained or anything, it was because you felt like you could give… more.

So, one night, you kissed her cheek after giving her a flower. It was only to test the waters… To see what she would do.

You watched her eyes go bigger with surprise. Your smile faltered. Was it the wrong thing to do..?

“Woah, I wasn’t expecting that.” She laughed. You could hear the nervousness under her laugh.

Your heart dropped. “Did I make you uncomfortable? If so, I—“

“No, not at all.” She grabbed her hat and wore it. “I liked it.”

So, kisses became crucial.

You left a kiss on her cheek, forehead, nose, hair… Any friendly place you could find.

Of course, the flowers were also there. You never ever forgot about them. Before every show, there was a single flower in your hand, ready to be gifted.

You always kissed her cheek before giving the flower so that any weird moment could be prevented with the distraction the flower created.

One night, however, you lost your flower.

It was not on purpose. You didn’t forget it. You simply lost it.

You didn’t know what to do. You felt so… helpless. You ruined a tradition and now she was going to feel bad because it was her lucky charm and—

“No flower today?” She asked when she saw you in her backstage. Her teasing smile turned into frown when she saw your expression.

“I must have dropped it on my way.” You said. “I will buy a new one. Wait here—“

She grabbed you by your shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay.” She assured you. “It’s not that important. And you already got one so you didn’t ruin the tradition.”

She knew you too well that she knew how to reassure you.

“I think only a kiss would make it up for it.” She said.

You didn’t know what possessed you as you leaned into her face, but you only knew that a kiss on the cheek would not be enough.

When your lips touched hers, it burned. It could coming from the fear of rejection… Or it was just how she actually was. You never knew which one it was.

You expected her to push you away but her grasp on your shoulders got tighter. She kissed you back.

It was a small, short kiss. Nothing heated… But it felt like it to you.

“I’ll see you after the show.” She said against your lips.

⭑

The familiar black car pulled up beside you for a fourth time, and you tightened your coat around you. The driver’s side window rolled down again, and you kept your gaze forward as you stomped in your heels. Carmine’s driver simply gave you a look, having already said what he needed to say, and you pretended as if you didn’t see him.

“You know he’s going to kill me if you walk all the way home.”

Your lips trembled at the mention of your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—and you’d be lying if you said your feet weren’t killing and you weren’t wholly tempted to hop right in the fancy car. It was cold and your feet hurt and your throat ached.

You could only imagine the nasty bruise that would be there in the morning.

Your eyes watered again at the memory of his hands around your neck—not a first for either of you—but you hadn’t done anything this time. It was all him, and somehow you bore the brunt of some punishment as if you’d been the one screwing around. Your face crumbled and tears immediately spilled over as you recalled the sight of him and some blonde, and while, no, nothing looked outright wrong, his refusal to be straight with you had only worsened the thoughts already running around in your head.

Your tears made the cold air more biting as it hit your face, and you suddenly stopped, in turn causing the car beside you to stop too. Going over it again in your mind had anger bubbling up inside of you all over again, and before you could remind yourself how deep in shit you were already in, you opened the back door and slid into the backseat. 

You knew his driver felt relieved, and you almost felt bad.

As you reached for the bottle of champagne Carmine always kept in the sedan, you thought about the screaming match that had only occurred an hour earlier. It felt wrong to call it a match per se because it was mostly just you screaming and breaking things.

“I told you, Carmine,” you’d spat. “I told you!”

Another glass hit the floor, and you hadn’t cared to look at his face as you reached for another.

“Do I look like the kind of woman who shares a man? Who sits at home while you’re out God knows where with God knows who like some obedient little dog?”

Another glass narrowly missed his head, and you’d stumbled back when he took a step towards you, the kitchen island in between you.

“You might think there’s a bitch in this relationship, but I can promise you it’s not me–.”

The dark-haired man had started taking long strides before you even finished, and you’d hurriedly turned to escape the kitchen, uncaring of the glass under your bare feet. Your legs were fast, but not fast enough, and Carmine had the back of your dress tangled in his fist in no time. The slap that followed was loud.

You would have been proud of yourself if it hadn’t been for the hand around your throat.

“Control yourself–.”

“No,” you’d screamed, immediately descending into a fit. “I saw you, and all night you’ve done nothing but treat me like I’m stupid!”

His face was blurry from your tears, but that hadn’t stopped you from slapping him over and over. The wall shook from the force in which he’d shoved you against it, and as much as it had hurt, it hadn’t deterred you in the slightest. Satisfaction filled you when his shades clattered to the floor from the force of your hand.

Unfortunately the force of his hand was harder.

You’d sobbed at the foot of the stairs while Carmine stood over you, and it was the only sound in the house for a while. You suspected that anyone else in the place—a maid, a cook, a bodyguard—had long made themselves scarce from the moment you’d started throwing anything you could get your hands on from the second floor. He’d seemed content to let you cry for a while, and you’d heard him move.

You hadn’t needed to look up to know that he was walking towards those same dark shades you’d slapped off of his face. You’d suspected that he’d put them on before making his way back over to your hunched frame, and when he’d reached for you—the tips of his fingers just barely brushing your arm—you’d slapped them off again.

You were on your feet before he could react, grabbing the first pair of shoes you could find lying around before picking up what turned out to be his coat. You hadn’t spared him another glance as you’d swiped your purse up from where you’d dropped it on the floor, stomping outside into the cold, absolutely determined to walk home.

You had only made it maybe two minutes up the street when that familiar luxury sedan pulled up beside you, his driver begging you to get in. You were so angry that you couldn’t even find it in you to be moved by Carmine sending his driver after you to at least take you home. Normally it would have warmed your heart, but all you’d been able to think about was him and that woman. The other man had circled three more times to convince you to get in before finally succeeding on the fourth.

The whole way home, you alternated between taking a sip of champagne and pouring some out on the nice leather seats. Your face hurt and your neck hurt and your heart heart, and at this point all you wanted was to make Carmine as angry as he’d made you and find comfort in your bed that was thankfully empty of the other man.

When the car finally rolled to a stop outside of your apartment, you emptied out what little was left in the Perignon right onto the floor before leaving the empty bottle right on the seat.

For the fifth day in a row there was an incessant knock at your front door.

For the fifth day in a row, you ignored it.

It wasn’t anyone important, only Kenzie, and you merely stared at the wall as the pounding reached your ears. For five days you were in torment for both the obvious and not so obvious reasons. Your neck—and face—did indeed bruise just as badly as you suspected it would, and it was more of an inconvenience than anything that anytime you left the house you had to be extra meticulous about your makeup. You’d cursed Carmine with every pat of concealer to your skin.

Five days without him felt like a heaven you’d forgotten existed, but five days without him also felt like a hell you knew all too well.

Carmine was so bad for you—in truth you were probably so bad for each other—but you missed him like crazy. You’d gotten into fights before, a few of them much bigger than this, but this one hurt you the most. He hadn’t even been doing anything of consequence with that girl that night, but you had to be honest with yourself and admit that you hadn’t liked the way she looked at him nor stood near him. 

His refusal to reassure you had only made you angrier.

Before you knew it, half of his house was broken at the bottom of the stairs. You recalled how he’d looked at you—like some bratty child—and it had only pissed you off more. Why couldn’t he just give you what you wanted? Why did he insist on letting you stew in your thoughts? You’d come to the conclusion that your suspicions had to be correct then, and considering Carmine was Carmine, he wasn’t going to lie for anyone or placate anyone just for the sake of doing so.

You saw red.

You pulled your cover over your head when Kenzie knocked again, and you had half a mind to tell him to fuck off, but you knew that if you opened that door, you’d just be dragged right back to that stupid mansion. Like the previous days, it became quiet again after a while, and relief filled you as you relaxed. You had no intention of going back to that house nor that man.

You were still so angry at Carmine, and you’d meant it when you resolved yourself to leave him for good. It wasn't the violence but instead the way he made you doubt your place in his life, and you knew how messed up that was, but that was your relationship with Carmine Falcone. Through it all, you knew he would kill for you and never once make a fool out of you.

Now, you’d be content to never see his face again.

Carmine, on the other hand, wasn’t quite done with you.

It was the seventh day without him when you left your bedroom to find none other than the man himself sitting on your couch. You’d stopped short at the sight of the shadowy figure in the dark room—only lit by the light coming from your bedroom—and even before flipping on the switch you knew who it was. You couldn’t even find the strength to be mad at him, only wanting him gone.

He was dressed plainly—plainly for him—and he looked as menacing as ever in your living room dressed in all black with those same infuriating shades covering his eyes. You wanted to knock them off for a third time, but you thought better of it. When you huffed a sigh, he finally spoke.

“I thought I told you to change that lock.”

The lock on your door was faulty, something he nagged you about a million times, and you rolled your eyes.

“For what? You’d just have a key made behind my back, anyway.”

“Any one of these lowlifes in this city could break in,” he deeply commented, still not looking at you as he sat so relaxed on your couch.

“If someone wanted to break in, a brand new lock wouldn’t stop them, believe me,” you scoffed. “Besides, if I’m dead then you can parade your whores around the city as much as you’d like.”

You said it with a shrug, tone sweet and mocking, and Carmine didn’t like that. You swallowed when he stood, narrowing your eyes and keeping your gaze on him. It was only when he slowly moved towards you, finally facing you now, did you take notice of the huge box next to where he was sitting on the couch. Your gaze lingered on it for half a second before you were distracted by the man before you.

“Her name is Svetlana…” you made a noise at that. “...and she’s not a whore.”

There was a brief pause.

“Not mine, anyway.”

You tried to keep your face even, but you couldn’t hold back the slight frown that graced your features. You remained still as he got closer, but you couldn’t lie to yourself and say you weren’t nervous. This was the closest you’d been to him in days, and when he stopped before you, you eyed him.

“She’s moving to California…”

You shrugged at him as if to say ‘so?’.

“...and she knows how much you love that mink coat she has.”

Your lips parted for half a second before you snapped them shut, crossing your arms over your chest and frowning at him. It was deathly silent as the implication behind his words hung in the air, and you could feel your face heating up just as Carmine continued.

“Obviously she’s not going to get much use out of it over there, and we both know I can be persuasive.”

Your throat felt tight, and you briefly glanced away from him. You didn’t know what to think, feeling utterly embarrassed, and you could feel your eyes watering. To keep yourself from embarrassing yourself any further, you lashed out, of course.

“Persusaive,” you snidely repeated. “She wants to fuck you.”

Carmine merely tilted his head at that, gaze boring into you from behind those shades.

“I’m sure she does,” he agreed. “...just as I’m sure you’d love taking her coat from her instead of buying a brand new one for yourself…because she wants to fuck me.”

You felt your heart skip a beat at that, something settling in the pit of your gut that made you feel warm. You and Carmine stared at each other for some time before you finally broke, face crumbling as you looked away.

“Why did you let me think you were fucking her?” you tearfully wondered. 

He didn’t answer right away, opting to move closer until his chest brushed against your arms. You kept your gaze on the wall as he leaned in, and Carmine brushed his lips against your cheek—the bruised one. His facial hair tickled your skin, and when he kissed you, he lingered.

“...you’re beautiful when you’re jealous.”

When you slapped him this time, it was weak, and you both knew it.

“You’re such an asshole,” you cried, shaking your head. “I don’t want your fucking coat.”

Carmine raised an eyebrow at you.

“No?” he wondered, backing up.

“No,” you spat.

You watched him open the box, and despite what you said, you couldn’t take your eyes off of it as he pulled it out of the box. It was just as beautiful and plush as you remembered, possibly even more so now that you’d taken it from that plastic Barbie who’d been looking at Carmine like she wanted to wear him. When Carmine neared you with it, you swallowed.

“Just try it on,” he murmured, and before you could even attempt to protest, one of his hands was pulling at the belt on your robe.

His fingers grazed your skin, and you shuddered, hoping he didn’t notice. You let him slide it off of you, the fabric whispering to the floor, and you gazed at him from beneath your lashes as he swung his arms around you, the thick fur fabric landing gently on your bare skin. He put your arms through it, and you hated how good it felt.

When his hands rested just under your jaw, you closed your eyes at the feeling of his lips on yours.

“It’s perfect on you, beautiful.”

You pulled it closer to your skin, pulling away a bit.

“Really?”

He only hummed in response, leaning in again and pressing kisses to your throat. You tilted your head, letting him, and you softly exhaled when his hand slid inside of the coat. You couldn’t hold back the small smile when his fingers crawled between your thighs.

“You going to fuck me in her coat?”

Carmine made a noise of disapproval, pushing his fingers into you and making you gasp.

“Your coat,” he corrected. “I’m going to fuck you in your coat.”

You wanted to be in his lap, and Carmine obliged, hands on your hips as you pushed yourself down onto his cock over and over again. The thick winter piece slid off of your shoulder as you gently rode him, lashes fluttering as he kept a firm grip on your waist. You didn’t know if the sweat was from your movements or from the fur on your skin. It was probably a combination of both, but you didn’t care.

When Carmine pressed kisses to the bruises on your neck, you moaned, head thrown back to allow him to do so. His hands were tight on your hips, and his pants were rough against your skin as you pushed yourself down onto him. You could feel the cool metal of his ring against you, and you reached down to place your hand on top of his.

Your other hand was on the back of the couch.

You hadn’t touched Carmine in a week, and as mad as you were, it was also killing you inside. At the time, the thought disgusted you, having convinced yourself he was seeing someone else. Of course, now that you knew he wasn’t, you didn’t want him to take his hands off of you. 

When you leaned in to press your face into his neck, he moved your hips over him for you. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed at how wet you were, sliding up and down his cock with ease. You could hear it every time you covered the length of him completely, and the jealous and vindictive part of you was turned on even more because of the coat that was now yours, gracing your skin as you fucked your boyfriend, the article of clothing once owned by the same woman who wanted what she couldn’t have.