#agent elastic

[exo-comet-art]

Some of those alignment charts with the characters from the Masks campaign I'm in. All art by me, but most of the characters belong to my friends.

There are more... but I didn't want to attach all eight(?) of them to a single post. I might do a reblog with the rest of them.

[fulcrum-021]

Kallus is such a petty bitch. Like he's a former ISB agent so you just KNOW he pulls out a whole ass evidence folder when Zeb asks why he's mad at him

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 .

# with flame emperor sabo.

sabo fell for the fiancé of a wealthy heir. luckily enough, he held no respect for the world government dogs whatsoever — and he was about to let them know that.

⎰ & KINKTOBER. smut (mdni!). public. dry!humping. finger!sucking. pyromania if you squint. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 1.8k

sabo the revolutionary had quite a select number of bad qualities — and twice as many positive ones, if he said so himself — although his sadism concerning those in a position of wealth was of particular prominence. his first intention had not been to get involved in the webs of your life. it was but a simple mission; brief in essence. to infiltrate into the household of a wealthy family, aligned to the world government, to steal the specific letters of the discussed alliance — and some expensive jewelry, while he was at it, and to leave, unscathed. yet, sabo was hot-headed, and his disgust regarding the higher-ups all but served to flare that temper; to feed the beast itching for a fight. you — vexed, fretful, the engagement golden band on your finger, seeming to weigh but a thousand tons — proved to be his perfect excuse for a bit of a thrill.

seducing the sharp-witted fiancé of an arrogant heir, fucking one in the backroom of a ball, at that, was oddly satisfying. sabo presumed it’d be a singular encounter, neither predicting nor planning on repetitions. yet, he caught himself returning to your bedsheets — again and again — somewhat gaining a double-agent who offered him confidential information for the merest sake of getting into the nerves of those who had arranged that marriage. sabo risked the rage of his mentor and comrades, far too obsessed to refrain from returning to your haze of pleasure. and oh, how satisfying it was to claim you right under the royalty’s nose. to have you squirming and begging for his touch, claiming you on the same bed meant to symbolize your chastity.

yet, that had been his most ambiguous act so far. your wedding reception: a boisterous celebration, meant to leave a clear message for the entire world to see. sabo made his way through shadow and crowd, eyes tethered to the gorgeous, statue-worthy, sight of you — a monument in silk and pearls. mutual observation; your glance tethered to his figure, hidden amidst the countless, fancy chandeliers. your smile, brightest than the reflected light on your collar and earrings. it would be impossible for you to excuse yourself from the untrustworthy guests, but no limit was unattainable to him whenever you were concerned. a small, unprecedented commotion outside had the gathering on edge, parroted fools following the source of the sudden explosions — fireworks, reserved for the ceremony, a spectacle he didn’t hesitate to ruin.

a single grin sent his way had him aflame, you but a blur of white striving towards the natural maze in the garden, losing yourself amidst the bushes and thorns, presenting the challenge of being found. countless of others dared venture inside the maze, yet sabo’s senses were attuned to your spirit, the sudden outburst of flames smearing the night sky all but covered by the exploding fireworks. a pool of fire settled under the sole of his boots at his approach, grass giving in to the sudden heat as his hands claimed your hips, pressing your back flush against his chest.

“pearls,” he scoffed, voice laced with irony as his teeth bit on your earlobe. “couldn’t afford diamonds?

an amused sigh mingled with the ever-growing wild tempo of your breathing, your fingers intertwining with his own. “the treasure safe was stolen a few hours ago, such a morbid coincidence.”

“what a tragedy,” sabo mocked, lower intonation expliciting the gradual increase of his lust.

his fingers curled around your necklace, and a brute tug had the elastic snapping, a cascade of pearls meeting the grass, glinting white mirroring the moonlight. he shoved a hand inside the pocket of his trousers, fishing a stolen, diamond necklace, and clasping it around your neck. it shone — pale and ethereal — twice as much as those stupid pearls, the golden band serving as a perfect contrast to the expensive stones.

“would you look at that,” you pointed out in faux shock, and sabo grinned, tongue meeting the bare flesh of your neck.

the warmth around the pair of you increased — a consequence of the wildfire he had created. it was but a matter of time until the alarmed guests followed the trail of smoke; found your figure pressed against his own. sabo wrapped a hand around your throat, his cock hardening at the singular, delighted moan you produced. the sight of you in white; a wedding dress meant for another; had him seething. his teeth claimed your shoulder as he brushed a thumb against your lower lip, his back but a shield that kept you safe from the bruising flames.

sabo had your ass pressed against his clothed erection, a particular thrust causing him to groan, a shuddering breath following-in-suit. you whimpered at each lascivious, harsh roll of his hips, as though he aimed to have his cock inside your cunt regardless of the fabric that separated the pair of you. the commotion was but a mute, irrelevant thing, for sabo was far too dazed; lost amidst the metaphorical haze of lust and the quite literal cloud of smoke, the scent of the burnt bushes filling the air.

your own hips began to move, meeting his thrust halfway, his breath growing ragged at the pressure, his tip smearing the fabric of his underwear, girth aching within the coffins of his trousers. sabo kept a bruising grip on your waist, growing mad at the merest thought of the context of that encounter — your marriage to a scornful, disgusting heir with no respect for human life whatsoever. he snapped his hips, brute and possessive, teeth buried on your shoulders as he forced you to meet his thrusts.

his arm was the one to keep you balanced; tethering you to the earth. you had your head on his shoulder, neck craned to offer further access to the abusing bruises left on your flesh by his famished mouth. you moaned, back arching as he tried to have a brief taste of the folds of your ass, through his clothed girth.

the fire closed in, yet sabo took-in the opportunity offered by the cacophony of your whimpers to shove three of his fingers inside of your mouth, the sudden invasion provoking your gag reflex. dragon-claw technique was made for violence; battling. yet it had not been the first time he used the crafted strength of his fingers on you — oftentimes shoving them so deep into your pussy, you were left unable to feel your legs for a couple of succeeding hours. your mouth, however, was quite a new territory — and one he was eager to venture through, especially with the incoming crowd.

“suck on it,” he rasped out, and your moan sent a tide of vibrations through his skin, your tongue following-in-suit; swirling, warm and wet, having him grunt at the reminder of how it felt to have your mouth wrapped around his cock.

drool dripped past your parted lips, trailing down your chin. he did not dare shove his fingers knuckle deep, well-aware that the limitations of your mouth were far less extensive than those of your cunt, yet the strength of the thrusting into your mouth remained, filling the ambience with the sound of your struggle; your constant gagging. your cheeks were hollowed as you all but failed to match his tempo, tongue giving-in under the pressure of his digits. it was erratic, vicious and lewd, saliva coated fingers and a brutal, ever-constant thrust of his girth against your ass. yet, sabo had never been more hard; neglected cock leaking. tears rolled down your cheeks, mingled with liquid streaks of black as your fluids ruined the makeup you wore. he wondered how long those people had wasted, dolling you up, turning you into an ethereal and desirable object, coated in richness and assuming an image so far from the you he knew. sabo chuckled — darkly, malicious — for he meant to demolish the foundation of their plans, stealing their most precious jewel.

flames engulfed the surroundings, daring to lick the hem of your dress, silk crumbling from the heat. for a second, sabo allowed the wildfire to destroy it; to claim the fabric and the one who wore it. the long, chic dress shrunk, offering him a clear sight of your thigh. you gagged, whether it had been from his fingers or the smoke, he could not guess, but the sound had been engulfed by the gasps from the outsiders, and sabo, at last, laughed. he picked up the pace of his humping, dragging his tongue up your neck, teeth teasing your earlobe.

he heard flabbergasted shouting and gasping, the guests failing to approach the two of you, figures engulfed by a curtain of flames and smoke. sabo grew more excited at their reaction, grunting as he shoved his fingers, knuckle deep, a final time. you gagged, clinging to his wrist, pleading stance edging him further. he was close to cumming in his pants as though a ridiculous, untouched virgin, yet he did not care whatsoever, retreating his fingers to grip at your chin, forcing you to face the alarmed guests, observing the scene without the means to retrieve you.

the groom barked out orders, yet the fire began to spread with renewed fury, a tide of devastating heat challenging him to face it. sabo’s breath tickled the side of your cheek as he smirked, forcing your hips to remain pressed against his cock.

“you’re going to sing for them,” sabo rasped out, lips moving to bite on your earlobe. “let them know where your loyalty lies.”

he groped one of your breasts, your saliva soaking the thin silken fabric, making it easier for him to tease your hardening nipple, pinching it ever-so-slightly. sabo forced you to feel every inch of his erection, wet mouth sucking bruises on your neck as he coaxed a loud, broken moan out of you. that hardly would be enough to have either of you cumming, but he could fix that soon enough. as of then, sabo enjoyed the sight of your ruined dress; tear-stricken face; abused throat. the fact that he melted you into nothing but a reminder of the role you were forced to play earlier. he grunted, twitching your nipple with non-forethought strength, causing you to mewl, a victim of his unrelenting touch.

sirens flared; the distinctive shout for the marines. sabo clicked his tongue, wrapping an arm around your figure, ceasing to tease you. he let out an amused laugh at the sight of your displeasure, barely clinging to consciousness due to the smoke, yet willing to ignore said barrier for the sake of having his fingers shoved into your awaiting mouth. sabo used his devil-fruit to propel the pair of you up, flames engulfing the lower part of his body as he flew far from the commotion, towards the docks. moonlight reflected on the diamonds adorning your neck, and a certain hint of possession settled itself in the pit of his stomach, heat sent straight into his still leaking, neglected cock.

“where to?” you inquired, secured into his arms, comfortable despite the height.

“freedom,” he answered, not adding that freedom’s gates were but an improvised bed on a small ship, promising a proper fuck — with those diamonds resting on your breasts.

— 🐈‍⬛ : google will PAY for the stress it’s been giving me this past week i swear!! kinktober almost ending, though. ☹️

[bambisafe]

re4!leon / fem!reader

cw : sexual content, minors don't interact or you'll be blocked. established relationship, vanilla sex; making out, neck kissing, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, cumming (male and female), leon pulls out, cuddling, one bad joke.

word count : around 720

author's note : straight sex is harder to write than wlw stuff but here we are.

imagine couch sex with leon.

it's evening, about an hour after you two had dinner, and you're both settled in front of the tv, cuddling.

"mm," leon hums into your shoulder, broad hand rubbing up and down your side, inching awfully close to your waistband. "so soft."

eventually, he lifted you onto his lap like you weighed nothing, your back against his front. arms wind around your waist, messing kisses placed on the back of your neck.

"i dunno what it is about you tonight," he mumbles into your skin, fingers dipping into your pajama pants. "just can't get enough'a you."

leon doesn't give you time to form a response, or even a thought, as his middle finger plunges through your folds, rubbing tantalizing circles on your clit.

your hips jerk, breath hitching. "god, you smell so fuckin' good." he grumbles into your neck with a renewed sense of need.

his own hips roll up into your ass, and you can feel just how hard he is even through layers of clothing.

letting out a quiet whine into your ear, he quickens the circles along your sensitive nub, not giving you moment of pause before he's stuffing your hole with two fingers.

gasping softly, your inner walls tighten around the thick digits as he fingerfucks you without abandon, the wet sound of his fingers in you making your head swim.

"yeah," he grits close to your earlobe, massaging that spot inside you that makes black spots dance in your vision. "like that, huh?"

his thumb finds your clit, rough from years spent as an agent, rubbing the pearl in slow up-down motions.

"y-yeah," you whimper. "ah, leon."

the sound of his name in your mouth alone makes his cock twitch inside his plaid boxers.

normally he's patient. your needs always come first— in fact, attending to you is what gets him off. he'll eat you out, twice even, before even thinking of stuffing you full.

but right then, desire overrides morals.

"i need to be inside you," he's nearly whimpering, his fingers slipping out you with a wet pop. "please, sweetheart."

you can't complain, not when he's sweet-talking you, not when he's desperate.

switching positions, you rise off his lap, ridding of your elastic slacks before straddling him.

meanwhile, leon's barely tugged his own sweats down to his thighs when you sit your pretty self back onto him. one hand grips your hips, nearly panting.

the other comes up to the back of your neck, pulling you down to meet his lips in a searing kiss.

he doesn't break it— a tangle of tongues —even as he trails the tip of his dick along your slit, nudging your clit, and your walls clench around nothing in anticipation.

as you sink down onto him, he moans directly into your mouth, "fuck."

his chest heaves, skin dewy with perspiration as a hand finds one of your tits, squeezing the pillowy flesh through your loose shirt. you don't think you've ever seen him so desperate. it's fucking delicious.

his lips part from yours, a tendril of saliva connecting you two, hips shallowly rutting against yours as you bounce up-and-down, one hand gripping the couch, your other his shirt.

"a-ah, fuck," you whimper, eyes droopy with lust. he just sheathed himself inside you but—

"oh fuck, i'm gonna cum," you sob, hand traversing from his chest to his arm, nails digging into skin.

leon doesn't object, just as needy for release as you are, as he slams your hips onto his in a restless, breakneck rhythm, slick flesh smacking together, creating an obscene symphony.

you shudder, walls fluttering around him. "leon!"

his pace quickens despite growing increasingly sloppy, and before he can spill inside you, he pulls out, creating a disgustingly arousing sound as he jerks himself off to the finish, letting out a drawn-out groan as spurts of cum shoot out of the angry red of his leaky tip— all over himself, your thighs, the couch, the floor, and even a bit on the coffee table.

you're not far behind, your own fingers rubbing quick circles on your clit, legs nearly giving out as they shake violently, hips writhing as your head meets leon's shoulder.

he guids you through your crescendo, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of your face and whispering praises into your ear.

both spent, you cuddle, using leon as your personal body pillow as you doze off, head on his chest while he strokes your back, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.

"so, rain check on the bath?"

[luveline]

hi queen 😙

could you please do one where the BAU are staying in another state for a case so they have to stay in a hotel and for some reason hotch has to come see reader in the morning or before bed or something so he knocks on the door of her room and she opens and she’s just standing there with like her hair in two braids and like matching pink pyjamas and hotch just has a little laugh because he’s never seen that side of her before?? 💕💕

this would be like season 1 or 2 hotch :D

cw reader has hair that can be put into two braids

He texts you first but you don't answer. Hotch isn't happy to encroach on your space so early but he can't remember what you said last night about the killer's motivations and he needs to know, desperately, in case this missing piece of the puzzle can stop another young man from being murdered. 

"L/N?" he asks, knocking on the door quickly. "Y/N, are you awake?" 

There's a definite sleeping groan. Hotch winces at the sound but what else can he do? You'll have to wake up in an hour anyway. 

"Y/N? I'm sorry to wake you, but I need to ask you about Cory, last night's victim? You said it seemed more like an arsonist than a murderer, what did you mean by–" 

The door swings open. "...that." Hotch stares at you. 

You have your hair braided away from your face, strands rocked free and frizzy. More amusing is the baby pink pyjamas you're wearing; adorable little slips of fabric, pants that stop mid-calf and a camisole with soft lace at the chest. Hotch immediately looks back to your face as he realises his once over, but he can't hold back a laugh. A small chuckle, harmless. 

"Are you laughing at me?" you ask tiredly, voice croaky but threaded with amusement. "You woke me up, okay? This is your fault. Did you bring me coffee, at least?" 

Hotch puts his empty hands up in defeat. 

"Come in, then, before someone else sees me." 

Hotch follows you inside. He doesn't feel any pressure or awkwardness, but he needs to make sure you aren't either, and so he takes a cross-armed position against the wall. You run your hand down a braid and pull out the elastic, absentminded as you shake out your hair. 

"I said it was more like arson because of the mess. Arsons like to ruin things. And I just don't see how it could be solely pleasure based after such a massacre," —you move to the second braid and repeat the process— "the adrenaline runs out eventually, but the blood was– it was everywhere. It would've taken effort. There are photos on my phone if you want to see." 

You gibe him your phone, open to photographs you took last night. Hotch clicks through them in disgust. Like you said, it takes a lot of effort to make a crime scene look like this. 

"We could be looking for someone with an impulse control disorder," Horch guesses. "Our pool of suspects would completely change. We've been looking for people who have untoward desires centred around teenage boys–" 

"But if we're searching for someone who can't control their impulses we could easily be looking at a teenage boy. He'd have reason to be with his victims that wouldn't cause concern." 

Hotch finds it very difficult to take you seriously in your pinks. He laughs again, and you know exactly what it is he's laughing at, waving him away as you bend down by your suitcase under the desk. "Go sharpen up, Hotchner. And get me a coffee, please." You glance at him from over your shoulder. "I'd like to see you in your pyjamas." 

"I'm sure you would, agent." 

Hotch thinks more than he should about you in your thin pyjamas, the way they hugged your thighs and the naked lengths of your arms, your ankles, he's ridiculous, but it's stuff he's not used to seeing. He's usually so focused. 

He brings you a coffee and an apology croissant, which you eat in pleased silence beside him, fully dressed, hair tamed. He can't not see you as you were that morning, eyes puffy with tiredness but a hundred times the professional he'd been. 

"I can feel you looking at me," you murmur. "Laugh again and I'm telling Gideon." 

"Ah, and he'd reprimand me."  

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" you ask, almost monotone as you drink your coffee. "Do you have the case file for Patrick Gorden? I wanna compare the blood splatter on the walls." 

[poorlywrittenbutentertaining]

Consultant

Gibbs x Fem!oc

Warnings: light swearing, canon typical warnings

Summary: sometimes you just need a fresh set of eyes.

Gibbs leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head as he looked over the screens in front of him. He had examined and re-examined the evidence several times and yet he felt stuck. A dead Navy officer whose circumstances and crime scene pointed to murder but death implied natural causes. All roads led to a dead end. Gibbs let out a frustrated sigh and sat up, deciding a coffee would be a good way to clear his mind. He grabbed his coat and threw it over his shoulder as he exited the building. The sun felt refreshing as he walked out of the navy yard, flashing security his badge and ID as he passed.

The streets were surprisingly quiet for noon, but he couldn’t argue. After years living alone he’d come to appreciate quiet. A brief walk later and he stepped into his favorite coffee shop, the one he frequented often enough that the entire staff had memorized his order. Not that it was difficult, large black coffee, Jamaican blend. The barista behind the counter simply nodded and him and rang up the coffee as Gibbs provided his card to pay.

The bell over the door chimed behind him as a voice flooded through the small shop, “-Well I know that, but he’s not stable enough. His wound is volatile enough as is, if he leaves the hospital the risk of infection is too high… don’t tell me that, tell him that!… ugh, push 100 Ml.s until I get back and can handle this myself. Don’t let him out of your sight.” Gibbs peeked over his shoulder to see a somewhat familiar face, however she looked disgruntled and minutely irritated. He stepped out of the way as he listened to her order. Her drink order was complex and (he assumed) would be very very sweet by the end.

“Lotta sugar for a doctor to be drinking,” Gibbs said casually. The girl looked over at him and he managed a half smile, “Dr. Wright.”

Elaine’s face broke out into a wide grin as she turned to him, still dressed in her work scrubs, her badge clipped to her lapel. On her lunch break, he assumed.

“Agent Gibbs,” her voice was surprised, but pleasant, “I don’t think you should come after my sugar consumption. I’ve heard just how high your caffeine intake is.”

Gibbs chuckled, “fair enough. Tough patient?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Elaine stood next to him, “tough case?”

Gibbs nodded and mimicked her words, “yeah… you could say that.” He looked down at her. Her flaming red curls were stuffed into a tight bun on the back of her head. A few stray curls bounced around her head, free from the elastics holding everything else in place.

“Tell me about it,” Elaine glanced up at him, “Consider me a… consultant. Y’know like those psychics on TV.”

“Are you a psychic, Elaine?” Gibbs asked.

“No, but I’m a doctor,” Elaine said, “and a little birdie told me that cause of death looks natural, but you’re investigating murder. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes is what you need?”

Gibbs stopped a moment and considered. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes was what he needed. Ducky had gone over the body several times and all of the evidence had been scoured for forensics. A different perspective could be enlightening.

“Gibbs!” The barista called. Gibbs grabbed his coffee and took a sip.

“You free today?” Gibbs asked.

“For the case? Or… something else?” Elaine cheekily smiled. Gibbs rolled his eyes. Elaine laughed, “What time do you want me there?

“1700 hours,” Gibbs said.

“Copy that, gunny.”

~~~

The elevator dinged and Elaine ran her hands down the front of her shirt, smoothing it out after taking a deep breath. The last time she was here, she had held a bomb for four hours, and then developed a slight crush on the leading investigator, who also happened to be her godfather’s best friend. She had woken up in his home, after receiving a serious concussion where he had monitored her for the full day.

Elaine had changed out of her scrubs into more office-appropriate attire. As the elevator doors slowly opened in front of her she was greeted by the familiar sight of the orange squad room. She stepped out and quickly made her way to the bullpen.

“Dr. Wright,” DiNozzo stood and moved to her side, “how can I help you?”

“I’m looking for agent Gibbs, he asked me to be here.”

“For what?”

“Elaine,” Gibbs rounded the dividers. Elaine smiled and walked to him, “with me.”

“Yes, sir,” Elaine fell into step with him as he guided her to the second elevator, “so read me in.”

“Navy officer, 35, house was trashed and raided, there was a significant amount of deer blood on the body but when the body was examined, all roads lead to a heart attack,” Gibbs said, “but the officer was perfectly healthy when we pulled his medical records.”

“Huh,” Elaine rolled her lips, “I might have an idea.”

When the elevator opened Elaine was greeted by the sight of a serile autopsy room, and her godfather.

“Hello dear,” Ducky smiled and walked over to her, embracing her tight.

“Hi dad,” Elaine smiled and returned the hug, “i’m here as a fresh pair of eyes.”

“Yes Jethro told me,” Ducky pulled away and retrieved her a fresh set of protective equipment, “our dear officer is right here.” Elaine pulled the PPE over her clothing and approached the body. He looked healthy, for a dead guy who had been autopsied. Nothing immediately struck her as strange. Elaine rolled the body’s arm out and inspected its veins.

“Did this man go to the hospital before he died?” elaine asked, grabbing a magnifying glass to zoom the area.

“No,” Ducky said. Elaine pulled away from the glass, and showed Ducky. He hummed, “Looks like an IV. But there were no drugs in his blood.”

“No, there wasnt,” Elaine said, “They didnt inject medication. They injected air. Of course you wouldn’t see it on a tox screen. An injection of air can cause what looks like a heart attack. The air bubbles block the flow of blood, it’s the reason we watch so close for air bubbles in shots, and IV drips.”

It was that moment that Gibbs realized just how smart this woman was, “The injection was professional. Straight into the vein. You’re looking for someone who works in a hospital or medical testing lab. A phlebotomist maybe, or a nurse.”

A nurse, that was it. Gibbs nodded and began walking off.

“Say thank you, Jethro!” Ducky called. Gibbs halted and turned, approaching Elaine as she took her gloves off with her back turned to him. When she turned she froze to see he was mere inches from her. She looked up at him with a small blush dusting her cheeks.

“Good work, doctor,” Gibbs’ voice was low. Elaine swallowed and smiled at him.

“Told you, you needed fresh eyes,” She smiled slightly. Gibbs turned and walked away and Elaine took a deep breath, leaning against the sinks.

“You’re swooning, Elaine,” Ducky said. Elaine laughed slightly.

“That man is worth swooning for,” She answered.

[lsunstreakerl]

1.9k of maxiel forced bite/legal adjustments verse. Daniel POV, Max POV, mature content.

Max sleepily presses into Daniel's chest, legs tangled together. He's purring softly, hair brushing against Daniel's nose.

They've been... figuring it out. Daniel wakes up some mornings sick with disgust at himself, but he can't manage to hold onto it, not when Max is so sweet in the nest, waiting for Daniel to come back.

He's ruined his life.

Daniel's been sending email after email, getting paperwork sorted and signed, demanding his agents find the right wording to give Max as much freedom as possible- but it's not what he had before.

The final say will always go to Daniel. They both know it.

He's rumbling anyways, arm wrapped across Max's waist. He didn't-

Neither of them really wanted this, but it's what they have, and Daniel's the alpha here, he's the older one, he's the experienced one, and Max is so young. He deserves to be able to go out and party, to have fun and sleep with random people and make questionable choices in clubs.

Daniel refuses to take that from him, even if they're mated, and he looks down at Max, feeling his soft breaths against the skin of his neck.

He won't fuck him again. Not unless he's in heat, when he needs it- otherwise, Daniel is going to step back. Give Max the space to go back to how he was before, and he's not going to be some overprotective hovering alpha.

The thought of Max going home with someone else makes his stomach turn, grinding his teeth, but that's Max's choice. Daniel's taken enough already.

He won't take anything else.

------

Daniel drops his head back against the wall, eyes narrowed as Seb goes on and on and on, some technical bullshit he doesn't care for. He's been on a hair trigger all week, clenching his jaw and forcing his annoyance down.

His rut schedule doesn't have him lined up for another two weeks, so it can't be that, but he feels like he's going crazy, irritated at every little thing.

He's perpetually aware of Max, as always, a few rows away talking to Hulk, hands gesturing. He's wearing the FIA required flat black elastic around his neck, covering the nape of his neck. Mated omegas are more susceptible to scruffing, so this is the solution.

It has Max's logo embossed on it, because Daniel had refused to put his own, had to bite down on his tongue to avoid snarling at the representative who'd tried to encourage it.

Seb has gone quiet, and Daniel forces himself to look back at him. Away from Max. Always, always away from Max.

Seb looks concerned.

"Dan..."

Daniel presses his lips together. He's annoyed enough as is, the last thing he needs is soapbox preaching about how he's supposed to navigate his new situation.

"It's all good, Seb."

"Is it? Because you smell like rut, and you refuse to touch him, and none of us can figure out what exactly is going on here."

Daniel growls softly, low and quiet. He can see Checo raise an eyebrow nearby, but otherwise he doesn't cause a scene.

"None of your business."

Seb's eyes shift to something sad and gentle, an understanding expression Daniel doesn't want directed at him. He stands abruptly, stepping out into the cool hallway.

He feels hot with it, frustrated and antsy.

He's not going to rut, he's not going to ask for Max, he's going-

------

His teeth sink into a pillow, hips sliding against the mattress, fucking into his own hand. It's not enough.

The pillow doesn't whine or writhe underneath him, doesn't burst with sweet scent snapping under his teeth, the mattress isn't warm and malleable, his hand isn't wet enough, isn't tight enough, isn't enough.

Max is in a different hotel, the exact way Daniel had asked for, and he can feel his absence like a missing limb, keenly aware that he has a mate, and he's not here.

They haven't reaffirmed the bond enough to pass sensations or feelings, and Daniel had done that on purpose, but it hurts. His instincts are screaming at him, rubbing his nerves in all the wrong ways, reminding him of what he has, what he needs.

What he doesn't deserve.

------

He's lying in a pool of his own sweat and cum, hazily awake. He aches everywhere, and his rut isn't over, far from it, but he's having a brief moment of relative lucidity.

His phone is buzzing.

Daniel groans, reaching out one hand to slap around for it, squinting at the bright screen. Anyone important should know that he's in the middle of a rut-

Max V. is calling...

It's a bad idea. It's a terrible idea, Daniel's not sure if he could've come up with a worse one if he tried.

He's answering anyways.

There's a brief moment of static before the call connects.

"Finally, what the fuck Daniel."

Max's lisp rolls over his words, separating Daniel's name into something beautiful, something perfect on his tongue.

He flops his head back into the pillow, shoving a hand down between his hips, lazily rocking into his closed fingers.

"Rut, Maxy."

Max sighs, heavy and crackling over the phone.

"Obviously. Why are you in some other hotel, and not with me?"

There's a pleased rumble somewhere in Daniel's chest. His mate misses him. His mate wants him. He knows there's a whole list of reasons he'd set it up this way, but he's having a hard time thinking of them, tongue thick in his mouth and he starts panting softly, shoving his head closer to the phone to hear Max better.

"Stupid."

Max huffs, and there's a weird rustling noise over the phone.

"Yes, that is you. Stupid alpha. I do not know how this works, so you are just going to have to use your imagination-"

Max cuts off with a soft gasp, and everything in Daniel is abruptly tuned into the phone, listening to his omega. He didn't think Max would dare doing something like this.

The blood is rushing rapidly away from his brain, listening to Max work himself up over the phone, and the visual is doing his head in, thinking of Max pushing slim fingers inside of himself, twisting to get the right angle, unsatisfied because it's not Daniel.

He rumbles, low and vibrating through the mattress, listening to the wet noises through the phone, hitching gasps through the static.

"You're making pretty noises for me, yeah? Just for me."

Max whines, and the noise is doing things to Daniel's brain, to his dick and his instincts and his morals, makes him want to sneak his way back to their hotel, to the room he knows his omega is in.

He doesn't.

------

Daniel feels like shit coming out of his rut, the past few days completely empty in his mind. He could've had a press conference in his boxers and he wouldn't remember it.

His muscles ache, and his hotel room is disgusting, but he's made it, and he's made it alone. He did it without Max, even though he's sure it was difficult- there's bite marks ripped into the pillows, the bed is a mess, and his phone is dead on the floor.

He takes a long shower, carefully collects his things. He'd been determined to not even take any of Max's clothing with him, even if it would've been so easy- he needs to be able to do this alone, doesn't want Max to feel forced or indebted.

The short walk back to the other hotel helps him get his thoughts in order. They're flying back out to Monaco soon, and Daniel needs to finish getting his name on Max's paperwork for his flat. The idea that an alpha would try and hold housing over their omegas head- it makes him sick, the thought of treating any omega like that, and certainly not Max.

He's keeping his own flat, and they'll be separate even in this, the most freedom Daniel can give him. He won't invade Max's space, won't take even more from him than he has. If Max invites him over that's a different story, but Daniel is just going to treat his entire flat like a nest.

He's not going anywhere near it without permission.

------

Daniel hasn't mentioned the phone call. Max had expected something, but it's like it never even happened, like Daniel hadn't growled over the line, told Max how hard to push in his fingers, listened to him get himself off for hours until his phone died.

Max hopes it helped- the internet had said that long distance mates can call for the occasional rut or heat, and while it's nothing like the real thing, it hopefully curbed some of Daniel's more aggressive rut habits.

But Daniel hasn't said anything about it.

Max is trying not to let it get to him. He knows he's not a good omega, not the standard, not small or meek or submissive, but he can- he can try, if Daniel will let him.

Being mated is humiliating at a level he hadn't expected, but the shame burns brighter at just how ashamed of him Daniel is. He doesn't touch Max, doesn't even keep an eye on him most of the time. Max could go hook up with a stranger in a club and Daniel wouldn't even care.

They don't live together, and Max had thought being mated to an alpha was the worst possible thing, that it couldn't possibly be any more degrading, but he's so bad at being an omega his alpha doesn't even want him for a rut.

He wasn't aware that was possible.

It stings, knowing that even at Daniel's most basic instincts, he doesn't want to fuck Max.

Max curls tighter into his nest, whining softly. It smells like him, just him, no Daniel to be found.

Before the bite, Daniel used to come over to Max's flat bringing beer and pizzas, used to roughhouse with him in the garage, used to watch sports matches on the TV and knocks their knees and ankles together.

Now it's like Max doesn't even exist, shoved away in his flat he doesn't own, with an alpha that doesn't care about him.

He'd even take a rut fueled fuck at this point, or a hate fuck, or something- anything from Daniel.

The phone call is the closest they've gotten, and just like everything else, Daniel is pretending it didn't happen.

His next whine hitches in his throat, wet and upset. His throat is thick, and there's a heavy weight in his chest, frustrated and sad.

He's having a heat flash, again. They've been disturbingly constant lately, hitting him out of nowhere, slick dripping down his thighs.

It's not hard to sneak out of the garage when he feels one coming on, and Jake knows- had given Max a mortifying bag filled with heat aids, telling him to have plenty of options for when he and Daniel aren't together.

Embarrassing as it is, Max is glad for the bag, because he and Daniel are never together.

He fumbles off to the side, fingers wrapping around textured silicone, legs dropping open as he feels the heat running through him.

He thinks about calling, just for a moment- wonders what Daniel would do if he picked up the phone and heard Max begging for him.

Daniel's made himself clear though. He doesn't even want Max around to fuck. He's certainly not going to go out of his way and come take care of him, not when he'd rather pretend Max doesn't exist.

Max can't even go to another alpha either, because he's mated. No alpha in their right mind would risk that, pissing off someone like Daniel.

It's just Max, and his silicone, and the audio file he paid for online of an Australian alpha sweet talking him through an orgasm.

He hopes Daniel isn't watching his finances very closely.

[haruchuchuiyo]

Trespasser!Sanzu Haruchiyo w/ reader

.🇹​​🇴​​🇰​​🇾​​🇴​-​🇷​​🇪​​🇻​ 🂠 🇭​​🇪​​🇦​​🇩​​🇨​​🇦​​🇳​​🇴​​🇳​​🇸​・.

TW + CW : Voyeurism | Harassment | Stalking | Addiction (Drugs)

Reader : non-disclosed afab | amab | gn

( re working rn bc i didnt proofread shit okkkk so don't complain this a construction site 30% done so far - 31/05/2025 start)

🂠 ​ Contrary to popular opinion, SANZU does not leave messes behind.

Now some seem to hold their judgments, that because— he is.. well,

to put it lightly.. Heavily under the influences' of various 'pharmaceuticals'. That he too would of succumbed to the filthy nature of his career. Just like the rest of his colleagues whom have long grown a jadedness to squalid attitudes.

Haruchiyo,

never developed these traits.

If anything he's quite the opposite. Now this is not to say that the rest of Bonten's executives lack an eye in keeping appearances. After all that would make for a very short livelihood in this line of work.

However men have their exceptions socially. Behaviorally. And alike most men in the world, they fall short in ways where a 'better half' is expected to pick up after.'

🂠 In SANZU's world. He has more than enough skeletons in his closet for this lifetime. All confided to his mind. No so called better half. It's his psyche that's in shambles, nothing else so don't get it twisted.

🂠 ​ The clean freak who works mad like a dog at the oddest hours of day. SANZU has long been aware of the conduct to expect of other Bonten's executives.

Tasking other executives is out of the question, I mean think about it; Takeomi couldn't even take care of him and his sister,

Mochi well he's all brawn no brain in his eyes,

Koko's physique is as disheveled as his work desk. The Haitani's? Yeah that's a no, FUCK NO ( Have you seen the neglected trash pile up in their house? )

DISGUSTING

Haitani's can't clean for' shit even if it was their own party! Sure as hell neither of em will scrappin' any business for Bonten .

Now what about Kakucho?

Admittedly has the muscle, has a brain. Just a little too much heart for when things get real grimy, which they always do.

Now the role SANZU plays here is fairly time sensitive to keep everything smooth sailing, it isn't exactly something number 3 could take a jab first try without a future headache for number 2. Ignorance is what gets you caught. What Kakucho lacks is well. He isn't exactly educated, or conventional. Unless you wanna count juvie and street brawling a form of vocational schooling.

It's this that makes Kakucho the last guy you'd want taking an educated guess. Type-a guy who'd mix drain cleaners n' end up in hospital. Ain't bettin' on a liability.

🂠 ​ Unlike Kakucho SANZU has an extensive knowledge of scum removal. He's accumulated enough stock to keep his apartment pristine regardless of who visits. His apartments-units storage is fully equipped for any situation, packed to the brim with family-pack sized cleaning agents, bleaches, peroxides.

His work experience is personal. Removing dirt, grime, blood and guts dust is daily ritual in his life, his habit like compulsion dates back to his Kanto Manji days ( perhaps even before ) and have since grown stronger. More methodical, irrational than before. Haruchiyo is the meticulous one, the obvious choice for clean up.

— fiddling with the elastic of his glove, its snaps to his wrist .

"More protection than yer' use'd to—ay ? " With a grin bearing no teeth he chuffs ,

"Ain't for you anyways, so quit shakin ." The wheels of the hand trolley squeaked- as he moved out various boxes.

🂠 ​ It's these personality quirks, his clean freak behavior that makes him such a special kind of danger in the world of career criminals. You won't find muddy footprints or any pink hair strands, no new finger prints on the entrance door pin touch-pad (oooo fancy). Once you've become his target or obsession you won't know, forget a keen eye or a keen memory, your gonna need a developed sixth sense when he's under your bed or in your closet!

​🂿 Do you realize how quickly criminals get caught in this day and age of modern surveillance? Theirs no room for being sloppy. That's why he's survived in such a cutthroat environment, SANZU has stuck around compared to the many peers who have tried and failed living the high risk lifestyle he toils away in. They just weren't built for it. He is. One trick ponies don't last long, you can't -just- be strong, or smart you need connections and allies. Him being an ever so inaccessible loner he's found power in being a wild card.

🂠 ​ Do You think he would want to dirty the sanctity of your cute little flat? Really? The newly completed glass cladded high-rise squeezes your dingy apartment complex of sun light. Its been built near kissing the side-building, the grey black tinted glass panels, modern yet monolithic. You've lost all of your window view, now turned mirror reflection from the paneling.

🂠 ​ You've lost all opportunity to watch the clouds and birds and he's gained all the opportunity to watch you, little to your knowledge.

🂠 ​ Don't get it twisted SANZU didn't just suddenly adore you out of voyeuristic opportunity that's so shallow. People watching is 50% of his job and he's yet to fall in love at first sight while working. No, SANZU never intended to become attracted, but really what else was he supposed to do in his spare time when his body wouldn't move from the sofa.

🂠 ​ It might have been all the stress or the fighting or the killing or- well everything really. His body and mind sober isn't going to cut it in the workplace. I mean even average civil workers dabble in prescriptions, stimulants legal illegal (he would know his customer demographic after all) anything that numbs the aches and pains from a hard day of work. Can you imagine what hard drugs contract killers, swindlers and madmen use to take the edge off. He's tried it all and he's found his preferred vices. Still not a fan of smoke, unlike his older brother. He intends to keep the walls of his sanctuary smoke free and his teeth clear of tar. Oral pills, prescription and non, a line or two is all he needs to start a hard day of work.

🂠 ​ Coke and Haruchiyo . ・。.・゜are best of buddies just like housewives and valium. Doing lines recreationally has been fantastic for him completing daily house chores, cleaning the kitchen, vacuuming the floors, folding the laundry, butchering the odd body, packaging remains for removal, busy work all within a timely manner. SANZU's a busy guy. What's the worst of it? When he's stuck with his thoughts sitting, watching the clock chewing pens, grinding teeth the growing impatience, bouncing of his leg. Stuck inhaling Rindou's second hand berry vape smoke, at a meeting that could of and should of been an email. Or so he's found. His behavior gets unfairly directed upon his employees who daily deal with his coke induced fits of rage. Then theirs the come down, the end of the high. He always falls down sore laying in his open plan living room into the late hours of the day. He sees you un aware of him through his window. Un aware of a lot of things. He sees you live predictably compared to his life and struggle with normal people struggles. It's charming it's adorable its controlled in his chaos filled mind. He can't help but want to get closer

🂠 ​ Returning from work in your exhaustion you don't notice that the counter tops are a little cleaner, you don't notice next week there's less of your hair on the floor when vacuuming, or the month following a lack of your foot prints on your entrance way floor-tiling. It's only when you sit down and realize the futon is less frayed in the fabric, the lack of scratches in your glass table from when you dropped your cutlery oh so many times. The stains on your now newer looking settee gone ? A lack of natural decay.

🂠 ​ He can't allow for your life to change so drastically he won't allow it. SANZU needs to keep it same same to be at peace, your like reruns of a favorite tv show something he can watch and lull his mind to. Nothing is allowed to change. You are not allowed to change. Not without his clearance. He just can't understand how you could be upset with his good will, his patronage so far towards your living. Everything would of gone to shit fallen apart had he not stepped up. Now what? you wanna pack your bags because of a visitor? That's really 'unfair'. He'll show you unfair. Soon.

©2025 haruchuchuiyo -

Do not repost to other social platforms (Wattpad/TIKTOK/Twitter/etc), do not plagiarize, do not copy, do not translate, do not utilize in AI generation AI content AI models it is NOT permitted. All writings are written by me and are mine.

[starlightsuffered]

The Mark

Info - puking, injury, comfort, harming self because of itching

Regulus lurched towards the chamber pot again. Black bile erupted from his throat. His already pale skin was now lighter than parchment. He had been vomiting so hard he couldn’t catch his breath which turned his lips blue.

I rubbed his back in slow circles. His hair was drenched in sweat but I’d still brushed it back and put an elastic in it so it wouldn’t get messy.

Finally, he withdrew from the chamber pot. His face was ghostly and he was taking deep breathes through his nose and out of his mouth. I knew he was attempting to fight off another wave of nausea.

Green orbs were red rimmed with tears. This was the first time I’d ever seen him cry.

I didn’t like the way he couldn’t stay still. His right hand kept darting towards his left forearm, then he would remember.

The black skull and snake were rimmed in scarlet. Sores filled with puss and rot had build up in a scale over the tattoo. Neither of us had known this mark would affect him like this.

“Why are you still here?” He asked in a small voice. His hands were shaking as he took the water from me. Water was all he could keep down at the moment. Crackers couldn’t even stay in his system.

I’d caught him trying to scrap off the itchy, painful welts with a knife. This had only caused blood and weeping liquid that stung him.

“Shhh Regulus, you know why I’m here,” I whispered.

He began to hack. He wanted so badly not to empty his stomach again. I knew the mark had caused poison to fester inside him.

“I deserve all this. It was my decision. It took me too long to realise what he was doing, I did switch sides fast enough,” he began to sob. He looked dizzy and off balance as his body shook.

“Come here,” I murmured. I pulled him close to me. He curled into my arms like a baby. He was weeping in my arms.

“You shouldn’t be so kind to me,” he said in a ragged voice.

“I love you, I’m here for every up and down,” I explained. I ran my hands through his damp curls.

“What you are doing is brave. I hope you can see that. I hope you didn’t do this to punish yourself. I know what you’re sacrificing for this,” I explained.

He nodded and sniffled. He had to realise he was forgiven. The order knew his true heart. He was a double agent and doing something that was incredibly difficult and courageous.

“Don’t tell anyone what taking the mark does to you,” he pleaded. “Can this just be a secret between you and me?”

“Of course my love. But there’s no shame. It is pure evil, it is corruption and wrong, it makes sense that it would break you don’t like this,” I told him.

“Th-thank you,” he trembled.

We fell into a silence I was happy for. Quiet meant he was not gagging or trying to scratch the skin off his arm. I realised after a while that his breathing had slowed. He was asleep for the first time since he’d taken the mark.

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming @lovelyrocker @therealbeabodoobee

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

i can see you (javier peña's version)

pairing: javier peña x dea agent!female reader

rating: explicit (18+ mdni)

word count: 3.4k

summary:

when javier peña takes credit for your lead, you take revenge.

good thing you know javier can't resist a girl in red lipstick.

author's note:

first javier fic, based on taylor swift's "i can see you". if you enjoy, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging! gif by @pedropascalito

content warnings:

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), dub con - sexual activity under the influence of alcohol, alcohol consumption, no use of y/n, female masturbation, oral sex - male receiving, dirty talk, praise, lots of lipstick kink, pet names, sex while standing, teasing, semi-public sex (file room at work), vaginal fingering, mouth covering. please let me know if i've missed any!

You storm into the office, boots clicking on the linoleum as you make a beeline for Javier’s messy desk. He’s on the phone as you approach, ever present cigarette dangling from his lips as he speaks to whomever is on the other end of the line. You rip the receiver from his hand and slam it into the cradle.

“What the fuck?” Javier snaps, stubbing out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “What if that had been an important call?”

“Fuck you, Peña,” you hiss, planting your hands on his desk with enough force that several papers slip from precarious piles to the floor. “Where the fuck do you get off taking credit for my lead?”

His eyebrows go up, his lips tilting in a condescending smirk that you want to smack right off his face. “That’s what this is about? We’re a team, alacránita. It was our lead.” 

Little scorpion, he calls you, because of your quick temper. He uses it when he wants you riled up, wants you angry at him, because what else is a scorpion to do but fight back when provoked?

“Oh, really? So, you were the one who stayed up ‘til three in the morning reading transcriptions, huh?” You tap your chin. “No, wait. That was me.”

Javier stands, grabbing his gun from the desk and tucking it into the waist of his jeans at his back. The action has his button down shirt stretching right across his chest and your eyes linger on the view. When you meet his gaze again you know you’ve been caught, the insufferable man grinning like a cat that got the canary. 

“Look, do you want to keep arguing or do you want to actually do something with your intel and go catch some narcos?” He asks, breezing by you. You grind your teeth together as you watch him leave.

“If it’s any consolation—“ Steve starts to say, but you cut him off.

“Shut up, Murphy.”

That night after a long day of work and one beer too many you find yourself staring at the ceiling of your bedroom, your thoughts drifting to Javier and his annoying smirk and the stupid way he carries his gun and his dumb aviators and his gorgeous brown eyes and how good he feels between your—

Fuck.

You try not to think about the first time you met Javier Peña. The real first time, not the awkward handshake and forced smile as he introduced himself as Agent Peña. 

The first time, when he sat beside you at a bar and introduced himself as Javi and you thought that it must be a common enough name, there was no way this handsome stranger was your soon-to-be partner. He told you he worked in environmental services and you claimed to be a teacher. He bought you a drink and his eyes never left your mouth as you wrapped your red lips around a beer bottle. 

A couple hours of conversation later, his hand slid to your knee and he looked at you with brown eyes full of fire as his fingers curled into the flesh of your thigh exposed by your skirt. He asked if you wanted to go someplace more quiet and when you said your apartment was across the street, his smile was full of promise.

As your mind replays the memory in vivid detail, you slide your hand beneath the elastic of your panties, hissing as your fingertips graze your sensitive clit. You circle the bundle of nerves slowly as you continue to imagine that night.

You think back to the feel of his hand in yours as you dashed across the street to your apartment building, how he pressed against your back and nipped at your neck as you unlocked your door. He made a comment about the boxes still scattered around your apartment, some joke you can’t remember as desire fizzles through your veins. 

“These pretty red lips,” he said, pulling you close and tracing his thumb along your bottom lip. “Been staring at them all night, wondering how they would look stretched around my cock.”

“I could show you,” you responded, sliding your hands down his chest until your fingers encountered the cold metal of his belt buckle. You unfastened it, pulling the leather loose from his sinfully tight jeans and tossing it to the floor. “If you’d like?”

“Get on your knees,” Javier said as he unbuttoned his fly, working the waist of his jeans down enough to free his hard cock from the denim. You dropped to your knees quickly and his dark laugh echoed through the room. “Stick your tongue out, baby.”

You remember the salty taste of him on your tongue, the way he slowly fed his thick length into your mouth as you gazed up at him from your position at his feet. Your fingers circle your clit faster as you think about how he’d traced your lips where they stretched around his cock with his thumb, gently pushing at the corner of your mouth. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled. You whine at the memory as you inch closer to your release with each swipe of your hand. “Mouth built for sin, isn’t that right?”

You plunge two fingers inside of you with mounting desperation as your mind continues to replay the memory like a movie - the way his dark eyes fixated on the slide of his cock in and out of your mouth, the intoxicating sounds that spilled from his lips, and how he had pulled back from you when he was close to finishing to show you the lipstick stains you’d left behind.

“Dirty fucking girl,” he said, dragging you up from the floor and kissing you breathless. 

It’s the memory of his lips pressed to yours that pushes you over the edge, your cunt pulsing around your fingers as you shatter, biting back Javier’s name as it claws its way up your throat. In the aftermath, staring up at your ceiling, a thought pops into your head.

You know just how to get Javier back for taking credit for your lead.

As a field agent for the DEA, it’s not often you wear more than jeans, a blouse, and a practical pair of boots to work. After all, carrying a sidearm in a dress or running in heels isn’t ideal. 

Today, however, you’re willing to make an exception. With a series of meetings on the calendar this afternoon, the risk of jeopardizing your work for the sake of fashion is, thankfully, slim.

You’ve put on your tightest dress, black polyester hugging your curves and balancing the fine line of work appropriate. The heels you dug out of your closet make your ass look fantastic but the cherry on top of the whole ensemble is the bright red lipstick you slicked on with careful precision.

Steve does a double take as you enter the cluttered office space, your heels clicking on the linoleum. Javier is at his desk, his back turned to you as he speaks to someone on the phone.

“Lookin’, uh, lookin’ good,” Steve says with a cough. “Did I miss a memo or somethin’?”

“Nope,” you reply, your lips popping in emphasis. 

You hear the click of the phone being placed back in its cradle with impressive force. You try to keep your eyes focused on the file you’ve got open on your desk but you can feel Javier’s heated gaze burning over your skin. You glance up, briefly, but it’s enough for you to find his dark gaze and see the tense cut of his jaw as he grinds his teeth together.

Once the meetings start rolling, you don’t have much opportunity to think about Javier, but you know he’s thinking about you. You have fun with the attention, leaning forward to make sure the man can get a good view down your dress, biting the cap of your pen, and licking your lips after each sip of coffee. With each new tease, you notice the way his hand curls into a tight fist on the table or how he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. 

When Messina asks him a question, the usually calm and collected man stutters his response, earning him a raised eyebrow from the woman in charge. You have to bite back a satisfied laugh at his expense, watching as his neck turns a blotchy red in his embarrassment. 

Once the meeting is over, you’re discussing the next plan of action with Steve as you leave the boardroom, Javier trailing behind the two of you. Steve asks Javier a question and a glance over your shoulder earns you the satisfaction of knowing he had been staring at your ass, his head snapping up so fast a flinch of pain flashes across his features as he replies to Steve.

Working through the pile of paperwork on your desk comes with the ever present weight of Javier’s gaze on you from across the room. He fields phone calls most of the morning, cigarette held to his lips as he converses in smooth, rapid fire Spanish that has you pressing your thighs together beneath your desk. 

When he turns away, you grab a stray piece of blank paper and scribble a note before lifting it to your face to press a red kiss mark to the smooth surface. You fold it twice and keep it held tight in your hand as you stand and saunter over to Javier’s desk. 

His dark eyes are fixed to the extra sway in your step as you approach, his grip tightening around the receiver. You set the note on his desk, leaning over just slightly to slide it across the wood towards him. You tap it once before straightening and walking back to your desk to resume your work, watching Javier from the corner of your eye as he unfolds the note.

Stop staring.

Javier crumples the note in his fist in frustration, keeping it pressed to his palm as he frees another cigarette from the pack on his desk. The rush of nicotine in his veins mingles with the white hot lust he’s been trying to beat down ever since he caught sight of you in that tight little dress, and you’ve not been making it easy.

You never make it easy. Ever since walking into work six months ago to a face that shouldn’t have been familiar sitting behind his new partner’s desk, he’s been fighting to remain professional. It doesn’t help that you’re one of the best agents he’s ever worked with - smart, resourceful, and capable of standing up to men trying to pull rank on you.

Today is testing his patience. The dress and heels are one thing, but the lipstick? That’s a low blow. All he can think about is the last time he saw you wear it, that night at the bar that turned into that night in your bed, all the pretty red color faded from your lips because you marked his cock with it instead. He spent the entire meeting with Messina trying not to watch the way you wrapped your lips around the tip of your pen, thoughts drifting to what it would be like to have you on your knees again, staring up at him with less venom and more desire.

He sets the note on his desk, pointedly ignoring it while you’re in the room. He knows you’re looking for a reaction and he’s not going to give you the satisfaction of one.

At least, not yet.

“Murphy, you still need that file we talked about? I’ve got another to pull,” you announce, standing from your seat. The blonde man looks up and nods.

“Yeah, see if you can find it while you’re in there,” Steve replies. You give him a little salute of acknowledgment before leaving the shared office space and making your way to the file room.

Once inside the windowless room at the end of the hall, you pull on the cord connected to the singular lightbulb in the ceiling meant to illuminate the dank space. It smells like paper and dust and it constantly looks like a bomb went off - cabinets half closed with how much has been shoved inside of them, stray stacks of folders that someone couldn’t be bothered to return to their proper place, and a wastebasket overflowing with crumpled paper. 

You lose yourself to the task of locating the files you and Steve needed, distracted enough that you don’t hear the click of the door opening and shutting behind you. It’s not until there’s a low murmur of your name in a hauntingly familiar timbre so you realize you’re not alone.

You turn to find Javier standing in front of the file room door, dark eyes fixed on you as he removes his suit jacket and drops it to the floor. Your mouth goes dry as he rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, exposing deliciously tan forearms and muscles that flex hypnotically. 

“My eyes are up here, baby,” he says, a smirk on his lips that sends anger through your veins but lust to your belly. 

“What do you want, Peña?” You ask. Your voice wavers the slightest bit and you hope he doesn’t notice, but the tilt to his head and the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips says otherwise.

“I think the question is, what do you want?” He’s standing toe to toe with you now, your back pressed against a metal cabinet. “Or do you need me to show you?”

“Show me what?”

Javier chuckles. “What playing with fire will get you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you say, tilting your chin defiantly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, some of us have work to do that doesn’t involve harassing our coworkers.” 

But he doesn’t back up, doesn’t give you the room to breathe that you so desperately need. Instead his large hand cups your hip, sliding slowly up your body, a trail of heat running from your waist to your breast until his palm settles against your neck. He rubs his thumb across your lips.

“What do you call wearing this, then?” He holds his thumb up for you to see the smear of red across his skin. “We both know what you were thinking when you put it on this morning, cariño.”

He presses his thumb to your lips, slipping it inside your mouth this time. You give the digit a tentative suck as he presses it forward and back across your tongue, a crude approximation of the memory that replayed in your head as you touched yourself. 

Javier smiles triumphantly and you can feel his other hand working at the hem of your dress, hiking it up higher until his fingers skim the bare skin of your thighs. 

“Tell me to touch you,” he demands, pulling his thumb free from your mouth. You press your lips together, fighting the overwhelming need to give into him as his knuckle skims your pussy through the fabric of your panties. “Stubborn alacránita,” he growls, circling your clit harshly and making you cry out.

His palm covers your mouth, your eyes going wide as he continues his tortuous attention. “Tell me to touch you,” he says again, brow pinched as his eyes search yours. It hits you that this man is just as desperate for you as you are for him, and the rush that knowledge gives you has you nodding your head.

He removes his palm, cupping your cheek and pressing his forehead to yours before whispering into the space between your mouths, “Say it.”

“Touch me, Javier,” you murmur, rolling your hips into his hand. “Please.”

He wastes no further time, hand slipping under the elastic of your panties and dragging through your slick folds. He grins at you, boyish and feral in equal measure as he slips a thick finger inside of you while his thumb presses to your clit. 

“Christ, so fucking wet for me already, huh? Sitting at your desk getting worked up thinking about pulling one over on me with this little dress?” He adds a second finger and the stretch of it makes you moan, his palm returning to cover your mouth. “If this is your idea of a punishment for that lead, I’m not feeling too apologetic.”

You try to glare at him but the curl of his fingers inside of you and the press of his thumb to your sensitive bundle of nerves has your eyes rolling back instead, your head hitting the cabinet behind you. Your hips chase his hand with each pump of his fingers and it doesn’t take long for that wave of pleasure to crash over you, your muscles going tight as you pulse around him and your chest heaves with deep breaths you can only take through your nose thanks to his tight grip on your mouth. 

Javier murmurs praise into your ear that you barely register as you come down from your high. He removes his hands from you to unbuckle his belt, freeing his hard cock that you only get a glimpse of before he’s urging you to turn around, pulling your hips back toward him and moving your panties out of the way. He runs the head of his cock through the mess he’s made of you before positioning himself at your entrance and pressing in, in, in.

You brace yourself against the filing cabinet, the sheer size of him making you gasp as he bottoms out. He smoothes a hand down your spine, giving you a moment to adjust before drawing his hips back and slamming forward with a sharp thrust.

Javier reaches up to grip your shoulder, giving himself more leverage as he pounds into you, using your body to chase his pleasure. You bite your lip to stifle your own sounds as the room echoes with the snap of his hips against yours and the grunts he can’t contain. The hand on your shoulder moves to your throat, pulling you up and arching your back until he’s holding you against his chest.

You turn your face over your shoulder and his lips crash against yours, his teeth digging into your bottom lip and making you whimper.

“Cum for me,” Javier commands, the hand on your hip moving to circle your clit again. As you start to pulse around him, he smiles against your lips. “Fuck, that’s it. Just like that, baby.”

Javier presses himself deep as his own release courses through him, filling you to the brim with warmth and stealing your breath. He kisses your shoulder, a sweet gesture that’s so at odds with what you’ve just done.

When he starts to go soft, he pulls out and fixes your underwear into place before smoothing the skirt of your dress back down your hips, the sound of him buckling his belt following suit. You turn to face him, prepared for some sort of self-satisfied remark from the egotistical man, but to your surprise he wraps a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you towards him for a deep kiss.

As he draws back and your eyes flutter open, you notice the smear of red across his lips, the sight making you smile. You lick your thumb, using the moisture to rub away the remnant of your time together. 

“Thank you, alacránita,” he murmurs, gently grabbing your wrist and pressing a kiss to your palm. You catch a glimpse of your watch, noting the time.

“Don’t you have a meeting right now?” You ask Javier. He checks his own watch.

“Fuck!” He hisses, grabbing his suit jacket and rushing from the file room, the door slamming shut behind him as you laugh and laugh and laugh.

Maybe your plan worked better than you expected, after all.

Javier slips inside the boardroom and takes the seat beside Steve as inconspicuous as possible, straightening his jacket and smoothing down his hair as he does. As he’s trying to focus on the words being thrown around the room, he feels a tap at his shoulder.

Steve leans closer to whisper, “What’s that all over your hand?”

He looks at the hand he’s rested on the table, noting the smear of red that extends from his palm to the thin skin between his thumb and forefinger. He clenches his hand into a fist and sets it in his lap instead.

“Nothing,” he replies.

[leiascully]

Fic: Roll for Initiative (MSR, E)

3300 words; E for sexual content; Scully and Mulder attend her birthday party at the Lone Gunmen's headquarters, and then go back to her place for some more private celebrations as a late gift for @numinousmysteries

+ + + +

“Why am I suddenly afraid this isn’t a good idea?” Scully leaned against the outside wall of the Gunmen’s building.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Mulder assured her. “It’s gonna be fun.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then I’ll make it up to you later,” he said, smirking. She pushed off the wall, but just then the door opened.

“Birthday girl!” Frohike said. “Come right in.” He nodded at Mulder. As usual, the Gunmen’s lair was dimly lit and smelled like paper and ink, but today there was a robust overlay of lemon. Someone (Scully suspected Byers) had scrubbed and mopped in the living area, and it looked surprisingly clean. The table was clear, or at least, clear of trash and dishes: there was an interesting array of dips and snacks on the counter.

“Agent Scully! Welcome, and may I say, happy birthday,” Byers said. He pulled out a chair for her. “Please, make yourself at home. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Thank you,” she said. Her birthday wasn’t for another couple of days. Mulder had set up this party for her, and it had been easier to schedule it on the weekend. There was a peculiar relativistic phenomenon: the celebration of one’s birthday on an orthodox date did seem to make it one’s birthday, perhaps inducing quicker aging. Or maybe it merely extended one’s birthday to a season, redistributing the aging into a quantum state. She was both another year older and not.

It didn’t matter. She settled into her chair and accepted a silly party hat from Frohike, who was also wearing one. Mulder stretched the elastic of his party hat under his chin and gave a cheery little blast on a party horn. The streamers on it glinted.

Langly emerged from the other room wearing black robes, the hood pulled up over his head. “Lord Manhammer has arrived!”

“Here we go,” Frohike said under his breath.

“Take your seats,” Langly commanded. “The adventure begins.”

“We planned this one to be very simple,” Byers assured her.

“We?” Langly snorted.

“Lord Manhammer here said he’d go easy on you,” Frohike said, jerking his thumb toward Langly. He passed her some papers. “Here, we made you a character so you don’t have to go through the whole song and dance. Otherwise we’d be here for eight hours.”

“Yeah, we have plans later,” Mulder said. His foot brushed hers under the table. “If this goes past five, I’m going off-script.”

“Welcome,” Langly said in what he probably imagined were sonorous tones, “to Hammersrealm, where magic and mystery reign.”

(read the rest on AO3)

[ragnarockz]

Agnes waking up before Vidal (which is a rarity between them), laying there in the semi-dark room, watching and listening to the Agent. Her mind is racing; she looks so good with her hair falling around the pillow, the sexy green silk night gown she wore to bed (one of Agnes' favorites; she likes the texture of silk). Agnes' hands are shaking as she flips onto her back (she's a stomach sleeper) and lets her hands roam down to her boxer shorts. Just as she's about to slip her hand past the waistband, she hears a soft, "What are you doing?"

And it's Vidal, awake this whole time. She already sensed Agnes was awake, already stewing in her desire this early in the morning.

"I was just-" Agnes tries to respond, come up with some excuse as she can feel the elastic digging into the top of her fingers.

Agent Vidal takes her sweet time rolling over to face Agnes, so soft and sweet, but her eyes betray her; they're dark, hungry, lustful. She wants Agnes to continue and wants to watch the show.

"I think I deserve to watch you, don't you think? Daddy?"

Agnes hisses through clenched teeth, already wet, but now moreso. And as she's about to continue, Agnes catches sight of Vidal's right arm reaching out, coming closer. They're shoulder to shoulder, her arm not far away to reach. She grabs a hold of Agnes' left wrist and pulls it out from her boxers, watching Agnes' eyes go wide.

Agent Vidal replaces Agnes' hand with her own; the elastic pressing firmly against her wrist instead.

[marvelskies1969]

Infinity

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader / Loki x Fem!Reader

Premise: Y/N Rogers was sent away as a child, her powers deemed dangerous. After years of brief summers with Steve and Bucky, she returns for good when their mother dies—just as war begins.

As her abilities awaken, she draws the attention of Loki, the trickster god, and faces growing fear from those around her. Caught between destiny, war, and forbidden ties, Y/N must decide who she truly is—and who she’s willing to fight for.

Warnings/content: slight angst, brief mention of death/dying, jealousy, fluff, swearing, unstable parental relationships, follows the plot of the MCU timeline, with small changes.

[Masterlist]

[Part 3]

(Chapter 74)

Reality Unraveled

Nick Fury was dying in her arms.

Y/N felt his life slipping away, his breath shallow, blood soaking her fingers. She had seen death before, had lost more than she could count. But this—this was different.

This was something she could stop.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Steve shouted, his voice tight with urgency.

Y/N barely registered Sharon—Agent Sharon Carter, not just the friendly neighbor—moving to obey. Her own mind spun as she pressed her hands harder against Fury’s wounds.

I can fix this.

She had power. Power that bent the very fabric of reality to her will.

She closed her eyes, reaching deep within. The energy of the Aether coiled inside her, hungry and eager, while the Tesseract’s power hummed, vibrating with boundless cosmic energy. And the Mind Stone—whispering, waiting, promising control over the very essence of thought.

With a sharp inhale, she let it all surge forward.

The world flickered. Colors bled unnaturally at the edges of her vision as the Aether’s crimson tendrils wove through her hands, into Fury’s body. Time slowed. The fabric of reality trembled as she rewrote it.

The bullet wounds closed. The blood reversed its course, pulling back into his body. Cells knitted back together.

She forced life to remain.

Then, just as quickly, she let go.

The power snapped back inside her like an elastic band.

And Fury still lay there, unmoving.

Had it worked?

Sirens wailed outside as paramedics rushed in, lifting him onto a stretcher. She stumbled back, her breathing unsteady, watching as they carried him away.

Had she saved him? Or had she failed?

———

From the observation room, Y/N, Steve, and Natasha stood behind the glass as the doctors worked.

The heart monitor beeped. Erratic, unstable.

Then—

A long, sharp tone.

Flatline.

"Time of death, 1:03 AM," the doctor declared.

Y/N staggered back.

She had failed.

Her power, as vast as it was, had failed.

Steve exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening before he turned to leave, muttering something about speaking with Alexander Pierce.

Y/N remained frozen, unable to move.

Her hands curled into fists. How? She had rewritten reality. She knew she had healed him. Then why had it not worked? 

—

She had found herself in the lobby of S.H.I.E.LD. She wasn’t much of a negotiator so she left that to Steve as he went to deliver the news.

The whisper of a presence brushed against her mind, familiar and warm.

"Darling."

She lifted her head.

Loki stood before her—flickering like a mirage, his form shifting in and out like mist in the wind.

She exhaled sharply, her chest tightening. "Loki."

"I felt your grief," he murmured.

Her throat constricted. "He's gone."

Loki studied her with those sharp, knowing eyes. “You mended his body, didn’t you?”

She nodded numbly.

"Then I doubt he’s truly gone."

She frowned, confusion flickering through her. But before she could question him, something pulled her focus.

Her senses sharpened.

In the distance, something was wrong.

The air felt thick with intent.

Slowly, she turned toward the glass walls of the lobby—

—and her breath hitched.

The glass elevator was descending.

Inside, Steve stood—surrounded by a dozen S.T.R.I.K.E. agents.

Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Trap.

Before the elevator even landed, she moved.

Teleporting in a flash of green light, she reappeared right outside the elevator doors the second they slid open.

The agents barely had time to react before she flicked her wrist.

Reality snapped.

The floor beneath them melted away—twisting into a swirling void, sending half the agents into a nothingness that didn’t exist just seconds ago.

Steve lunged, grabbing the nearest agent and slamming him into the wall. The remaining men attacked, but Y/N was faster.

One reached for her—she let him touch her.

The moment his hand brushed against her arm, her mind surged forward, into his thoughts, tearing through his mind like a hurricane.

HYDRA.

Her heart stopped.

They weren’t just S.T.R.I.K.E. They were HYDRA.

And they wanted her.

A slow, creeping horror slithered down her spine. They hadn’t forgotten her. The ones who had made her—who had turned her into a living weapon before she ever fell into the ice—still wanted her back.

Y/N snarled, gripping the agent’s wrist tighter, forcing his mind to break.

His memories unraveled before her.

Plans. Orders. Directives about her.

They wanted to control her.

She growled lowly, twisting the agent’s thoughts with ease. "Forget you ever saw me."

His eyes went blank.

She released him and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

Steve had taken down the others, breathing heavily as he looked at her.

“Time to go,” he panted.

Y/N nodded.

With a mere thought, she pulled reality apart—teleporting them both out of the Triskelion in a brilliant flash of emerald light.

———

They reappeared on a deserted highway, just outside the city. The cold night air bit at her skin, and the distant hum of sirens echoed in the background.

Steve stumbled slightly, gripping his head. "You warn a guy before you do that next time?"

Y/N managed a small, breathless smirk. "Noted."

Then reality set back in.

They were fugitives now.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had been compromised.

And HYDRA—HYDRA still wanted her back.

Her blood ran cold.

Steve exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face before looking at her. “What the hell is going on, Y/N?”

She swallowed hard.

"HYDRA," she murmured. "I was right. They're still here, Steve. And they never stopped looking for me."

[Tags : @starstruckfirecat ]

[martysimone]

Agent Provocateur | Temptressa • in black + mink French Leavers lace + crystal elastic details | Fall Winter 2024-25

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Just to kiss me (Part 5)

pairing: Finnick Odair x reader

64.media.tumblr.com

(AO3 mirror)

Part 5, My Hunger Games Masterlist

summary: The days begin to blur. Finnick provides some light.

warnings: angst, some suggestive language

required reading: The song "We'll never have sex" by Leith Ross <3

a/n: ....Reading SOTR and I remembered I had a draft for this fic lmfao. mb 🌚

taglist (comment if you'd like to be added <3): @agent-grey-fics, @starhastoomanyfandoms

wc: 3.9k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If I said you could never touch me

You'd come over and say I look lovely

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I want to look…. council-womanly.”

There are blank faces. And with the click of a pen, a room full of suits fall over themselves to reassure your mother, Council-woman Arachne, of her status. Her poise, her grace, the flair with which she ties up her hair - all without fault. 

In the midst of it, you lean back and tuck yourself even further into the wall. The slight raise of an eyebrow is all you can muster. Indifference; or at least, you hope it comes across that way. A week of filming had been taxing, protesting her insistence at your presence even more so - appealing to the shred of human decency she had left. Of course, it had been to no avail. A child pawing at her skirt; sticky-fingered, fervent; was all she saw. 

As. Always.

“Mother.” You had said - or whined, maybe, it was hard to remember in such a stuffy room. “I've been working through the weekend. You have people you pay for their opinions - you can’t just ask me to take a whole week out for your campaign!”

“I'm not asking. It's important you stay by my side.”

“I would rather die.”

She tuts. “Always so dramatic. Must everything be a death knoll for the end times?”

She gets more verbose when stressed, you had noted. 

“Mother–”

“I need to be able to count on someone. Someone with your eye - these things are finicky; you know how Capitol people can be.”

“My eye?” You spat.

Her appeal to your ego had been shameless, and you curled your lips with disgust.

“Your–” She came closer, bony hand on your shoulder. It still burns with the touch, and like frost creeping up glass, she had made her way to your cheek. “Your eye. Like your father's; you see things my team won't be able to.”

You shove down fire and brimstone, resisting the urge to spit in her face at the mention of a man you never had the chance to know. You had met him only in whispers, in her faraway glances and the slight shake of her voice. For a second, she thawed, and like the snap of elastic against skin; your mother quickly pulled away.

What a load of shit.

You don't say what should, then and now. Your mother looks too shiny and manicured, especially in the glow of a holo screen. Billboards and magazine covers - hell, there was talk of cup holders and table runners. Ariadne, a face you can trust. In her bid for Overseer, it came across as insincere - as blatant as the propos The Academy passes off as history. A spotless history written by victors, white as falling snow.

She looks to you in a sea of fawning faces.  Lips tight, shoulders drawn back. Admittedly, you find yourself tempted to hiss and kick off. To do what you have always wanted to, a staunch middle finger at her bid to stir media frenzy. Council-woman Arachne clicks her pen. And like a well trained dog, you are quickly brought to heel.

“It's desperate, Mother.” You say it under your breath as the last dregs file out.

She huffs, the closest thing to a laugh she can manage. You think her body isn't built for it; her ribcage too tightly wound, without the space for joy. 

“It's… pertinent.” 

You read between the lines. They're too stupid to understand anything else. 

“It's fake.”

“Don't be stupid.” She sighs. “Of course it is.” 

You're drawn back to a night that seems so far-away. To clear waters and untouched beauty, wild and fervent Mother Nature tucked away somewhere in the capitol. To Finnick and his eyes, glassy and rehearsed. Fake. In the same way your mother is, you suppose, but with him there was something under the surface. Rusty and a lot less yellow-gold, but it was something.

“May I be excused?” It sounds pathetic, but a week of incessant nagging has taken its toll. 

Curt, she nods. Spun on a heel no higher than 1 and a half inches, she storms past; leaving with a click-click-click on cold marble. 

You're exhausted. A higher power takes you through the kitchen, past mock-ups and coffee-stained mugs. You thought you were used to the dozens in and out of your house; stumbling through meetings and tete-a-tetes at odd hours. Now it seems no different, and you are greeted by cushions out of place and chairs strewn into a circle. You push them aside and make your way up ornate stairs, limbs heavy with sleep.

There's a buzz at your wrist. Your heart skips a beat and you don't have the energy to clamp it down. It could be Vonnie, but you want it to be Finnick – so, so desperately.

You're bursting at the seams with his… friendship? That rings hollow. Nights spent on the phone, talking until your voice is hoarse and well into the early hours of the day. Friendship doesn't seem to span the width and depth of your feelings - as new and exciting as they are.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

His voice is impossibly warm. Tension at your temples melts away with its honey.

“Hey, Finn.”

It echoes in an empty hallway. It doesn't quite have the same timbre as his, and you find yourself worrying - do you sound tired? Haggard? Do you sound as bright as that first night on the balcony?

“Long day?” He posits.

You hum, trudging into your room. Every step feels like treacle, and so you collapse into bed, still in the day’s clothes.

“That's one way to put it.”

And he chuckles - in that way that brings heat to your face.

“So tell me all about it.”

“I–” Can’t. A word that rattles around in your head like pills in a little tin. “Just work. Like always.”

“You know, I've been thinking…”

“That never ends well.”

“Let me finish.” He titters. “I think you should quit.”

You snort into soft sheets. “You're just tired, Finnick.”

“And you're projecting, but I’m not being rude about it.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I am. Maybe I'm so tired that I've started hearing voices telling me to do stupid shit.”

“I'm being serious.”

“You're never serious.”

“Not true. I'm a very serious person–”

“Tell that to the Flickerman airing out your personal business every Friday at 10.”

A guilty silence follows. 

“Something about snake venom and hair dye?”

“It wasn’t– It was–”

“Fake?” You hiss. It comes out with more bitterness than intended, swiftly followed by regret. Wincing, you brace yourself for impact. But there isn't a crash-bang and sharp words, as you expect. Instead, he chuckles drily.

“It's horseshit, actually.” Now, he sounds tired, shuffling around wherever he is. You imagine him tossing and turning in a 4 poster bed with gold thread sheets, tossing away decorative pillows in frustration. 

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

Calling it lying feels a little mean, so you opt for something more… tactful.  

“Tell a story.”

He hums, intrigued. There's a click on his end and your comms chime.

“Finn, I haven't even showered.”

“Don't care.” He says simply. “I want to show you something.”

“Finnick–”

“Please?” He says it so softly you almost miss it 

Fuck. 

“Fine.” 

Through gritted teeth, you sit up and accept the video call. In an instant, he's there,  shiny and moonlit in a modest bedroom. 

“Wow.” He says, eyes sparkling. “You look–”

You giggle, a schoolgirl laugh that echoes in your room. Your room, crystal white and bare, seems to glow. It feels like Finnick’s warmth - but more likely, it was just the light from his holo.

He's smiling now, wide and sincere.

“Look,” He says gently, holding something up. “This was my mother's.”

It's a blanket, similar to the one you wrapped him up in that night. He cradles it in his palms, careful that gaudy rings don't catch at the threads. Turning it this way and that…. it sparkles in the light. 

“She made it for me when I was a baby. Would wrap me up in it every night.” 

The weaving is intricate, with every stitch revealing another, tiny threads that captures light like diamonds. It reminds you of Cinna’s dress; crystalline and light, draped like woven silk and water.

Simply put… “It's beautiful.”

“It is. I used to have these nightmares… drowning, if you can believe it.” His smile turns bittersweet. “And every time I would wake up screaming and gasping; she would bundle me up in that blanket and rock me to sleep.”

He doesn't look at you. Instead, he's engrossed by its shine, ethereal in dappled light. And.. is that a tear? He turns away; embarrassed, maybe, as if you've seen too much. 

Your heart hurts in a rush to comfort him, and you find yourself unable to find the right words.

“Finnick.” You start. “I–” 

It's sudden. A grimace, and he clears his throat. Whatever was there, crystalline, disappears in just a second.

“Real or not real?”

You blink twice, hard.

“...what?”

“Real–” He says simply. “-or not real?

Your throat is dry. “I don't understand.”

He smiles, a blinding one that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“My mom's long gone. Died when I was born. I'm good, aren't I?” 

His eyes are puffy and smeared with shiny grease, and rosy blush kisses his cheekbones. You didn't notice before, but even his collarbones are peppered with bronze, patchy and orange gold. Maybe you weren’t the only one who had a rough night.

“I suppose.” You're curt.

“Experience is the answer, love.” He taps his nose, and stack of rings clinking with a flourish. “A shit ton of experience.”

~~~

There are nights Finnick falls asleep to the sound of your voice. That one was no exception, and he finds himself amongst a mountain of sheets. Morning light streams in, warming a face shiny with nothing but last night's sweat. He's grateful, although a little sticky, for some nights off - a far cry from last week's onslaught of debauchery and watered down wine. Monday was a press release; Tuesday was a cosmopolitan soiree; Wednesday, another Flickerman appearance; and so on, and so forth.

Somewhere in between the hangovers - which was new, he doesn't usually let himself drink more than a glass of ambrosia - was you, sleepy and shy. He liked seeing you blossom as the nights pass; opening up like the feathered petals of a lily. The musings of an overworked assistant turned poet, he thinks. You talk of Hadrian and his dull meetings, the latest music, and gossip from the shadows of council parties. Sure, he prides himself with his talents as a good listener, and an impeccable memory to boot; but God, his brain turns to mush. For all his charm and wit, all he can think about is your laugh. The way his heart swells when you begrudge a stupid joke, or roll your eyes at his sharp tongue.

In the morning light, he thinks of your hand at his cheek and swells with something else. How soft your lips must be, and how gently you would lay amongst amber sheets and woven blankets. He traces circles in his flesh; down, down, down, and past bruises still healing from other forays. You would touch him like this, he thinks, hand splayed against tan skin, lips brushing past his navel.

He sighs. 

A fantasy. Indulgence. Lips cherry red with sickly-sweet fruit and drink. Some of them bite, in his dreams and out of them. He scratches at scars carefully covered; the half-moon of fingernails pressed into skin amongst tawny constellations. He grimaces at a not-so-distant memory; shrill laughter like splintering glass. 

Freckles? She had said, an actress, or something - he chooses not to remember. How quaint. 

It makes his stomach turn, but you make his heart ache with what he decides is worry. Self-preservation, wrapped up in spindles of dandelion, soft and quaint. 

Would it be like that with you? Would he take that chance?

“Finnick?” It's Annie, yelling from somewhere downstairs. “Stannis is here!”

He stirs, unable to break away from that fantasy. He hopes it fades with the morning light.

~~~

Your days are a blur. Campaign prep makes your mother terse, wound up in the red string. It was odd to see her like this. She was… unsure. Unsteady, like she was wearing someone else's slimy skin; in a gaudy suit instead of her usual trim-and-proper linens.

Today was one of such days, and you are left at the dining table, picking at imaginary lint. Upon your mother's insistence, you have been dressed in something similarly over the top - ruffles and glitter and a tasteful show of legs. You've been bronzed and aggressively buttered; before interrupting the bedazzling with firm defiance, of course.

Clearly, your anger is displaced. There's a buzz in the air, assistants and suck-ups streaming in and out of the front door, setting up too-bright lights in your front room. There’s even talk of a camera crew, and a Flickerman - all before you've had your breakfast. 

As usual, you are ignored. Save for a pitiful glance or two, there is no explanation for the storm brewing in your house. The floorboards seem to rumble, and expensive crystal shakes in the cupboards at the footfall. Your usual passivity doesn’t suffice. After swallowing bitter pill after bitter pill, it seems you've reached your limit, with one question rattling around in your head…

…what the fuck is going on?

You manage to flag down a stray assistant - a familiar face, but you barely remember his name.

“Excuse m–” 

He holds a metallic finger up, before furtively typing at his wrist.

“You can't just–” You stop yourself, clamping down a quiet rage. “Excuse me.”

“Yeah?” He grimaces.

“What’s going on?”

“You haven't been given the schedule? Interns were meant to check in about a half hour ago.”

You're taken aback. Which vapid nepotism hire did he mistake you for? 

“I'm Councillor Arachne’s daughter.” 

A beat passes, and it's only when your lips press into a fine line does he see the resemblance.

“Oh!” Eyes wide, he fawns, ushering you to a chair tucked into the corner. “This is – well, you should've been debriefed, but – we're setting up for your mother's first TV appearance.”

“TV?” You're confused.

“Live television! I secured… I mean, I helped to secure the morning slot on Capitol+.” He beams, expecting congratulations. 

It doesn't come. He continues: 

“Introductions, mostly. The main thing we've learnt from the test groups is that the Councillor seems too much like a career politician – they didn't trust her, you know? At first, TV was out of the question – you know your mother – but we think this will help her seem more grounded. Less of the serious stuff. How does she do her hair? What perfume does she wear? And, of course, we let the capitol see her home, meet the family… you've seen the segments, right? The first of many, we hope.”

“W-Wait, the family? Will I be filmed too? Am I expected to–”

“He's here?” He taps at an earpiece, engrossed. “One second.” 

And then he's gone, whisked away by something or the other, leaving you flailing in the aftermath.  

You have a lot of questions - none of which were answered, frustratingly. Brushed aside yet again, it's all you can do to stalk off. Furrowed brow, you dig around in a kitchen drawer; poking at the corners. You find a pipe and tobacco, its edges smooth with use. A smoke break, away from the chaos. Exactly what you need.

There's a spot outside, shrouded by neatly trimmed hedges and stone. Once upon a time, as a reckless teen, you'd sit amongst the bramble and hope your mother couldn't see the smoke from her ivory tower. In an itchy dress, a size too small instead of too big, you do the same now.

The pipe was your father's. Made of bone – whale, she had said once, and hand-carved. It's small, compact, fits in your hands just right. You wonder how it fit in his. The tobacco burns roughly, cheap shit from a market your mother would never be caught dead in. A few unsteady puffs; shaky, but it's not the nicotine; and you lean back onto the wall, tucked into a corner. Something washes over you…. relief, maybe?

You cough, clamping down the noise lest someone hears. No, not relief. Acceptance, you realise grimly.

There's rustling, and a body slips in to the corner you've hidden away in. 6ft, tanned, with cropped sandy hair - he presses a finger to plump lips as if to say hush. Finnick - here, in your home - and it is all you can do to suppress a surprise splutter.

“Finnick?”

He hisses, eyes darting through the hedgerows before turning to you.

And then it happens - a wave of recognition crashing towards him at breakneck speed. When he says your name; confused, barely a whisper; you want to cry out. It's too much to explain, much too quickly - but you don't even get the chance.

The buzz of comms. The click-clack of dress shoes on concrete. A half-dozen interns, PR reps choosing that very moment to rush past. A crescendo, punctuated by your mother's voice, you think - and then they are gone. Quiet, at long last.

You sit back amongst the dirt, eyes looking up at the sky. 

“What are you doing here?” He’s exasperated.

“Smoke break.” You say simply, unable to help yourself. “What about you?”

He sighs, scooting closer. His hand is outstretched. 

“Smoke break.” He says.

Wordlessly, you pass him the pipe and lighter; watching as he takes shaky breaths. Better than last time, for sure, but he smokes like a teenager fearful of punishment: eyes on a swivel, hands restless. 

You keep your head trained to the sky, tracing outlines of clouds. Squinting, of course, lest the bright glare blinds you - you could keel over from Finnick's watchful gaze alone.

He sets the pipe down.

“How are you here?” He strains. “Is Hadrian here too?”

Your mouth goes dry. You’re drawing blanks, unable to come up with an excuse quick enough. 

“He… I’m working.” You decide to keep it short.

“Working, or hiding?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” You huff, batting away tobacco smoke and desperately avoiding eye contact.

He says your name, leaning closer. “Look at me.”

There’s something about his tone that makes you shiver - and so reluctantly, you comply. He sounds the way you feel; gravelly, fraught, and with an edge you can’t quite place. Sea-green eyes turn to steel - with a cold, murky depth akin to a swirling ocean. It’s intense, uncomfortably so. You catch the way his hands creep across to dig into the dirt next to you, the clench of his jaw, his furrowed brow. His body betrays him, as yours fails you. Your chest seizes as the facade drops. 

“Are you lying to me?” Your walls fly up at his tone: accusatory, like he doesn't lie for a living. 

“I’m–” You hesitate. He is no longer your Finnick; easygoing, charismatic, witty. He transforms: strong, corded muscle and wild eyes. 

He holds you down with a grip firm enough to cage you in.

“Who are you?” He spits. “Are you working for him?”

Your mind races at its implication. Who? Hadrian? The press? 

“Finn–” You start.

“Is he listening?”

“Finnick–” His grip tightens.

“Does he know?” 

“Fuck, Finnick.” You gasp. “You’re scaring me.”

Like the break of waves across a swollen sea, he seems to melt away. He dissipates, backing away, hands tight and drawn into his body. A moment passes, and he crumples, head in his hands to rake at blonde locs. 

“Sorry.” He mumbles. “Can’t help it, sometimes.”

Rooted to the spot, you can still feel the rush of blood to your head, pounding at your temples. With the way he shakes, with every laboured breath; you think he feels it too. But you’re scared to name it, you think. Fear. The kind you’ve seen once before: a little blonde boy covered in blood, gasping and panting with a trident in his hands. Only this time, it’s not sandwiched between the 8 o’clock news and Flickermann interviews; you can’t change the channel and hide behind its black mirror. 

“She’s my mom.” You say carefully, unable to reach across the chasm that falls just past your feet. He doesn’t seem to react, so you clarify. “Councillor Arachne. That’s why I’m here.”

He doesn’t look up. “Real or not real?”

You move towards him, and he flinches. Now, the feeling that grips your chest is guilt. It tastes sour, like the bile that rises up to the back of your throat. 

“This is my house, Finn.” You say quietly. You paw at the foliage. “These used to be roses. Pink and white; my mother used to grow them. I’ve been sneaking off to smoke here since I was fifteen.” 

Why doesn’t he say something? Fuck. 

“And I didn’t lie, Finnick. I work for Hadrian, but not because of my mom. I worked hard to get a job, and I do want to help people at the council, and–”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to–”

“Real.” You say, a little too desperately. “I swear.” 

Finnick nods, finally looking you in the eye. It’s your turn to melt, withering in the heat of his gaze. But what right does he have to judge? Why must he know everything about you? You simmer and stew, lips tight. You must look like your mother, you think bitterly; turning away.

��Look at me.” He says it softer, this time, hand tracing your jawline.

“Why?” You try not to, but are drawn to him - a moth taken in by flicker and flash. “You sure I’m not a crazy fan?”

“That's not funny.” He shakes his head, decidedly not amused.

“Really?” You’re incredulous. “Was it funny when you said it?”

“I know, I know.” He sighs, shaken. “I'm an asshole. I’m sorry.”

He is an asshole, you decide. A beat passes. And then, with fingertips glancing the shell of your ear, he says with a soft smile: “Real.” 

With the way he looks at you, you falter. Tears well up - the embarrassing, blubbering kind - hot and threatening to spill over. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He avoids the word ‘lie’, you note. 

With links to a prominent council member, there was no telling who could be listening, who could want the information you have access to. You tell yourself it's for your safety; and not guilt at the blood spilt to get you there in the first place. Hissing and spitting, it slithers up from the cracks; shame, bearing your last name and it's heavy weight. For safety, you want to say, but it rings hollow in the grounds of your gated home. 

Swallowing roughly, you croak, “It was nice to be someone else for a while.”

He nods, and you rest your head on his shoulder. It is warm from the light peeking through hedgerows. 

“Okay.” He says simply. Finnick tucks himself into you, closing his eyes to match his breath with yours.

Like the sun, you suppose, heat radiates from his chest. Rumbling and steady, you watch as it rises and falls. Drawn towards each other, he runs his hands over your bare arms, before they come to rest in yours. You gasp. A red welt peek out from his sleeves, angry and swollen. As if on instinct, he shifts and it is swallowed by linen hem. You watch carefully, tracing the freckled skin on the back of his hand. Like a flower preserved in amber, he seems so fragile, like this.

And so you bite down dangerous questions, too scared of its answers – or worse, his distinct lack of them. 

_

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[theprinceandagcd]

the altar is my hips (we might get away with it)

as my first official post since finishing my PhD, Dr. Alex presents what is affectionately coined... blasphemous staircase smut :)

3.6k words, rated E read it on ao3

Summary:

“We’re in a hallway in the White House,” Henry whispers fiercely, but a small whine slips past his lips as Alex starts stroking him, pure cotton material soft under Alex’s fingertips and contrasting the pronounced ridge of Henry's length underneath it.

“In the residence, with us being the only ones staying on this side tonight,” Alex tells him, continuing his ministrations and grinning at the feeling of Henry hardening in his grip. “The closest secret service agents are on the other side of that door—” He jerks his head to his left. “—and around the corner at the bottom of this staircase. As long as you or I don’t sound like we’re in mortal peril, they’ll stay exactly where they are.”

Henry swallows, and Alex has to bite back the temptation to follow the movement with his fucking teeth. “Right.”

“So.” Alex tugs the elastic of Henry’s shorts down enough to pull his cock out. “Can you avoid sounding like you’re dying, your highness?” --- Or, what I've affectionately coined "blasphemous staircase smut" :)