Pairing: 1x2
Rating: NC-17 for lemon and language.
Warnings: None. Set after Endless Waltz.

Lucky #8
by Kohaku

It's not surprising that lust is the one at the top of the list. I lust after him with every fiber of my being. Not just appreciate his form, no, this is a full-on obsession with him, his eyes, that ridiculous but intoxicating hair, did I mention his eyes? Oh god, and when he smiles, not that stupid grin, but his real, genuine smile... There is no one on earth, or in the colonies, or probably anywhere in the damned universe that is more desirable than him. Beautiful, yes, but so damned sexy, too. Have you ever seen him stretch? It's like his body is radiating sex as he flexes every damned muscle, tipping his head back and letting that mouth, god what his mouth does for me, drop open. Oh, god, I'm hard. Just picturing him licking those full, sensuous lips is making me pant. I've seen him in every state of undress and disarray after missions, and he's just amazing. Enticing. Intoxicating. Delicious. The list of adjectives for him is endless. Have you ever watched him bend over? Let me tell you, that ass haunts my dreams. Every time he gets out a file or ties his boots, I want to run my hands over it, savoring the tight muscle and the perfect curves. I want to trace that dangerously attractive cleft, and imagine doing it without standard issue pants. God, him naked, bending over here in the office under surveillance, purring my name, stretching, unbraiding his hair, stroking his cock, displaying himself for me -- I have to stop. I'm not going to be able to get up from my desk for an hour as it is.

This unending distraction earns him another one, wrath. God it pisses me off how much he keeps me from working. I know that I'm a total dick to him sometimes. I'm still a cold bastard in the field because somehow he makes a night-maneuver suit look pornographic. How the fuck am I supposed to cover his back when all I fucking want to do is fuck him senseless? It's not enough that he's still a hyper-active pain in the ass, he's a fucking sexy pain in the ass, and why am I still thinking about his ass? Damn it, he pisses me off. I'm supposed to be doing mission specs for an infiltration. We have a suspected terrorist ring that needs to be investigated. And he's just over there at his desk, typing, but he's got that bottom lip gently gripped by his teeth, and it's distracting me. I should be done with this paperwork by now! But no, Mr. Sexy over there has to keep dragging my eyes across the four feet that separates us to see that pouty lip released from his teeth and then fucking stroked with his tongue. And on top of all of that, he's still as reckless as ever, putting himself in more danger than he should to get the job done. Doesn't he realize that that's the number one source of my bad attitude? His devil may care attitude about living or dying? It's so fucked up that he throws himself into danger, and looks so sexy when he does it. Doesn't he realize that I need to see him everyday so that I can continue to be pissed at him? God, that sounds stupid. His recklessness is a constant sore spot for me. It makes him so damned alluring. His attitude is part of what makes him so fuckable. But he's constantly trying to take away that chance! He bitches that I'm just as reckless, but it's not the same. Of course if I die, whatever hell I'm in will probably consist of him constantly pissing me off by being so damned hot.

I'm not the only one distracted by him. Women and men all throughout the Preventers notice him. People on the street follow him with their eyes as he walks past. He's so carefree and easy in conversation with them, so casual, nothing like me. I still can't make small talk. I envy them. I envy every breath they take that was the air that he breathed. I envy every word, every smile, every laugh, every casual handshake or backslap. Every time someone touches him, I wish it was me, every time he touches someone else, I wish I was them, every smile across those beautiful lips I wish was for me. I ache for him. I envy his clothes that get to hold him and caress him every moment of the day. I envy the brush that runs through his hair before he braids it. Envy is a cold, bitter emotion one minute and burns hot the next. His keyboard gets to feel his fingers. His coffee cup feels the warmth of his lips, the pressure of his tongue as he laps a stray drop. I envy the very air around us, that touches him everywhere like I wish I could. I'm a creature ruled by envy some days as I watch him and wish that I was the only one he noticed.

It's made me greedy. I horde every moment of contact I have with him. I find reasons to touch him and store away in my mind how soft his skin is, how he smells, the sound of his laughter. They say greed is a downfall. I don't fucking care. I'm so fucking lost in him. I have a mental museum of him and the cost of admission is so high that only I can pay it. Some men covet money, cars, beautiful women, and have to possess those things, in mass quantity. I covet every contact with him. I wish I could build a vault to hold him so that I could bathe in his attention any time I damned please. Ugh, one time he left his shirt over my desk chair after changing to work out. I held it to my face and breathed in his scent. I felt like a fucking freak, I can tell you that, but parting with that item of his clothing was the most torturous experience of my life. Well, next to letting him out of my sight. God, I'm fucking greedy. I try to monopolize his time. I keep him late at work with pointless tasks and drills to get spare time with him. I try to talk him into spending time out of work with me, which he cheerfully does -- I am eternally grateful to whatever deity smiled on me to make him actually seek out my company. I hold every second we're together in a special unbreakable safe in my soul. Greed is another cold sin that feels like it burns.

What's another sin? Gluttony. Oh god, I never thought that I would be gluttonous. I have very firm training behind me. Granted, a lot of that I have willingly relinquished in light of not dying during the wars. A lot of that he fucking broke down like a battering ram against the brick wall of my rigid personality. But I'm still mentally organized, willing to make do with less, focused, driven, not likely to wallow in anything, emotional or physical. But then there was him. God, I could stuff myself full of him, everything about him, totally saturate myself in his look, scent, touch, taste, and go back for more. I want to fucking drown myself in him. I want to feel that hair all over my body, that skin, those defined muscles under my hands, rubbing against me, I want this all the time. I can compartmentalize almost everything in my life. Everything is neatly separated. But he's drizzled over every other aspect of my life like sweet honey, mellow and smooth, taking over my senses and making me hunger for even more. He consumes me, and I want to consume him. No matter how much of him I have, I need more, crave more, obsess about how I can get more. It can't be mentally healthy, but I'm an addict. I don't want help, I'm too lost in the experience of spinning out of control.

He makes me lazy. If he takes a nap on my couch, I lay there for hours, breathing him in, relishing the fact that my body is touching something he touched with his. I lay in bed for hours on days off, daydreaming of him. Sloth, that's it. Not just lazy, slothful. Does masturbation count as enough exercise that it's not sloth? I'd never masturbated before I saw him. The bullet wounds still fucking bled the first time I was too hard to ignore after he shot me. School missions were torture with him, he was so close, I could see him and smell him, and I was never fucking alone and couldn't relieve myself. Not a problem now. I find myself jacking off in the shower when I get home, then dropping into bed and laying there, cradled in the blankets, long past the time I should get up and make dinner, just thinking of him and slowly stroking myself. I would stay in bed forever if he was in it with me. Just lay there, luxuriating in the feel of the cool sheets and his warm body, touching slowly and gently, like every day was a lazy summer afternoon. I start to relax in my uncomfortable desk chair just thinking about it. Who needs to write mission reports? Why not just sit here and look at him while he concentrates on what he's doing. He'll notice in a few minutes that I'm staring at him and he'll smile and cock his eyebrow at me as if to say "caught ya" but I'll be too embarrassed to smile back. I know I'll blush, I can't help it. He has that effect on me.

Now, this one I don't get. Pride is a sin. How is pride a sin? I take pride in missions well done, in my perfect reports, in my skill with weapons, in my fighting abilities, and in my success within in the Preventors organization. How is that bad? He says it's because you were supposed to be humble in the face of god's grace or some shit. He rolled his eyes, but I could tell he was really thinking about that one. I know I'm humble in the face of that which I'm most proud. Him. I don't know how the hell I managed it, but he's mine. I take pride in knowing that someone so sexy, so beautiful, so smart, and so perfect is my partner. God's grace? What does that mean? That everything was a gift from god? If that can happen, he's a gift from god. He was blessed with the most amazing personality, and this insane love of life, and the most astounding physical beauty... If there is a god, he would be evidence. But the things he's doing right now are definitely not holy. Remember what I said about his mouth? He's deliberately licking his lips slowly, turning his head a little and looking at me from under his eyelashes. He runs the tips of his fingers down the column of his throat, dear god, I'm glad there aren't any scars on his throat, it's so perfect, and loosens his tie. That's all it takes and I'm dying. I was already panting just from thinking about him, and now he's giving this tantalizing hint that he could undress himself? I'm going to die. He stretches now, on purpose, running his hands over his chest, across his nipples, and arches his back, exposing more of that lovely neck to my view. He stands up then, and I can see that he's hard -- has he been thinking about me? God, that makes me hot. To know that I have that effect on him makes him even more desirable. He's stalking me around the desk with this extremely evil look on his face. What did he tell me? That the devil seduces people into hell with what they desire most? He has the face of pure desire, and he can lure me into anything he wants when his eyes are like that. I'd follow him to the depths of hell when he gives me this look. He stops beside my chair and takes the tip of his index finger between his teeth and looks down at me. There's a challenge in his eyes, and an invitation. Will the door to our office stay closed? Will anyone watch the security video from this part of the building? He tugs at his tie again, and undoes the top button of his shirt. It's more than I can handle and I'm out of my chair, grinding my erection against his, claiming his lips in a hard kiss, running my hands over him like I own him, which is pure irony, since he owns me, body and soul. He grips my hips to force us closer together and I want to fucking crawl into his skin to get closer. He pulls away, panting, and I'm staring at him, waiting for him to make the next move. Pride fills me. He's so ethereally beautiful, yet so solid and earthy in his desire, he is my whole world.

Pride and emotion take second place to desire as he pulls me behind the filing cabinet where we know that, if the door opens, no one will see. I'm ripping his clothes off, he's doing the same to me, and I wonder what the hell happened to my discipline? This is so far out of line that I have no idea what would happen if we got caught. Not that we have yet, although we had a close call when an intern came looking for a signature. Luckily she thought we weren't there. Keeping him quiet enough is the hardest part of this...well, other than my cock. He's vocal during sex, just like everything else. I have his shirt off and I'm running my teeth along his throat and down his chest and he's biting his lip to keep from moaning. He's trying to get my shirt off when I drop to my knees and undo his pants, thanking a god I don't believe in that he hadn't worn a belt, and soon I have them open, and I see he's not wearing underwear. I can't resist growling, that makes me so hot that I can't stand it. He looks down and me and smirks before running his hands through my hair. I know what he wants and I'm perfectly willing to give it to him.

I love to suck him off, almost as much as I love to fuck him into the mattress. Not that we need a mattress, I think we've had sex on every surface in my apartment, and his. I gently stroke him as I bring my mouth to meet him, licking the head which makes him shiver, before slowly taking him in, all the way in, until I can feel him against the back of my throat. He's making that strangled sound that means he's trying desperately not to yell, he knows I can go without air a long time. After a moment though he urges me back and I release him from my mouth.

"Please," he whispers. I ask him, facetiously, what he wants, in a low voice.

"God, please, fuck me," he asks with more volume. I love his voice. So I ask what he wants again, just to hear him answer.

A low moan escapes his throat. "You know what I want, I need it so bad, fuck me, please --" and I have to chuckle. He's begging, he must have been thinking about sex at least as long as I was today.

I smile up at him and he pulls me up for a kiss before turning around and grabbing something from the fake potted tree back here. Why the filing cabinet is three feet from the window with a fake tree behind it, I'll never know, but I'm eternally grateful to whoever had the office before us and arranged it this way. He presses a tube into my hand and turns, bending over, bracing his hands against the wall.

He had lube hidden in the potted plant? Dear god, I fucking love this man.

I run my hands over that ass as he steps out of his pants, spreading him open and running my fingers over that pink pucker that's calling my fucking name, then open the lube and coat my fingers. He interrupts me as I start to slide a finger inside of him. "Hard," he chokes out, and I thrust all the way in, pulling out and immediately returning with two. I can feel the vibrations in his body as he moans softly. Sometimes he likes it rough for some reason, but fuck, so do I, so who am I to judge? Three fingers and a touch to his prostate and he's rocking back onto my hand and panting.

"Now," he spits out from between gritted teeth. Being quiet is fucking hard on him. I grin, even though he can't see it, lube myself quickly, and enter him without warning. I savor his gasp of surprise and appreciative groan as I start moving in him. I'm losing my mind. He's moving with me, his head hanging and I can hear him panting. "Harder," he whispers, and I start fucking pounding into him. I know he'll be sore later, and so does he, and he doesn't care, he's lost in his passion, and I'm just as lost, I can never resist drowning myself in him. I almost feel like we're one person with two grinding, sweating, panting bodies screaming for completion. I reach around him and start pumping, I want to feel him come, I want it on my hand, I want to lick my fingers and taste him, while he watches with heavy-lidded eyes, I know it turns him on, and it will guarantee that he'll be over tonight and we'll fuck again, and again -- I think we're both scheduled off tomorrow.

He's making that high-pitched sorta sob that signals that he's really close, if we were at home he'd be screaming, and I speed up my thrusts and my strokes and he suddenly clamps down around me and hot cum sprays out over my hand and the wall, and I thrust once more before joining him in that oh-so perfect moment of illicit orgasm that only comes from fucking in a public place. It takes a moment to recover before I pull out, and turn him around and hold him. He nuzzles my neck and I can't resist running my hands over his ass. God, it's a fucking beautiful ass. He starts kissing my neck and I have to drop my head back, I know we should get back to work, but god, he's just so sinfully delicious that I can't resist him. Actually, I just think he's just a sin. Heh, the eighth deadly sin, Duo Maxwell. I can say that with pride, since, after all, I'm the only one that gets to commit it. The eighth deadly sin is all mine.