Hey. I'm Rev. Writing shlocky smut is one of my less palatable hobbies, hence the existence of this sideblog. I'm prone to flights of fancy and a horror writer at my core, so some of this is a little niche. Self-indulgence isn't a crime. Tags/warnings will be listed before each fic so read at your own risk :)
I am also a grad student and have a noted tendency to disappear for months at a time. Apologies in advance for the literary edging.
I don't take requests in the typical sense, but I very much welcome any asks regarding my fics or ideas you may have. I'd love to chat!
Well, it may have taken a small eternity, but as promised: the final instalment of this strange Mahone saga I never intended to be a series. As previously stated, this is a bit of a dark turn, so please mind the tags and proceed with caution.
Part 1
Summary: You remain trapped in Mahone's orbit as he unravels around the vengeance he's sought for so long. Tensions rise, and break... violently.
Warnings: Canon-typical violence (like, as appeared on TV), afab reader, fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex, choking, degradation, knifeplay, reckless waving around of a gun, debatably under-negotiated kink... does my flight-of-fancy over-writing count as a warning? Probably.
Word Count: 5k (I got carried away).
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A few days after your tragic interruption…
—
Your questionable life choices were far from the forefront of your mind as the team got lost in the hunt for the next cardholder. Your sexual frustration falls to the wayside as you become lost in the hunt again, planning the attack on Krantz’ car. You ridiculed him for it, but you supposed you were like Alex in that way– chasing down the Company brought out a primal instinct in you, your focus narrowed and eyes set solely on the prize. Whether that was for the “good” you were doing, or simple violent revenge… well, if the outcome’s all the same, does it really matter?
Unfortunately, violent revenge was also not in the cards for you just yet, as that greasy untrustworthy rat had sold you all out, and now Sucre was bleeding and gasping for breath on your workroom table. You lingered at the edge of the room, buzzing with energy and, admittedly, with worry for the man who had become your friend through forced proximity over the last several months. He was dependable and reliable, less conniving than the rest of them (Alex’s piercing eyes flashed through your mind at this, sending a shiver through you), and you really did not want him dead. So you stood there, wanting to help but unwilling to bother Sarah as she worked, making yourself available in case you were needed.
Michael burst into the room from God-knows-where, Lincoln on his heels. “We have Glenn’s location. Let’s go. Sarah, stay with Sucre.” He glanced at Sucre once, composure breaking open to reveal the pain and worry etched deep into his features, before turning towards the door.
No questions asked, no hesitation, you followed. Back to the hunt.
Broad daylight and a coastal breeze don’t seem like the right weather to watch someone bleed out. Regardless, homicide waits for no man.
Glenn was screaming and snivelling, writhing on the concrete and clutching at his leg where the denim was stained red with the consequences of his own actions. You briefly considered stomping in his windpipe, but your mind was quickly drawn to more important matters as you watched Alex subdue Wyatt Mathewson, the man who killed his son. Alex wasn’t prone to violence, never yelled, but ever since you’d met him he seemed like a bow strung too tight and you didn’t know when he’d snap. In a way, this is what drew you to him. He was brilliant, sure, and magnetic, but the danger is what sparked the fire burning slowly in your chest. He had snapped today. Alex subdued Mathewson quickly, a violent strike from behind bringing the larger man to his knees. Lincoln had to pull him off. You knew they needed Mathewson, but some dark part of you wanted more than anything to let him keep going, to see what would happen if he came fully undone. Standing by in the alley, entranced by his display of violence, you realized that fire might grow out of control someday and burn you alive from the inside. You should probably unpack that, but it’s a matter for another day. You stepped on Glenn Rowland’s shattered knee as you passed, relishing in the wet crunch and his agonized whimper. That’s a matter for another day, too.
—
Unsurprisingly, Alex had gone completely off the fucking deep end. Michael had taken Lincoln and Bellick to work on tunnelling under Scylla after briefing you and Sarah on the plan for how to deal with Wyatt. “After you get what you need for the phone call… give him to Mahone.” Michael said this with a kind of solemnity that told you he had made up his mind and that he was not happy about it. He looked at you when he spoke next. “Keep an eye on him.”Â
What the fuck? You thought, unsure if that statement actually held additional weight or if you were reading into it after days of fried nerves and mishandled sexual frustration. Instead, you nodded once and turned on your heel to see what the so-beloved Don Self needed to make this happen. You were met with a steely blue gaze so sharp and cold it made your breath catch. Alex was leaning heavily against a beam, partially enshrouded in shadows. He was clutching at the metal like it was the only thing keeping him afloat, and even from a distance his breathing was shallow and ragged. Pulled in by his orbit, you inched towards him, a satellite crashing into re-entry. Burning up in the atmosphere wouldn’t be so bad, if it was with him.Â
You had mused a million times about the intensity of his stare, squirmed under his investigative eye, but none of that compared to the way he was looking at you now. He was seeing you but not fully present, and there was a touch of depravity in his features that was as alluring as it was unsettling. As you approached, he shifted his gaze from you to somewhere in the middle distance, though his breath caught in a way that told you he recognized you. You weren’t sure what to say. “Sarah is going in to talk to him now.” No response or sign he acknowledged you. “She should get what she needs and then he’s all y- and then you’re up.” Still nothing.Â
Antagonizing him felt like a terrible idea, yet… “What, are you not up to the challenge?” He still didn’t respond, though something flashed across his face that seemed more familiar, less twisted. More… for you. Getting the sense that you were walking the razor’s edge, you chose to keep pushing. You reached out a hand, and as soon as it brushed his shoulder the tension broke. He whirled on you, your arms in his vise grip, your back hitting the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of you, rough concrete digging into your back, your arms, your head, his hands on your arms with bruising strength, and the adrenaline that coursed through you felt like home. His ragged breathing never changed, but you were close enough now that his exhales were so coarse they sounded nearly animalistic. Christ, you were so fucked. His hands left your arms– you somewhat mourned the loss of the pressure– and roamed up your body, ghosting both hands over your throat. You could feel him shaking.
There’s a difference between the way that someone shakes when they’re scared or upset and the way that someone shakes when they’re running full of adrenaline and losing control over themselves. The way Alex’s hands shook against your throat right now was pure adrenaline, and you know you should be scared. Despite the manic look in his eyes and the predatorial way he had you caged against the wall, you couldn’t bring yourself to fear him, at least not in the self-preservation-instinct sense of the word. One of his hands landed at the base of your throat, and the other slammed into the wall so hard it made you flinch. He lowered his head into the crook of your neck and he was so close you could physically feel his jaw clenching and unclenching. And then he was gone. His warmth faded as he stalked off, and you were left a little shaken, a lot turned on, and deeply troubled.
—
Sitting on the cold metal of the workroom table, fiddling with your switchblade, you couldn’t help but recall just a few days ago when you’d pushed a much more put-together Alex to his breaking point. Now, you watched as he unraveled even further in that storage closet, paper-thin composure barely disguising the force of nature beneath. You know how they say you can’t peel your eyes away from a train wreck? You couldn’t hear what he was saying from the distance, but you could see him rocking from heel to toe, fiddling with what looked like a car battery. He kept dragging a rough hand across his face, through his hair. You wondered if anyone else noticed that.
This was pretty fucked up, even for you. Bordering on debauched, even. You knew this was a grandstand of vengeance for him, a pivotal moment of grief for his son… but your sick fascination only grew as he shouted with his hand around Wyatt Mathewson’s throat. Desire coiled in slow tendrils that started in your belly and threatened to swallow your heart. Alex jammed the needle into Mathewson’s fingertip and the resultant scream echoed through the warehouse. You knew his nervous system was going into overdrive. Waves of white-hot pain would be mixing beautifully with a feverish swing between hot and cold. This might be going to a dark place. Fuck it, why not? What would you do if the person who hurt you most in the world was sitting there in front of you, bloody-faced with a cocky smile?
It was you who’d given Alex the idea to use the heart monitor and car battery, you think. You weren’t stuck on this deep-cover fugitive task force because of your sunshiney disposition, after all.Â
Michael was considering contingencies in case the Scuderi card heist went south and Lincoln had quite matter-of-factly suggested beating the information out of him. Sarah, ever the pacifist, was opposed. “Besides,” she’d said, “The human body doesn’t handle pain well. He’d just go into shock, his heart slows down, his brain can’t keep up, and he’d stop feeling anything.” Sarah had a far-off look in her eyes when she said this, like she was battling between her Hippocratic Oath and memories she’d rather keep buried–
Alex drove the needle deeper. Mathewson’s ragged cry sounded familiar.
– “You can shock him back to lucidity,” You had added offhandedly, inspecting your nails.Â
“What?” The incredulity came from Michael and Sarah in unison.
“Literally shock, like with a defibrillator. It might kill him, but might bring him back long enough to give us what we need. Brings the pain back too. There’s workarounds.”
That suggestion had been received with mixed reviews. Clearly, you mused, it rang true for someone. Two sides of the same depraved, blood-soaked coin. Alex was holding a phone out, now. Pam, probably. A fleeting yet ugly pang of guilt and jealousy twisted in your chest, and it was almost enough to snap you from this fugue. Almost.Â
Alex snapped his phone shut and hauled a shaking Mathewson to his feet. You watched, a voyeur from your steel perch, as he bound the cinderblock to Mathewson’s wrists and forced him out the door to the warehouse. It occurred to you to make yourself scarce after he’d sent Self and Sarah away, but as you went to slide off the table, he turned and you’d exchanged a chilling glance. He was as vacant as he was predatory, and one look said more than words could convey. This is me, written in gunmetal blue. Do you still like what you see?
Curiosity may have killed the cat, but something sick inside you needed to see this finished. This in mind, and still scorching from his gaze, you trailed from a distance as he marched Mathewson to the edge of the dock at gunpoint. Alex held the gun laxly, elbow bent and grip loose. It was just an insurance policy, and too quick of an end. Too merciful after everything. Mercy has no footing here, and God has no jurisdiction over this dark corner of Miami.
You leaned against the cool siding of the warehouse, hands behind your back. Squinting against the glare, you watched as Mathewson began to speak. You watched as Alex sent him to a watery grave. Drowning seemed a fitting death for a child murderer. You hoped he died afraid.
Alex looked out over the water for a long time, and you slipped back inside as that ragged breathing began to even out into long, heaving sighs.
Back in the shade of the warehouse, you ran a hand through your hair and let out a shaky breath. Your other hand had a bruising grip on your switchblade, still closed, but the hard edges pressing into your palm grounded you. It wasn’t your kill, yet you felt some sort of catharsis all the same. It wasn’t long before Alex stormed back into the room, heavy footfalls echoing the pounding of your heart. He scanned the room, searching with the same intensity you’d grown to find familiar, before he found you. He cleared the room in a few long strides and despite your fatal attraction, you found yourself backing up until he overtook you as the backs of your thighs rested against the metal table. For a long moment, he said nothing, didn’t touch you, just stared. The vacancy had dissipated and he was all focus again, but colder and sharper than ever before. You shivered. He was still holding the gun.
“You…” He began, but trailed off. His eyes flickered all over, roaming up and down your body, the floor, the table, back to you again. He raised his right hand as if to run it through his hair, his constant nervous habit, but instead he scratched his head with the barrel. You couldn’t help but notice the safety still off and his finger hovering just above the trigger. Maybe there were still a few lines left uncrossed.
You met his gaze levelly and reached for his free hand, still wrought by faint tremors of adrenaline. His knuckles were split and scabbed over, but fresher blood still shone crimson on his fingers. “Coming to me with literal blood on your hands… kind of poetic, isn’t it?” Your voice came out more crooning than you expected as you brought his hand up in between your faces, studying it with wide and pious eyes. Without breaking eye contact, you licked slowly up his palm and closed your mouth around his index and middle fingers. Alex’s breath caught in his throat. Salt and copper danced on your palate. You circled your tongue around and his eyes clouded with conflict, while his dilating pupils betrayed an unmistakable lust. “I’m not scared of you.”
He laughed drily at this. It came out broken like a barking cough, derision overriding amusement. “Really?,” he said, voice hoarse and tone disbelieving.
You withdrew his fingers from your mouth and licked your teeth. “It probably says more about me than it does about you.” Always quick to quip back, even with a gun between you and your homicidal fuck-buddy.Â
He set the gun down on the table beside you with a heavy thud. Safety still off. “You,” he began again, grasping your wrist, “just watched me kill a man, and you’re still acting like a fucking slut for me?” He pried open your fist with surprising ease and took the switchblade from you. The world tilted a little on its axis, dynamic shifting. You flexed your hand, noticing the white indents from how tightly you had been clutching the knife. He flicked the blade open, and in your rapt attention you let go of his wrist.Â
Free from your grasp, Alex snaked his hand around your head and grabbed a thick handful of your hair at the base of your scalp. He jerked your head back and you hissed at the pain and pleasure combined. It was the first time he’d really touched you since he left you aching in his makeshift room. Cold steel interrupted the heat coursing through you as the flat of the blade grazed your cheekbone. You grew very still, never breaking eye contact lest the moment fade away with it. He traced down your cheek and flicked the knife over the edge of your jaw, touch still featherlight but hard enough to feel the cutting edge graze your skin. You exhaled a shuddering breath as the blade dragged down your throat. You really should be scared now, but instead your whole body was humming with electricity and warmth was pooling between your thighs.Â
Fueled by reckless abandon, you grabbed his wrist and held the blade against your throat, keeping him still while you shifted to sit on the table. You slid back and twisted your free hand in the front of his shirt, pulling him to stand between your legs. The expression on his face was indescribable, some combination of shock, lust and entrancement that mirrored how you’d been feeling for days. You pressed the knife harder into your own throat, tilting your head to bare your neck to him, and sighed as the edge bit into your skin. Still not hard enough to draw blood. You made a mental note to sharpen that before it needed to be used more… practically… and wrapped your ankles around his back to pull him closer to your hips. You tugged at his shirt and angled your face up towards him, so close now you could feel Alex’s panting breath. His mouth was just slightly open and you could see a crack in his lips from the hit he’d taken earlier that day. The stillness felt out of place, trapped in your violent reverie. You both paused for a moment, savouring the quiet in the eye of the hurricane.
“You’re a real fucked up girl,” he breathed, “you know that?”Â
The collision of your kiss was like the breaking of a wave. It was far from slow or sweet, a clashing of tongues and teeth and words left unspoken. Alex’s hand tightened in your hair and he bit your lip harshly. Was the blood in your mouth from your split lip or his? You gasped and he capitalized on the opportunity, tongue forcing its way into your mouth. Your hand left his wrist and moved to tangle in his hair, carelessly tugging him closer. Alex’s grip slackened a little as he was distracted, and his hand dropped so the tip of the knife pressed into your chest between your collarbones. You tightened your legs to bring him closer and let out an involuntary whine as your hips crashed together. He groaned, rocking his hips against you and jerking your head to the side with his grip on your hair. He broke the kiss; the loss of contact was disappointing for a moment before he kissed down your neck, making you whimper as teeth grazed at your skin.
Alex released his tight grasp on your hair and circled his hand back around to your throat. Seeming to remember the knife in his hand, he angled it so the tip pressed harder into your sternum. “You really like this, don’t you?” His tone was condescending in that intoxicatingly dominant way you’d seen before, but his eyes were inquisitive. You had a nasty habit of letting actions speak louder than words, but you knew by now what he wanted, so you forced yourself to answer.Â
“Yes.” Simple, not your most eloquent, but gets the point across. Hand still on your throat, he pushed you back until you let go of him and rested on your elbows, and the knife dragged down, down, catching against the neckline of your shirt. Your chest heaved as he pressed down, a soft rip as your shirt was shredded in two. You lost yourself in the shadow of Alex’s broad frame as he bent down to kiss and bite roughly at your neck. The weight of his body against yours pushed the flat of the switchblade into your chest, and the combined sensation of cool steel and hot breath made you shiver. His thumb traced up and down the front of your throat and you groaned, delirious with pleasure and overwhelm. Using your throat as leverage, he pushed himself back upright and made quick work of the button on your pants as you shifted your hips to help slide them down. His hands wandered your body, one dragging the knife lightly down your abdomen and the other palming your breast over your bra. The blade left a tingling sensation in its wake, and you gasped as he slid it over your hip bone and down to your inner thigh.Â
Alex’s other hand left your breast and traced down your body. He brushed his thumb over your underwear, finally providing the friction you so desperately needed. You rolled your hips against his hand, whining, and he paused. He slid the knife back up to rest parallel to your jaw, and whatever remained of your self-preservation instinct made you freeze. “Stay fucking still.”
The low noise that came from your throat must have been a sufficient acknowledgement of his instructions, because he moved to push your underwear to the side and dragged two fingers across your entrance. “What a fucking whore. You’ve been like this for days, haven’t you, sweetheart?”
You squeezed your eyes shut and nodded, before remembering your words. “Yes, yes, Jesus.” It was a broken attempt at speech, but it was enough. Alex huffed something akin to a laugh, and in one smooth motion he slid two fingers inside you while moving the blade to slip under the middle of your bra and flicked it up, cutting it off completely. You gasped, equally due to the chill and the sudden intrusion, and instinctively moved to cover yourself. Alex flicked your hand away with ease. “Don’t get shy on me now.” The condescension in his tone broke you down even further, rough voice flooding your veins like heroin.
You huffed in indignance. “You gonna replace that?”
“Always so mouthy.” He curled his fingers, reaching the spot that made your vision blur, and you tossed your head back against the table with a loud moan. “That’s more like it. Good fucking girl.” He continued to work you with his fingers, thumb brushing gentle circles against your clit, and you resisted the urge to squirm again lest you end your sexual escapades with a slit throat.Â
You were rapidly approaching orgasm, tension coiling in your core, and his pace was relentless. “Fuck, Alex, please,” you cried, arching your back as best as you could atop the table and under the knife.
“I know. Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how bad you’ve wanted this.” The tension snapped like a bowstring, your orgasm washing over you as you screamed his name, praying that the team was still far afield. Faintly, in the back of your mind, you remembered why they’d really left, but the guilt you should have felt was overshadowed by lust and pleasure.Â
Your vision cleared as you rode out the aftershocks against Alex’s hand, but he never stopped moving. Fingers working relentlessly, he brought you quickly to the fine line between pleasure and pain. You raised your head to look at him, neck unstable and chest heaving. He locked eyes with you, and to your immense surprise, sank to his knees. He pulled you to the edge of the table, one strong arm around your hip and across your stomach to hold you down. You watched in amazement– he should look subjugated before you like this, but he maintained a sharp grip on the switchblade, the point digging into your hipbone and reminding you who was really in control. You should probably be in pain, but the sting was the only thing grounding you to reality.Â
Never ceasing the motion of his fingers, you moaned as he licked at your clit, slow patient circles that made your legs shake uncontrollably. You reached for his head, but held in place by the threat of the knife, grabbed at his wrist instead, only driving the blade in harder. The combined pressure of Alex’s ceaseless tongue and fingers brought you back to the edge with surprising speed. “Fuck, Alex, please don’t stop, fucking please–” you sobbed out. He hummed against you, some kind of permission, and the vibration was enough to tilt you over the edge into another devastating orgasm. Your vision went white, then dark, then slowly regained focus as you came apart in his grasp.Â
He stood slowly and withdrew his fingers from your pussy, bracing himself on the table with the hand holding the knife as he brought his fingers to your mouth. As if it was second nature, you opened your mouth and took his fingers into them, dutifully licking up the taste of your own arousal. You wondered dazedly if you could still taste Mathewson’s blood underneath your own come. You stared at each other, hazy eyes meeting steely ones, and you still had no goddamned clue what he was thinking. Once again: if the outcome’s all the same… does it really matter?
“You’re so pretty all broken like this.”
You pulled your head back, releasing his fingers. A string of saliva connected you two for a brief moment. You smiled coyly. “Been wanting this for a while.”
“No kidding.” He kissed you again, still full of fervor and devoid of tenderness. His hand wandered down your back, nails tracing lightly against your sweat-slicked skin. Your tongue wandered his mouth, wet and sloppy, before he broke the kiss suddenly. He studied you for a moment, cool and unreadable as ever, before he looped his arm around your lower back to slide you off the table.
Your legs trembled violently beneath you, his steady hands the only thing stopping you from sinking to the floor. “What are you–”
Alex spun you around before you could finish your sentence, forcing you down by the back of your neck until you lay against the table, the cool steel jarring against your bare breasts. There was a brief break in contact, and you rested most of your weight against the surface to stop the shaking in your legs. Somewhere over your shoulder you could hear the metallic clink of a belt. The head of his cock brushed against your clit slowly, and again, and again… “Quit fucking teasing.” You snapped over your shoulder.
“I like you better when you’re not talking.” He slammed into you with one thrust, giving you no time to adjust. The stretch made you hiss in pain, but it quickly turned into a moan as you grew accustomed to the fullness. One hand tangled in your hair, the other holding the knife in front of your face. The glint of steel caught your eye, your distorted reflection looking back at you with a cloudy and fucked-out expression. Alex pulled you up by your hair, arching your back up off the table, and brought the knife to your throat. You closed your eyes and sighed in satisfaction as he began to move, setting a brutal pace. If you thought he was rough last time, it was nothing compared to this. He fucked you hard and fast, hips crashing together as you rocked back to meet his thrusts. The air in the room was heavy with sex and visceral sounds of skin slapping skin.Â
Alex’s chest was pressed to your back now, and you found yourself enjoying the contact more than you’d care to admit. For days now, even including all of this, he’d been almost clinical, making minimal contact like he was afraid to corrupt you with his touch. Now, though, his broad frame weighing down on you made something click into place. His length was bruising, hitting spots that made your eyes roll back in your head. You clawed at his forearm, digging your nails into his skin with no regard for whether it hurt. Alex’s head fell into the crook of your shoulder, but the muffled groans and mumbles of your name were just audible enough to make you shiver. Your legs were shaking again, his grip the only thing keeping you upright. “Alex, fuck, I can’t, oh–” your words were coming more as chants between broken breaths. It was a fervor akin to religious psychosis, you thought, but isn’t that apropos somehow? Your hands clawed on the table and Alex’s arm, tension building again in a way that felt like it’d kill you.Â
Alex’s hips began to stutter; he was close too. It took whatever shreds of resolve you had left to form a sentence. “Alex– ah– come inside me. Don’t stop– I can take it– Please.” It wasn’t long before you came for the third time, your body like a shorted breaker, sparking in time with his thrusts. Alex spilled into you shortly thereafter, teeth buried in your shoulder in a way that felt oddly claiming.
Exhausted and spent, you both slumped forward, your hands hitting the table to stabilize you. Cum ran down your leg as he withdrew. Alex’s grip slackened on your hair but he panted into your shoulder for a moment before he stood up, pulling up his pants and straightening out his clothes. A chill washed over you and the sudden awareness of your nudity gave you the strength to pick up your pants from the ground. Your hip stung badly as the adrenaline faded, and your hand came away crimson when you touched it. Some perverted part of you hoped that it would scar into a permanent reminder of what you’d done.
You glanced at the tattered remains of your bra and t-shirt and shot Alex a pointed glare. Wordlessly, he slipped his own shirt over his head and handed it to you. You turned away when you took it, some combination of shame and confusion, before he said your name. It was pure reflex that let you catch the (now closed) switchblade arcing through the air. The weight of it felt familiar in your hand, yet tainted now by a deep irony. He stalked away without saying anything else, without touching you, before you’d even looked at the shirt.Â
It was stained red with Wyatt Mathewson’s blood.
You picked up the gun, lying forgotten on the table, and clicked the safety back on.
God, you needed a fucking cigarette.Â
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Notes: Well. That's all, folks... how are we feeling? Please let me know if you liked it LOL.
getting drawn and quartered by my own interests rn bc I want to keep writing shlocky smut, have like twelve ideas for actual shipfics, and at my core am a horror writer who would really like to work on some original fiction (although the lack of reader-base/consistent gratification makes this weirdly difficult)
I am having WAYYY too much fun with the second half of Consequences, guys. Like I'm taking creative liberties that are sooooo unsolicited. Unfortunately it's a little dark and twisty so you're either gonna love it or hate it
I have sent my fic(s) to a small handful of my irls and have them comment on a google doc as they read, which has resulted in an emulation of Wattpad-style inline commenting and is possibly the most fun I've ever had with my writing I highly recommend doing this
I am having WAYYY too much fun with the second half of Consequences, guys. Like I'm taking creative liberties that are sooooo unsolicited. Unfortunately it's a little dark and twisty so you're either gonna love it or hate it
I am having WAYYY too much fun with the second half of Consequences, guys. Like I'm taking creative liberties that are sooooo unsolicited. Unfortunately it's a little dark and twisty so you're either gonna love it or hate it
The people have spoken (a lot, over the past eight months), and I am nothing if not a provider. I bring unto you, the first half of the third (and final) instalment of our dearly beloved Mahone series. I need to warn you that this chapter is short and a bit light, but the second half is going to be a bit dark and probably not for everyone. Enjoy!
Part 2
Summary: After a long night, you wake up in Alex's cot and... debate your next steps. (This is a third instalment, following Contrarian and Distraction, but can be read on its own if you prefer).
Warnings: afab reader, fingering (f receiving), light degradation and a lot of swearing
Word Count: 1.4k (next part will be longer!)
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You woke slowly, not to sunshine streaming in the window but rather to the harsh orange glow of the bare lightbulb radiating from the dingy stock shelf beside your cot.
Beside… Alex’s cot. Reality came crashing down at an alarming speed as you realized you were still lying curled into his large frame, back pressed against the wall of a room that was very much not yours. The events of the previous night were not lost on you, and a small shiver ran down your spine at the thought of how easily you came apart at his touch. You turned slightly, carefully, to look at Alex. His face was oddly peaceful in sleep, the furrow between his brows less intense and you felt as though you were looking at a younger man, less haunted.
More importantly, the lack of sunshine was no indicator of the time, but the raised voices from the war room downstairs certainly were. It was long past time to get working, and yet you were oddly comfortable exactly where you were. It was as if as soon as you moved, this fleeting peace would be broken and you’d go back to whatever it was you had before. And that was…?
You shifted uncomfortably, wondering whether you should try to slip out before anyone noticed where you were and caught you two together. If anyone happened to be in the hallway, though, you were utterly screwed. Although, what would it really matter? You were already distracted, the mission was already as jeopardized as you two could be responsible for. You had both played your parts in the last heist, and nobody was any the wiser, so what the hell if they found out now? Mind resolved, you moved to slip out from between Alex and the wall, moving as slowly as possible so as not to wake him.Â
You had almost gotten free before you felt a vice grip on your wrist. “Going somewhere?” Alex’s voice startled you, rough and gravelly but seeming far too alert for someone who was unconscious a minute ago.
“Pretending to be asleep is generally considered to be impolite.”
“So is sneaking out of someone’s room.”
“It’s nice that you’re pretending this was intentional.”
Alex chuckled. “It’s nice that you’re pretending you weren’t begging for it last night.”
The comment sent a nasty pang of embarrassment through your chest– humiliation or pure irritation, you weren’t entirely sure. “God, you’re a fucking asshole.” You shook off the grip he had on your wrist and tried to stand again, but Alex had his hands on your hips and flipped you onto your back before you could even blink. He was caging you in again, and you were unable to escape his gaze, as scrutinizing and unsettling as always. You never really could read his face, but you always felt like you were under a microscope, like he was searching for something in your face that neither of you could truly name.Â
Alex’s mouth, silent for once, moved to your neck and sucked wet kisses down the side of it. His teeth grazed down your throat and you let out an involuntary moan, eliciting a dark chuckle from the man above you. The same indignant feeling ran through you again, and you pushed at his shoulders before his hand found your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers and causing you to throw your head back against the cot.
“There you are. Good girl.”
You hated this. You hated him, and his smug arrogant face, and you hated how good his hands felt wandering all over your body. You hated how ready you were for him, warmth pooling between your thighs at the very slightest touch, and you wanted to kill him ten times over for the effect he had on you. Alex’s hand wandered downward, ghosting over your clit. Sparks burst inside your chest, and your grip on his shoulder tightened, digging your nails into his bare skin.Â
“Is that what you want, sweetheart?” His voice was low and rough as he spoke, lips nearly brushing against your ear. You whimpered in the affirmative, as close to “mhm” as you can get as your brain went hazy.
“Use your words.”
God, he is the fucking worst. “Please?” you mutter, eyes fluttering shut from a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure.Â
Alex’s free hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to face him. “Look at me, and tell me what you want.”
You drew in a shaky breath, steeling your nerves. “Please, Alex, I want you to touch me.” The whine in your voice felt utterly debauched, but the fog that washed over your brain with his proximity dulled the sting of shame.
His eyes glinted with something– approval, maybe?-- and his finger began to move again, rubbing consistent circles around your clit.
“You’re so fucking soaked already. God, what a whore.”
Your only response was a groan as he worked you closer to your orgasm. He slipped two fingers inside of you with ease and curled them, your vision going white as he hit the spot you were yearning for. The noise you let out was utterly debased, closer to a whimper than you’d ever admit outside of this room. The way this man worked you, played your body like an instrument, undid your carefully constructed composure and left you shaking. The hand he had on your jaw slipped down to your throat, squeezing just enough to have you seeing stars. You bit back a moan, trying to avoid giving him the satisfaction of knowing what he was doing to you. The tension was building in your core and you were close to the edge, so close, panting into his space, and he was kissing you again, and–
The knock on the door snapped both of you out of your haze, and Alex covered your mouth with a bracing grasp, making it hard to breathe. You remained silent, shifting your hips against his fingers still inside you as he barked “What?” in the general direction of the door. Muffled, yet still recognizable, Lincoln’s voice came from the other side.
“What the fuck are you doing? It’s almost noon, we need you.”
“I’m coming.” He glanced at you, something akin to amusement sparkling in his eyes, and you glared ineffectually up at him. Clearly, nobody was coming. Fucking Lincoln.
“Get your ass down here.”
His heavy footsteps faded away and with a fleeting bolt of anxiety you realized he was probably heading towards your makeshift room. Alex withdrew his fingers and you watched incredulously as he licked them clean, the frustration of your ruined orgasm finally beginning to weigh on you. “You’re a fucking asshole.”
“You need to get some new insults.” He stood up off the cot and dressed himself swiftly, and you were beginning to consider whether murder was a reasonable charge to add to your rap sheet. “Don’t follow me downstairs.”
“No fucking kidding,” you spat, shifting to cover yourself with the ratty sheet while you searched for your shirt.Â
“You could go out the back and come around to–”
“Just go, Alex, I can handle myself.”
He raised an eyebrow at you, then, and you had to look away under the pretense of finding your clothes. Really, you were avoiding the weight of his gaze. His profiler eyes cut through your armour and made you feel far more naked than you really were (literally speaking), flayed alive by his intense scrutiny. He slipped out the door, careful not to open it too wide in case someone was in the hall, and your shoulders dropped as soon as he was gone.
You were pissed off and vulnerable and deeply frustrated, and now you had to go deal with the ragtag team of fugitive assholes instead of getting off on the most inappropriate person you could possibly have chosen. You hated him, and yet he was magnetic, unavoidable in some fated and accursed way. Most importantly, you had a bad habit of buckling under his stare, and you really needed to get your shit together and focus on the federal crimes at hand. You dressed yourself and snuck out a window on the back of the warehouse, climbing the fire escape to the roof and making your way down to the pavement and banging open the front door. You steeled yourself and met the stares of everyone, including Alex, with your best attempt at indifference.
“Where the fuck were you?”
“Had to run an errand.” A deep breath, and then back to what was most important. Scylla.
----------------
Part 2
Notes: I realize this is not a lot to feed y'all after you've been waiting so long, but I'm slowly getting invested again and am a little excited about the next part. Just need some motivation (ie. I am openly seeking validation LMAO) to keep writing. -Rev
i swear I don't mean to keep edging you freaks but I got thoroughly stuck on the plot when I remembered I don't actually want this to be soft or friendly and the end of Distraction set up a confusing vibe. Anyway next instalment gonna be a little... off the beaten path? Do you want a sneak peek lol
i swear I don't mean to keep edging you freaks but I got thoroughly stuck on the plot when I remembered I don't actually want this to be soft or friendly and the end of Distraction set up a confusing vibe. Anyway next instalment gonna be a little... off the beaten path? Do you want a sneak peek lol
