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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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