“Goddammit, Tate. Not every fucking thing is about you. I didn't want to fucking do that, you stupid fucking whore. Fucking bitch,” he swore, slamming against her hips as hard as he could. She was shrieking.

“God, it was so good, please say it was so good, it was so good, so good,” she panted. He slapped her again and it drove her wild, caused her to trash and buck underneath him.

It drives me wild.

“Fucking hell, Tate. I'm going to fuck you every night from now on, for as long as I can. Cunt. Whore. Fuck. Why are you so fucking good to me?” he moaned, grabbing one of her legs and resting it against his shoulder. He grabbed her hand, placed it at her wet core, forced her fingers in and around herself. She was like his marionette, his own personal fuck doll.

“Because ..., you're the devil. You need someone to be with. I want to be that person,” she gasped.

“Goddamn, do you let everyone treat you like such a slut?” he said, feeling the sweat pour down his body. He grabbed her ankle, held her leg out away from her body so he could get even deeper inside of her. He wanted to reach places no one had ever been before; places no one else would ever reach again. She suddenly laughed, a low, dark sound.

“You like to think you're the only one, don't you? That you're the only one who fucks me good,” she replied.

“I know I am.”

“Then why am I thinking about a baseball player right now?”

He slapped her across the face, hard, and then grabbed her neck. She started coming, crying out and dragging her nails down his chest. He wasn't far behind her, pumping everything he had in to her before collapsing on top of her chest.

It was a couple minutes before his brain could function again, wrap around what they had just done. He knew he should check on her, make sure she was okay, that what they had just done was actually okay. He pushed himself up over her, but instead of saying kind words, he grabbed her wrists instead, pinned them above her head. Her eyelids fluttered open and she stared up at him. She looked almost stoned. Satisfied. Glowing. Happy.

“Were you really thinking of him?” he demanded. She chuckled.

“Jameson, when you fuck me ..., nothing else exists but you,” she breathed. He leaned down, baring his fangs against her neck.

“Good,” he whispered. She let out a groan.

“That was so good, Jameson. That is officially, without a doubt, the best sex I've ever had,” she said with a laugh.

“Better than Angier fucking you in a filthy alley?” he asked. She laughed harder.

“Stupid man. I lied. You were always the best sex I ever had, I just didn't want to admit it,” she laughed.

“I knew it.”

He kissed her then. A long, slow kiss. He stretched out on top of her, inside of her. Ran his hands from her head to her thighs, and back up again. She breathed in to his mouth, moaned his name, scratched her nails down his back. He started to get hard again, and he backed away. Rolled her onto her stomach, pulled her hips up. A couple minutes later, he laid down flat, pulled her on top of him. Then pushed her off, made her fuck herself for a little while before diving back inside of her.

It was slow, and it was almost sweet, but he liked it. Just being secure in the knowledge that it would be okay to let go and do whatever he wanted, made it easily the second best sex either of them had ever had.

*

Angier Hollingsworth was not in love with Tatum O'Shea, but he did feel a certain kind of possessiveness; he had always thought it was just friendship. Even when she started fucking Satan and stopped fucking Ang, he hadn't thought much about it. Men had come and gone from Tate's life, but Ang had always been a constant.

But then something changed, and he could feel the tide begin to turn. He had been there for the ex girlfriend discovery. Knew about the baseball player. The fight in the kitchen. He had cuddled with her for two of the three days that she had spent hiding in her room. She refused to talk about Jameson, but Ang knew she was thinking about him.

Then Tate went back to Jameson, and Ang didn't see her for a whole week. She texted a lot – apparently they had reached some new plateau in the interesting sex department, and she was living in orgasm-city. Coming in to town to see her best friend was asking too much, and Ang wasn't exactly welcome in the devil's house. He hadn't asked, but he just knew that was true.

He was angry. He felt like he couldn't talk to her about it. He took it out on his coworkers, on the cast and crew of the porno he was working on, on his other friends. It was ridiculous, to be mad at his best friend for being happy, but Ang was mad. He knew it was fleeting. Jameson Kane was the devil. Tate claimed that she knew what she getting into, that she knew he would never love her or want to be with her. She tried to pretend that she felt the same way. But Ang knew better. He always knew better.

He was angry when he went over to her apartment. Tate had borrowed one of the movies he had starred in - “I want Jameson to see you in action, so he can understand why I'm so infatuated with you” - but Ang didn't want Jameson to see his movie. Didn't want Jameson knowing anything about him, at all. Tate was his friend, she understood where he was coming from – Jameson was a stuck up, rich boy, silver spoon sucking, asshole.

Ang was very angry.

So when he let himself in to Tate's apartment, he wasn't in a very good frame of mind. Being in Tate's room, amongst all her things, smelling her scent, made it worse. He felt it should be him leaving marks on her body, not Satan. He got angrier. And then he walked in to the hallway and nearly ran over Rusty, Tate's roommate. Looking down at the short girl, Ang suddenly understood where Tate was coming from, when she said sometimes she wanted to be treated badly during sex, and other times she wanted to be the one treating someone badly.