#Marcus Pike au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

atinylittlepain · 7 days

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Little Pinch

nurse!marcus pike x f!reader

she needs to get bloodwork done. one small problem, getting bloodwork done never goes well for her, especially not when she's distracted by the very kind, very handsome nurse doing it.

wordcount | 3.3K

content info | 18+ discussions of getting bloodwork that includes needles, fainting, nausea, mostly fluff, nurse marcus to the rescue, this is just a fun time, also an un-beta'd time so like, be nice pls

a/n | shoutout to the girls (gn) that pass out every time they get blood work done (me). I have to get new labs tomorrow morning, and writing this is how I coped with that prospect :') this one is for the fainters, the thin veiners, the "just do it in my hand"-ers - i see you, i am you, gawd bless

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Here’s the thing, this never goes well. It wasn’t always like this though. She has a vague memory of being a kid and taking it like a perfect champ, testing for mono after a rash of cases at school. But then, well, something changed.

It runs in her family. Thin veins that are hard for even the best nurses to find, lots of oh, I just lost it, and well, let’s try your other arm, and always, ultimately, hands? Should we try the hands? No, the nurses never listen when she tells them to just start with the hands, and without fail, somewhere around the third or fourth time they try to get the needle in, a cold sweat breaks, and the room starts to filter through a fuzzy pinhole of vision. It’s embarrassing, she thinks, because, really, she has no problem with needles. Can watch it go in, no issues with piercings, et cetera, et cetera, but getting blood drawn? Yeah, forget about it. She usually comes to with paperwork around her feet that she had been holding, and a well-meaning nurse pressing a damp paper towel to her forehead and breathing the remnants of her lunch over her face and alright, hon? Usually a box of apple juice and an escort out to her car to make sure she doesn’t go offline again.

The other thing is, unfortunately, she’s pretty sure her little fainting, fading thing has gotten worse over the years. A conditioned response, she thinks, that cold sweat starts the second she walks into the waiting room, already anticipating what comes next. And today, well, even worse than some of the others. Twelve hours fasted, and no, that certainly won’t help her case, no matter how much water she downed before she came here, no matter how tight she squeezes her fist in the hopes of pumping even one vein up enough to be tenable. She looks at the woman sitting across from her in the waiting room, reading a back-ordered issue of Cosmo, flipping and flippant and really, why can’t she be like that? Why can’t she be normal like that? Instead, her heel is doing a frantic tap, whole leg jerking with it, and everytime she checks her watch she feels her heart creep a little further up into her throat.

If she’s being honest, she thought about canceling her labs. No, doc, all good, doc, don’t need to know, doc. And then a friend pointed out, frustratingly, that avoidance is only going to make it worse. Right, so, right, so right, so, here she is. And here’s the nurse opening the door and right, calling her name, and it’s a man nurse, male nurse, though she’s pretty sure she’s not being PC by making that specification in her mind because really, twenty-first century, and really, anyone can be a nurse. But not anyone, right? Lots of schooling, right? Right. She realizes a bit too late that she hadn’t responded to the nurse calling her name, jerking up out of her chair and trying for a smile that she thinks probably looks more like constipation. And that’s just great because now man nurse, sorry, just nurse, probably thinks she’s constipated and she’d rather not have the, actually, very handsome, just nurse, thinking that on top of whatever she’s got going on that necessitates lab work she also can’t take a shit. Right.

“We’re going to be in this room right here.” Handsome just nurse has a nice voice too, deep but kind, and a strong jawline, and a patchy beard but she likes that it’s patchy, and he’s tan and he’s got one of those big watches that tells you how hard your heart was beating on your run and he probably runs in the afternoon after clocking out of the needle-in-arms gig and that’s probably why he’s so tan, probably has a golden retriever who runs with him too, because he looks like a golden retriever guy, dark flop of wavy hair and that smile and oh, oh, he just asked her a question and now she’s supposed to answer it.

“I’m sorry, could you say that again?” He smiles, nods, being nice, at least, about her whole scared prey animal situation. She presses her palm down hard on her knee to keep it from bouncing any more.

“It says on this order that these labs need to be taken fasted. Can you confirm to me that you haven’t had anything to eat or drink besides water in the last twelve hours?” Oh yes, yep, she can confirm that for you, Marcus, his name is Marcus, says so on his little lanyard badge. Thanks for the easy one, Marcus, pitch right down the middle, Marcus, with your nice smile and your clipboard and your, well, needles and tubes. But before he can get started with his, well, needles and tubes, she makes a strangled, sort of despondent sound because in situations like these, she comes with a warning label.

“I should let you know I have, um, bad veins? Honestly, you can just start with my hands, I don’t mind it. And also, I’m a fainter, yeah, so, it happens every time, just so you know.” And usually, usually, her spiel is given very little notice, mmmokay, hon. Sure, they’ll lay her back, how merciful, so she doesn’t crack her skull open on the way out of conscious orbit. That’s about it, though. But this time, she thinks, might just be different.

“Okay, thank you for giving me the heads up. If you’re sure you’re alright with starting with the hands then it’s fine by me to get it done that way.” So, so fine, Marcus, and maybe, just maybe, she thinks she might not pass out this time. He sets the exam table at a reclined angle and she wills her rigid spine to settle against it, trying to find the balance between breathing so deeply she starts to get light headed, and not breathing at all. In case you were wondering, yes, she is on medication for anxiety, it just doesn’t seem to presently be working.

“Just gonna feel around a bit here for a good one.” She only feels a little insane for the kick and clench in her heart when he takes her one hand in both of his, because he’s just palpating the back of her hand to find, as he said, a good one. Yes, the word for it is palpating, and there is certainly nothing romantic nor, hello, sexual about anything that’s called palpating. But, hey, taking wins where she can get them, and even through the latex gloves, his hands are warm and big and very know what they’re doing about the whole thing. And she’s no expert, obviously, but he’s got a very nice, very visible vein in his forearm, and she bets phlebotomists love him, bets that when he gets blood drawn, he’s in and out no problem, bets that even she could draw blood from him. Nope, nothing sexual about that, nothing weird about that, right? Right. Nothing sexual either, when he ties off the tight band around her arm and she watches his one bicep flex a little with the effort.

“I can count you down, or you can look away and I’ll just get it done, whichever you prefer.”

“Uh, no preference, I’ll just look away and you can do whatever you want to me.” Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ. She realizes exactly what she just said a bit too late, him, Marcus, nice nurse Marcus, letting out a laugh that fizzles out into a cough. Great, now she’s made her fucking phlebotomist uncomfortable, possibly one of the last people you want to make uncomfortable. But if that, whatever that was, lingers, he doesn’t show it, already swiping an antiseptic wipe over the back of her hand and pulling his little cart of tubes closer to himself. And she knows this part, she’s good at this part, letting her eyes sweep up and to the right, because he’s on her left, and willing whatever vein he decided is a good one to stay a good one. Little pinch, little prayer, she lets out a held breath when he says a quiet alright and keeps the needle exactly where it is. Hallelujah.

“This might take a little longer, just because we’re drawing from your hand.”

“I’ll bleed as fast as I can then.” At the very least, he laughs, even though she wishes she had kept that one to herself.

“Do you live around here?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Sorry, I’m trying to distract you.”

“Didn’t they teach you how to do that in like, phlebotomy school?” She still has her eyes turned up and away, only a little wince when he switches out one tube for another. He hums at her question.

“Not really, I could ask you about the weather, is that better?”

“It’s cloudy. Not much of a conversation starter.”

“Well, why don’t you ask me something, since you’re such an expert on starting conversations.”

“Do you have a golden retriever?”

“What?”

“Sorry, you just, you look like the kind of guy who’d have a golden retriever.” Another tube clicks into place, but she’s not paying any attention to that now.

“Uh, no, no golden retriever. I do however have a very old, very deaf pit mix named Lucille.” Goddamnit, somehow that’s hotter than the golden retriever.

“Great name.”

“Yeah, I thought so too. She came with it when I adopted her.” God. Fucking. Damn it. What next, is he a volunteer firefighter on the weekends?

“Alright, that’s the last one.”

“Wait, really?” She chances a skittish glance but, sure enough, the needle is out.

“Yep, just let me get a band-aid for you and you’re all set.” Is he? Is she? Really? Going to make it out of here with no blackout? She considers, very briefly, as Marcus is smoothing a band-aid over the back of her hand, whether it’s possible to put a phlebotomist on retainer.

“If you want to sit for a minute and make sure you’re feeling alright before getting up that’s totally fine. I can also get you water or juice if you’re getting lightheaded.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine actually. Which, hey, thanks for not making me faint and stuff– that’s a first for me in a very long–” Oh, oh, stops herself mid-compliment because oh, oh, maybe stood up too fast, because the room is going a little dark, a little sideways, cold prickle and nauseous and–

“Easy, easy, I’m gonna help you sit up, okay?” His voice is a little fuzzy around the edges. To be honest, he’s a little fuzzy around the edges, though she knows right away what happened. No, not her first rodeo, like she blinked and then came to in a strange sprawl on the end of the exam table. Marcus presents a dixie cup to her, holds it right in her line of sight because clearly, she’s still a little slumped, still a little vacant, and a little warm, actually, which is new, and a little pleasant, and, oh, it’s because his arm is curled around her shoulders, firm palm held there to help her sit up. Oh. He smells like clorox and something woodsy, and it shouldn’t, but it kind of works.

“You feeling okay?”

“Mmmhmm.” She’s afraid of what might come out of her mouth if she doesn’t keep her lips pressed in a thin line, mmhmms again when he asks if she can sit up on her own, only a little despondent when he takes his arm away.

“So, you really weren’t kidding about that happening every time, huh?”

“Nope, wish I was. It’s– I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“That you had to deal with that.”

“You don’t have to be sorry about that, it’s part of the job. And actually, you fainted about as perfectly as I could’ve asked you to.”

“I didn’t know you could faint like, well.”

“Right before you went down you said I’m gonna faint. That’s a lot better than getting no heads up and turning around to find my patient unresponsive on the ground.”

“Oh gee, I bet you say that to all your patients.” Lord, if there was ever a time to put her out of her misery it’d be now. She probably still looks green from her little trip to outer space but sure, flirt with Marcus, handsome nurse Marcus who just watched you absolutely eat it. Kick your feet and bat your eyelashes while you’re at it.

“I take it you’re feeling better then? Are you okay to walk out to the front desk?” And the rest is, mercifully, easy. He walks her to the front desk, squeezes her shoulder and gives her a good job today that she likes a little too much. She makes a mental note to herself to never come back to this clinic for any future bloodwork, lest she make a fool of herself all over again in front of a man who, with any luck, she will never see again.

…

“Yes, this is she speaking.” This is she speaking in the middle of the cereal aisle with a half-filled grocery basket at her feet. She sets her gaze on a hyper-realized image of a granola cluster (now with real strawberries!) while the woman on the other end of the phone tells her that her lab results came in and were sent over to her doctor.

“Oh, great, thank you for letting me know. Do you know– did things look okay?”

“We don’t interpret the results, ma’am. Your doctor will go over that with you.” She doesn’t quite catch that, doesn’t catch the woman’s ma’am? either, a little preoccupied with staring down the aisle, because is that? Is he? He looks good out of the scrubs.

“Ma’am?”

“Sorry, no, um, of course. Thanks again.” If the woman had anything else to tell her, it’s a little too late for it, already hung up, and she’s trying to decide if she wants him to see her, or if fleeing immediately is the best course of action. He probably wouldn’t even recognize her, she thinks. It’s been a couple of weeks since the whole ordeal. And actually, she’d prefer if he didn’t recognize her. Oh yeah, the one who, well, ate it. But it seems the choice has already been made for her, because he saw her, walking down the aisle toward her, with his chin tilted down and part of a smile like he isn’t sure, but he’s pretty sure. He says her name like a question. Guilty as charged.

“Marcus, right?” Like she forgot his name, ha. His smile stretches, a little brighter, palm to the nape of his neck, and while she got the golden retriever part wrong, she totally clocked the rest, watch on his wrist and nice-looking athletic shorts and just-right-tight t-shirt with the little swoosh on the chest. She thinks his hair might even be a little sweat-damp, curled ends nearly getting in his eyes. In other words, she’s a goner.

“How have you been since we– you, well–”

“Since I passed out on you?” Yeah, that, he laughs out and yeah, she likes him, sue her.

“Just for the record, I believe it was you who said I passed out perfectly, so.” Shrug, so, he takes a step closer, leans in a little like he’s going to tell her a secret. In the cereal aisle, of all places.

“Just for the record, I really don’t say that to all my patients.”

“No?”

“Nope, just the nervous, pretty ones.”

“I was not nervous.”

“You weren’t?”

“Nope.”

“Are you just gonna blow past the other thing?”

“What thing?”

“The pretty thing.”

“Yep.” Something a little giddy, like being back in high school, shared, shit-eating and smug grins. He shakes his head and she rolls her lips back in her mouth to stop her smile from getting any cheesier.

“So, you do live around here then?”

“Mm, yeah, I do. And so do you?”

“I do.”

“Nice, nice.”

“Lovely weather we’re having.”

“Wow.”

“What? I’m making conversation.”

“You’re still not very good at it.”

“I’ll keep working on it for you.”

“Sure, okay. What kind of cereal do you get?”

“What kind do you think I get?”

“You look like a Kashi guy, if I’m honest.”

“Somehow I feel insulted.”

“Well.”

“You’re not even right either.”

“No? What do you get then?” He just smiles, steps away and reaches up to the top of the shelf and she is very grateful to General Mills for being located on the top shelf because his shirt rides up just enough to see a bare hip. In cheerios we trust.

“Apple cinnamon, seriously?”

“What? It’s a classic.”

“Actually, you know what, that tracks.”

“What do you get?” She waggles her basket in front of him in response, goods already procured.

“Peanut butter chex, respectable choice.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

“You know, I’d say we’re pretty good at this conversation thing.”

“Yeah, we’re not bad.”

“Do you want to do this again sometime? Not in the cereal aisle?”

“What, you mean like in the produce section?” He smiles at that, rolls his eyes, his basket lightly bonking against hers.

“I was thinking more like dinner, or drinks if that’s your thing?”

“I might be free on Saturday.”

“I might also be free on Saturday.”

“Well, sounds like we’re both free on Saturday.”

“Can I get your number?” His lockscreen is a picture of a dog. Lucille, he tells her, before she was very old and very deaf. She can’t help how big her smile gets at that.

“Text me, and we’ll do this whole conversation thing again.” I will, he says, phone tucked back into his pocket, though he seems to think twice before asking her can I see something really quick. Not entirely sure what he means when she nods, but then his hand sort of hovers over her forearm, may I? He really does have nice hands, she doesn’t think twice about nodding again.

“Oh yeah, we didn’t have to use your hand. I could have totally gotten it from here.” His hand curled around her elbow and his thumb lightly pressing into what she can only assume is a vein, and he says it so earnestly that she can’t help the incredulous laugh that rises up in her chest.

“Really? You’re still stuck on that, huh?” He smiles something sheepish, pad of his thumb rubbing an apology into her skin before pulling away. She didn’t really want him to pull away.

“Sorry, occupational hazard, I guess.”

“Kinda weird, you know.”

“Did I just ruin this whole thing?”

“Mmm, no, I kinda like it.”

“So, Saturday?”

“Looking forward to it, Marcus.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #marcus pike fluff #marcus pike fic #marcus pike au #marcus pike angst #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you

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psychedelic-ink · 8 months

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𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐓.

DAY TEN OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: inspired by your favorite lana del rey song + artist au + “don't you know how sick with love i am for you?”

pairing: artist!marcus pike x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni

summary: marcus is in desperate need for a muse.

word count: 3.7k

warnings: body painting, artist/muse, obsessed artist marcus pike, mutual oral s.ex/69 but marcus is on top, cum play, spit play, dirty talk, affectionate whore calling, in a very Marcus fashion things escalate very quickly

In the dim living room, the scent of oil paints hung heavy in the air, mingling with the undertones of desperation and need. An artist needs a muse, Marcus thinks, the crease between his brows deep. He placed his hands beneath his chin, fingers meeting, in a contemplative pose. He sat on the couch; right across from a blank canvas. In front of it his paints were angrily scattered, his want to paint clouding his judgment and angering him. It’s been months since he last painted. Nothing inspired him to paint. Not the books he read, not his perfectly decorated studio speaking to his particular tastes, not his friends—

Nothing.

And now he has to leave and he has to leave right now. He has no time to shower and scrub the scent of paint off his skin, no time to tidy his living room. Slowly, he lifts himself off the couch and walks up to the canvas. He places his palm flat in the middle. The grease of his hand seeps into the woven white fabric. Bits of paint adding shards of color and tainting the pure.

He sighs, pulling his hand away, he stares at the faint shine of grease. Still nothing.

Maybe going out will help him think of something to paint.

He has his doubts but he’s willing to try.

Going out tonight you weren’t expecting much. Maybe some laughter—a lot of drinking, but that was pretty much it. You certainly weren’t expecting to meet a charming artist with brown eyes and dark brown hair who had a smile that turned your insides into absolute mush.

He opens the door for you and you go in. It’s a clean apartment, which you appreciate. The scent of paint and hints of soft vanilla tickles your nose, you step instead with a smile and Marcus follows, closing the door with a soft click.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says a bit bashfully. You turn with a raised eyebrow, prompting him to explain. He points towards the canvas, then down to the ground, your gaze follows. “The paints.”

You shrug, “You’re an artist. I’d figured there’d be some paint.” you add shortly after. “In fact, I expected more.”

Marcus leads you to the couch, hand gentle as it presses against the small of your back. A shudder crawls up your spine, a flame awakening between your legs. You swallow thickly.

“I’ve been having a bit of a dry spell,” his grin widens as you give him a look. “I was talking about my art but honestly haven’t been the most fortunate in that apartment either.”

“Tortured artist,” you murmur, eyes flitting across his face. “Classic.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purrs. His other hand slides to your waist, the other moving up from the middle of your stomach and gliding up between your breasts until he tucks his fingers under your chin, holding you with a thumb and a forefinger. The chocolate of his eyes is gone, leaving you to stare into complete darkness. He smiles hungrily—stares at you as if he’s been waiting for you since the end of times and not that he’s found you, he’s never letting you go. “I’m everything but classic.”

His thumb pulls at your bottom lip, exposing hard teeth. Your heart flutters and you smile. It should frighten you. The obsession in his eyes. Your stomach jumps, the skin over bone growing taut. Your breathing goes heavy, your gaze dropping to his lips multiple times within the silence. He knows. He knows how badly you want him and that only turns you on. You’ve never been anyone’s first choice before, never caught the eye of a stranger at a bar. People felt relaxed around you but that didn’t entice them enough to actually want you or be with you. Obsession was like kryptonite for a lonely person. A drug.

And man did you want your fill of it.

Your pulse raises, “Why haven’t you been able to paint?” you ask.

His plush lips part with a soft, slow sight. A rumble follows his breath as it ghosts your cheeks. Marcus slides his fingers around your throat, the thin cheap chain of your necklace burning your skin as he presses forward.

“I haven’t been feeling inspired,” he says. “Lost my muse.”

Your breath hitches and he cocks his head to the side, his smile softening around the edges. “I’m feeling quite inspired now, though.”

“You don’t say,” You’re surprised at how sultry your voice is, how hoarse it became in mere seconds. “You think you found your muse?”

He tightens his grip and arousal gathers at the seam of your underwear, you feel the brush of his lips against yours.

“I believe I have.”

You’ve always had an obsession with the color blue. It soothes you. And you often associate it with life itself. Water, the sky. All the most important things in human life are blue, but the color of the water isn’t real, it comes from the sky. A mirage. After learning about it, you only grew fonder of the color, relating to it.

Marcus’s lips taste like that. Something that you see but surely couldn’t be real, a mirage of your darkest desires perhaps? He tastes like heaven and hell and you want more and more and more—

He slips his tongue between your lips, licking himself deep into your mouth. You mimic him, flattening your tongue over his and allowing him to suck the tender muscle into his mouth. You feel his hands everywhere; on your ass, hip, breasts. He squeezes them, rubs his thumb enough so peeks form despite your bra and dress. You moan into his mouth, eyes nearly rolling back from how hot it suddenly is.

Then suddenly you’re being pulled back, all you ever wanted taken from you.

“Let me paint you,” he suddenly gasps. He rubs himself against yours, the length of him hard against your stomach. You let out a shuddering breath.

“Wouldn’t that take long?” you whine. His eyes lit up with amusement. “I mean. . .I would love that but I’d rather. . . be with you.”

“Is my sweet muse suddenly shy?” he teases, nudging your nose together. “When I say paint you I don’t mean paint a portrait of you—I mean I. Want. To. Paint. You.”

“Oh,” you hear the blood rushing to your ears, your cheeks starting to warm under his gaze. “No one’s ever done that before.”

“Good,” he says and fully pulls away, turning his gaze to the blank canvas. Your eyes follow. He seems to be staring directly into the middle of it, you don’t know why, you wish you could see what he sees.

Then his head suddenly snaps back to you, almost making you jump, “I’m thinking blue.”

You hope to disguise your surprise, but from the way he smiles, you know he sees something on your face to prompt the expression. “Yes,” he says nonchalantly. “Blue.”

It seems that not much preparation is needed for him to paint you. To turn you into his personalized canvas to use. After laying down a rather large white fabric on the floor, he places various colored paints and brushes. Marcus gets behind you, fingers playing with the fabrics of your dress. You shiver at the brush of his fingers. He kisses your neck, the wet of his tongue tasting your skin.

“Will you strip for me?” he asks.

Your answer is ready on your lips, “Yes.”

And he pushes down the straps, lowers your zipper. The dress pools at your ankles and you step out of the waves of fabric. You want to give him a show.

Turning to him, you unclasp your bra. His eyes follow the curves of them immediately, taking in the sight of your peeked nipples, the way they sag in their natural beauty when the bra is removed. You would normally be embarrassed but the feeling escapes you entirely, no matter how longingly he observes your details.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, eyes meeting yours. “Show me the rest of you.”

Slowly leaning forward you hook your thumbs under the pretty lace and pull it down, it drops to your ankles. A chill settles at the base of your spine when the cool air hits your wet, warm pussy. Marcus licks his lips, eyes eating you hungrily before meeting your gaze once more. He takes a step forward and cups your mound with the entirety of his palm. A soft moan trembles within the confinements of your throat as he begins to stroke between your folds with two thick fingers.

“So wet already,” he murmurs, breath tickling your heated cheeks. “You must feel it too, this pull between us. The crimson ropes of faith telling you that you’re mine.”

You don’t miss the way his soft cadence shifts into something of a silent growl, he presses the heel of his palm against your clit and you gasp, the tender nub throbs. “Lay down,” he orders, hand slipping to your waist, you feel the wet streaks he leaves on your skin.

“Tell me why you wanted to go out tonight,” Marcus says while you’re lying down, from the corner of your eyes you see him reaching for brushes and blue paint. “I want to know how your mind works.”

“Well, it’s not that interesting really,” a nervous laughter escapes you. You stare at the ceiling, it makes you feel oddly relaxed even though you’re stark naked. “I’m just tired of being alone. I wanted to have fun, and see if I could. . . find someone that’d wanna spend time with me.”

“I guess you hit the jackpot then,” he answers, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Because I certainly want to spend time with you.”

Your breath hitches. You want to argue, tell him that he barely knows you yet and that he should give it time before he tucks his tail between his legs and runs. But you have an inkling that he does, in fact, know you. You feel that invisible thread holding you together and even though your feelings had let you astray before, you want to believe the bond this time.

The cool, wet end of the brush hovers an inch above your body, a subtle chill bursting across your skin, “I’m telling you the truth you know,” he murmurs as if reading your mind. “I’ll never get sick of this feeling. Never.”

Then you feel it. The cold paint swirling around your breast, tickling your skin, shortening your breath. Marcus smiles at the way your back curves, pushing yourself further into the brush despite the way it makes you shiver. Arousal blossoms between your legs, forcing your legs together, Marcus tuts with the click of his tongue and pushes himself between them so they stay spread for him to witness your glimmering core.

He moves the brush over your nipple, you feel the paint slowly drying around your breast, the swirl of the bristles makes your nipples harden and skin grow taut.

“You look good in blue,” he mutters, rolling his hips. The outline of his cock brushes over your throbbing clit and with your lips parting, you push yourself down, following him. “When was the last time you’ve been with someone?” Marcus asks suddenly, taking you by surprise.

“It’s been a while,” you answer, averting your gaze. “Have I made it that obvious?”

His brows furrow with regret, “Sweetheart no, I was just curious. And I have to admit, I also asked due to some selfishness on my part. Would have to fuck you hard if you’d told me you’ve been with someone else yesterday.”

The words go straight to your cunt, the tender flesh bottoming out as a wanton moan escapes your lips. The brush moves down to your navel, dipping to your belly button. “So possessive already,” you tease, pressing your legs against his hips.

Marcus leans low enough that your lips nearly touch, you hold your breath, your pulse loud in your ears. His smile is dangerous and dark when he whispers.

“So you’re telling me you’d be completely fine if I told you I fucked someone raw over the same floor you’re sprawled out for me now?” Your eyes go wide, anger and jealousy burrowing itself deep in your stomach. His smile grows but he’s not done, he licks the curve of your bottom lip. “Would you be okay if I said I came inside some random woman only yesterday because I was lonely, telling her how good her pussy made me feel? What about if I told you how I bit into her neck? How I ruined her for anyone else that’s gonna come after me—”

You cut his words by pushing a hand over his mouth. You watch wide-eyed as you smear blue paint over his lips and cheeks that you’d gathered by brushing your palm over your stomach. You feel his smile on your skin branding you. “Did you?” you ask, your voice gone hoarse.

His eyes become soft, the cruel teasing from earlier melting away, he shakes his head. You let out a breath, lungs caving in. “Okay,” you whisper, dropping your hand. “S-Sorry.”

Marcus holds your wrist and presses his lips into the curve of your palm, a blue lip mark forming on your skin, “Don’t be,” he says. “This wouldn’t be as fun if we didn’t behave the same way.”

Marcus leaves the brush somewhere near your head and dips his fingers into a shade of red that reminds you of blood. The marks he leaves on you look like claws. As if you’ve been ripped apart by some vicious creature. He doesn’t stop and continues to pain. He draws various shapes with wet fingers, murmuring praise, kissing you where he wishes, leaving blue lips across your bare skin.

You’re quivering by the time he finally slides down and pushes your thighs up his broad shoulders. The sheet underneath you is damp with arousal, your clit aching with the need to be touched.

Marcus blows a teasing puff of hair and your entire body clenches, your toes curling into the thin fabric. “Please,” you beg. “Give me your mouth, fingers, anything—”

Something dark crosses his face but he seems to decide against it and gives you what you want. His lips are soft as he kisses your pussy, slow and sensual. He dips the tip of his tongue between the tender folds and moans at the taste of you. Your brain short circuits when he wraps his devilish lips around your clit, sucking hard on the bundle of nerves, your hips stutter up, meeting the fat strokes of his tongue.

He grips your hips and pins them down, pushing his tongue deeper inside of you. Your breath catches in your throat. When you look down you see red hand prints all over the outside of your thighs, the sight alone forcing a fresh gush of wetness to coat his tongue. Marcus ground and swirls his tongue around your clit as he looks up.

“You taste amazing,” he mumbles, pupils blown wide. “I can spend every hour between these gorgeous thighs.”

Before you can answer he purses his lips, your eyes go wide and your body burns, you watch intently as a drop of saliva stretches from between his lips and lands on your cunt. You shudder.

“You like that?” he rasps, rubbing two fingers over your clit, smearing the spit all around. Your insides clench. “You want me to make a mess of you, sweetheart? Answer me.”

“Yes,” you whimper. “I want it all—I want to be your dirty little whore that you make a mess of.”

“Fuck—” he hisses, this time when he purses his lips, he spits more violently and presses his mouth immediately after. He flattens his tongue and moves his jaw as he sucks, licks and bites. “My dirty whore?” he repeats your words, his tone unbelieving. “God, you’re so fucking perfect. My perfect little whore, all you want to do is come on my face and let me pull you apart with my cock, isn’t it?”

You nod helplessly, the coil in your stomach tightening, you cradle his head and grind yourself against him. This time Marcus doesn’t stop you, allows you to smear your wetness all over his smooth skin. You hear the words ‘perfect’ and ‘whore’ repeated over and over again, the sounds of each word reverberating against your clit.

Instead of white, you see bright blue and shards of red.

He sucks on your clit—hard. You scream his name. Your hips gyrating and stuttering into his wanting mouth. Marcus groans loudly, slurping as his tongue laps at your core, swallowing every drop. Your lungs burn. Your eyes throbbing from rolling so deep into their sockets. Never—Never in your life had you come so hard. Especially not with a man. It would be the toys that pushed you off the edge and your vivid imagination.

“Fuck, baby, that was amazing—” he says wetly. You tremble. “Can you do it again?”

You nod but just as he’s about to dive back in, you tug on his hair, drawing his attention back to you. Your chest heaves helplessly, your cunt fluttering to feel his tortuous mouth on you once more. “Want to taste you too,” you slur. “Use me.”

He pushes himself back so he’s sitting on his heels, you’d forgotten that Marcus was still fully clothed. You eye him hungrily. His cock strains painfully against the fabric of his pants and all you want to do is wrap your mouth around the width of him.

Marcus robs himself through the fabric, smiling, “You want me to fuck that pretty mouth?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then, lay back down.”

You frown but do what he says anyway. You had expected him to ask you to get on your knees instead, your mouth watering at the thought of struggling to take him whole. The scent of paint is thick in the air and once again you’re staring at the ceiling. You hear the faint sound of fabric falling to the hardwood floors. Soon enough he’s standing near your head, fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking himself lazily while looking down at you.

Before he can say anything, you reach out. He holds your hand with a slight surprise and finally takes a step closer. “How did I get so lucky tonight?” he mutters, both his thighs bracketing your head as he sinks down.

Marcus doesn’t sit fully, his body hovering enough so your mouth can reach his pretty cock. You follow the path of the throbbing vein with the tip of your tongue and a drop of precome oozes down from the slit, landing on your chin. You grin widely at the way he shudders, enjoying that he is breaking down just as easily. His breath comes in short pants, the puffs of hot air stimulating your clit deliciously. He kisses your mound and lowers his hips, you dutifully suck on the head, swirling your tongue, your heart leaps at the way he moans into you.

He twitches on your tongue, “Can I fuck your mouth, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice hoarse and thick. “I can’t take it.”

Instead of using your words, you press your palms on his ass and push him down until he’s halfway in and you’re choking. His sigh of relief echoes across the living room. He thrusts again, pulling back until the tip is touching your lips before snapping them back down again. Your throat seizes around him as he goes down inch by inch. You love the way he has surrounded you compelled. His body like a weighted blanket while his tongue delves deeper into you.

Marcus groans loudly, and you feel his hips start to buck faster and more erratically. You try to relax your throat as much as possible, letting him take control of the pace. He pulls back, then he plunges back in all the way to the hilt, making spit and come trickle down the corners of your stretched-out lips.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” he praises, his voice strangled with pleasure. “My sweet little whore, such a perfect hole for me.”

He closes his lips around your clit and draws various shapes around the tender flesh. You moan around him in response, the vibrations sending shivers through his body.

His hips jerk with each movement. You can feel his cock swelling in your mouth, and you know he’s close to coming. You take him as deep as you can, wanting to feel him pulse and release inside you. You can barely breathe, your own release right around the corner and he knows it—he knows it and presses his lips even harder, moves his tongue with more vigor until he tears your orgasm from you.

You cry our around his cock and that only spurs him on, fucking into your mouth deeper, harder.

With one final thrust, Marcus moans and buries himself deep between your lips. His hot release shoots down your throat, some of it dribbling onto your chin and chest.

“Don’t swallow,” he suddenly says, his voice riddled with authority that makes you throb. He pulls out of your mouth with a soft groan, and you wait until his face comes back into view. “Open your mouth, baby,” he mutters. You do and he shoves two fingers inside, smearing his seed all around your lips and down your body, he mixes it with the blue and red paint that marks you as his own. “You look stunning,” he murmurs, his eyes glued to your body.

Then he leans down and kisses you fiercely, his tongue seeking out the sweet taste of his own release. Those same lips slide down to your throat, biting and licking, as he lays down next to you, pulling you into a tight embrace.

Your body seeks his own. Your face burrowing into the solace of his neck, the dried paint leaving flakes of color across his skin while his come leaves shiny stains. The taste of him is now tainted with hints of fear and uncertainty.

“I’m afraid,” you sniffle into the crook of his neck, and he holds you tighter. “I don’t want this to end. For it to become another memory that is out of reach.”

“It won’t,” he murmurs, lips moving along your forehead. “Don't you already know how sick with love I am for you?”

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x fem!reader #marcus pike x f!reader #artist!marcus pike #marcus pike au #the mentalist fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #hauntedhoedown #haunted hoedown

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littlepadika · 2 years

Note

if i’m not too late for the ask game 🥺👉👈

📖 + marcus p and/or pero?

i hope you have a good day/night padi! 💗

Hi bb 👋

Oof love professor Markie but I want to see a Austen/Bridgerton AU I think he’s be so dashing. He is new to the town and in want of a wife.

“Mr. Pike… they say his wife fled from the altar”

“He’s the perfect definition of a gentleman!”

Regardless of the gossip you were determined to form your own judgement of this Mr. Pike

Come on… imagine him asking you for a dance

#ask game 👉🏼👈🏼#padika replies #oogaboogasphincter #Marcus pike AU

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wardenparker · 3 months

Text

Hummingbird Has Landed, ch 1

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

After the debacle of his failed engagement and relocating to Washington to take charge of his task force, newly minted Special Agent Marcus Pike is ready to get back out into the dating pool once more. A slew of bad dates has him feeling a little down, and he takes an old friend up on an invitation to get away and get his head on straight. Imagine his surprise when he finds not only fresh air, but his soulmate as well - hiding in plain sight but in the unlikeliest of places.

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 14.4k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: occasional mention of American politics, pregnant character, food/alcohol consumption, mentions of clothing/regulated dressing for occasions, mentions of therapy because we believe in self care here, reader is in a previous relationship, love triangle* Not much for this chapter! Mostly fluff, a little flirting, and playful but on-point use of the term 'tramp stamp'. Summary: On a failed date at the local market, Marcus runs into an old friend and gets an invitation to visit. The beautiful inn and fantastic food were explicit in the invite -- but you are a complete surprise to him. Notes: Welcome, welcome, welcome my lovelies! As a girl who grew up on The West Wing and fosters an unapologetic love of all things romance, a story like this has been on my wish list to write for a very long time. I hope you're all ready for a cast of new characters and the grand appearance of Pedro's character from Graceland, because it's time for Marcus Pike to meet his soulmate! 🧡🧡🧡

There’s something about the hustle and bustle of D.C., that while it can invigorate someone and inspire them to live life as fast as possible, it can also drain them. At least, that’s what Marcus Pike has learned from the last three years of therapy. That and he’s prone to rushing into relationships, being in love with love, as Dr. Barnes would caution him.

It seems sometimes as if he’s unlucky in love, despite the universe providing a perfect match for him, he’s never found her. Always looking, but also being open to loving someone who doesn’t share marks or scars. Someone who just wants a stable and steady man to worship them and give them the world.

He hasn’t dated in almost three years. His therapist had advised him to focus on himself. To work through his emotions of a failed college marriage, a failed engagement. To make himself happy with who he is before introducing another person into the mix. He had thought that’s what he was doing, but apparently he had been wrong.

Finally feeling ready to date again, he had dipped his toes back in the water. Only to have it backfire tremendously. So much so, that he finds himself walking around the Eastern Market on his own. His idea of a farmer’s market casual date obviously not a good one, according to the woman who had tossed the drink he had bought her on the trash and stomped off, abandoning him to feel like a fool.

Smiling faces beam back at him from the covers of glossy gossip magazines, flashing headlines critiquing fashions worn to the recent inauguration ceremony and parties. The new president and her family wave from above the fold of newspapers — the happy family that Marcus himself doesn’t have. Ignoring the rude reminder, he wanders through the stalls and vendors of Eastern Market aimlessly until he reaches the family-owned sweet shop that he’s been coming to for years now. They know him, and like him, and his sweet tooth knows no bounds. There’s another man at the counter just before Marcus so he stands back, but Jenny waves hello from behind the counter. “Morning Marcus! Gimme one second and I’ll be right with you.” She says, turning back to the order marked Juan in her big, looping handwriting. “Six cannoli, right? Two pistachio, two double chocolate, and two cherry chocolate?”

“Right.” The man in a corduroy jacket with his short hair trimmed neatly nods. “Thanks, Jen. The girls are going to be over the moon.”

Another reminder of a life he craves. Marcus frowns slightly and tries to remember what his therapist has told him. Everyone moves at their own pace. Just because he’s not juggling two kids, a dog and a lovely wife with his workload doesn’t mean he’s failing. It just means he’s not met the right person, soulmate or not.

The other man pays for his order and turns to leave but stops dead in the middle of a cordial nod when he sees Marcus standing a few feet away. Sure he had heard Jenny say hi to someone…but he hadn’t looked. Now though? He huffs a laugh at the ghost of his past. “Pike?” They’d been mistaken as brothers — or for each other — so many times back at the Academy that it would be impossible not to recognize Marcus Pike.

“Badillo?” It’s amazing to see the other agent, although he had heard that he had left the Bureau after a friendly fire shooting. He looks good though, and Marcus cracks into the first real grin of the morning since being left high and dry. “What the hell? How are you doing, man?” He asks, coming in for a friendly hug while being mindful of the box in Juan’s hand.

“Good! Good. Errands.” Juan huffs, returning Marcus’s hug with equal surprise and affection. The men had been quite good friends at one time, more than a few years ago now. “Pregnant wife gets whatever pregnant wife wants, ya know?” He grins, bright and shining. “When did you get back to DC?”

“Pregnant wife, huh?” Despite the knife to his heart, Marcus paints on a grin, happy for his old friend. “Three years ago.” He shrugs slightly. “Heading up Art Crimes now. How about you? I heard you got out.” He lifts his eyebrows, allowing Juan to talk if he wants or brush it off if he doesn’t.

“I did.” Juan nods, knowing that various stories circulated after he left the Bureau. Most of them false. “Decided to take a little road trip vacation to clear my head and ended up meeting my soulmate in Yosemite on day two of the whole thing, and I followed her East.” He shrugs, ever the unapologetic romantic just like Marcus. They had had that in common. “How’s Lara?” He asks, remembering the woman that had been Mrs. Pike during their Academy days. Marcus had been over the moon for her. “Is she liking being back?”

Marcus grimaces a little and shrugs. “She’s, uh, we got divorced about ten years ago.” He tells him. “She found out she did have a soulmate.”

“Ah shit.” Blowing out a breath and shuffling his feet, Juan rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “I’m sorry, man. That’s—there’s just no easy way to get through something like that.”

“It’s okay.” Marcus had loved Lara, but he wasn’t going to stand in the way of soulmates. It wouldn’t be right. “It was actually a very easy divorce; she hated hurting me. More than I can say for the last date, or last fiancée I’ve had.”

“Shit.” Juan huffs again, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s eleven in the morning but I feel like I ought to be buying you a drink, man.” Hearing that someone as genuinely good as Marcus Pike is has had his heart bashed so often is a fucking bummer, and Juan chews on his lip for a second before his head tilts in that Universal signal of natural curiosity. “I’ve got time today. If you want to hang out? Catch up?” He offers, knowing that drinks will most likely come later if the two old friends spend the day getting back on the same page.

Marcus chuckles, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Do I look that dejected?” He asks, even though he’s not really looking for an answer. “I was supposed to be on a date, I figured a farmer’s market/brunch date would be easy enough and yet thoughtful, but I was ditched.” He snorts. “I have zero luck it seems.” He nods his head towards the cannoli. “But you can’t leave your pregnant wife waiting on those.”

“No, I can’t.” Sydney is waiting back at the restaurant with bated breath, he knows that, but he does offer Marcus a smile. “But she does run a restaurant, so you don’t have to be brunch-less unless you choose to be.”

“Yeah?” He perks up at the idea of trying out a new place, always loving brunch foods. “Where at? I might have to take a spin over there.”

“Her place is called Il Corvo.” It takes a second, but Juan digs a business card for the restaurant out of his jacket pocket and hands it over. “It’s the in-house restaurant at The Inn at Jones Point in Alexandria.” He reports proudly, always ready to brag about his soulmate’s amazing success. Running a restaurant is no small feat. “I know the card says the dining room opens at 4pm, but ignore that. She does brunch for guests at the inn and for special guests from time to time.”

“Are you sure?” Marcus frowns slightly. “I don’t want to impose.”

“It’s not imposing, trust me.” Knowing his wife as well as he does, Juan is more than certain she’ll be doting on Marcus in no time. “As long as you’re on board for Italian food, come by any time you want.”

“I’m out on the bike.” Marcus tells Juan, remembering how the other agent also loved to ride motorcycles. “I might swing by sometime. Normally go for rides on the weekend.”

"Anytime you want," Juan repeats, and he hopes Marcus understands how entirely he means it. "It's good to see you again, man."

“Good to see you too.” Marcus means that, smiling at the former agent. “Nice to see that you are okay.”

The two men part with a smile and a nod, and Juan hustles away to get his precious cargo back out to his soulmate. Maybe he'll pitch the idea of inviting Marcus to their next board game night if Sydney and her best friend don't mind the extra company. Not that they ever mind extra company.

Marcus doesn’t mean for it to be two weeks from the chance encounter with Juan before he steers his bike down the country, winding roads towards this inn that he had been told about. He had a case that required him to travel. Then it was reports and the never ending budget fiascos that new presidencies always bring, his boss wanting a new projections for the fiscal year for some reason.

Now though, he’s enjoying the scenery as the wind blows over his face and he leans into the curve, enjoying the small thrill that races up his spine from the inherent danger.

The winter has been mild so far and all the snow left behind by the storm the area had gotten while he was traveling has melted, making the ride an easy and calming one. He had intentionally driven a long route around Alexandria and the surrounding area, letting him arrive at his destination a little after noon on that cold, sunny Sunday. The inn is a large brick farmhouse, probably originally colonial but it looks like it was redone sometime during the Federalist architecture craze of the early 1800s. Now its clean white painted window frames and front porch are as welcoming as the pristinely kept front garden. The Inn at Jones Point proclaims a sign out front, which is accompanied by a smaller complimentary sign with an impressionist painted black bird that reads Il Corvo in an artistic script. There are cars in the lot with a plethora of states listed on their license plates, another motorcycle that he has to assume is Juan's, and a very government-issued-looking black car parked close to the building.

Marcus is enough of a romantic to fully appreciate the appeal of the property and more importantly, grounded enough to be able to appreciate it without having a partner here to enjoy it with. Since working with his therapist, he's spent a lot of the last three years 'dating himself'. Instead of waiting to make a date to try out a new restaurant, he goes by himself. Not limiting himself to new experiences with partners, he has found that he enjoys the hunt for the perfect spots to eat. The little Indian restaurant he had found is an absolute gem and he is looking forward to discovering a new little brunch spot. If this place is half as good as Juan says, he might make it a monthly habit while he can spend some time with his old friend.

Inside, the lobby of the inn is bustling. Guests sit in plush chairs with travel brochures or excitedly type on their phones. A family is gathered around a display of pamphlets for different travel experiences and tourist attraction. Another guest is hovering around the front desk, seemingly waiting for someone to return.

From the rooms off to the left, wave after wave of stunning smells wafts past Marcus as he looks around. A set of French doors stands open but the hostess stand for Il Corvo stands empty while a small number of diners sit inside, happily chattering over their meals. The scent of fresh coffee permeates everything else just a second before he can see why, as a woman in a blue silk shirt comes around the corner with two travel cups — presumably full of coffee — for the guest standing at the desk.

“Here we are, Mrs. Richards. Thank you for your patience, the pot was just finishing brewing. These will keep you nice and warm while you walk around Old Town.” Smiling as the woman walks away, your eyes survey the room and land on the new arrival with a touch of confusion. “Good afternoon,” you greet, in your typical sunshiny tone. This man isn’t a guest and you genuinely almost thought it was Juan for a second — even though you just saw Juan in the restaurant. “How can I help you today?”

“Hi— uh, I—” Marcus realizes he knows you. Your mother’s picture hangs on his office wall next to the current FBI director’s, and furthermore, it’s hard to not see the darling First Daughter in some news story – although it doesn’t seem like you enjoy the press. “Yeah, sorry, Juan said that brunch is served here?” He asks with an apologetic smile. “I’m Marcus, uh, Pike. We were in the Academy together and I ran into him a few weeks ago.”

You’re prettier than he ever imagined the pictures and news reels, your voice curling into his stomach pleasantly. In true, Marcus Pike fashion. He finds himself instantly intrigued by you.

“Oh, you’re Marcus!” As bright and cheery as you sound, something flips in your stomach and clenches at your chest and you swallow down the oh god he’s really hot impulse that you haven’t felt in…well, in years. This guy looks like someone took Juan and gave him broader shoulders and better hair, and put a little bit more James Dean in his style. “It’s really nice to meet you.” You introduce yourself, probably unnecessarily, but it’s good manners and keeps you from getting nervous or going off track. “Come on this way. Juan said you might be stopping by but he wasn’t sure when.”

“I’m sorry, should I have called first?” He asks, feeling guilty and slightly in the way. The last thing that he wants is to cause an imposition.

“Not at all.” You slip out from behind your desk and wave for him to follow you. “He’s been excited to introduce you to everybody.” The inn is a decent size, with the ground floor being public spaces and all the rooms upstairs being ready-made for guests except for the attic apartment, and you quickly lead the way through the rooms toward the restaurant kitchen.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve caught up.” Marcus admits. “We were close in the academy, most people through we were twins to be honest.” He chuckles slightly.

“I almost thought you were him when I saw you,” you admit, glad to know you aren’t alone in it. Juan had said they look alike but it really is extreme. “Here we are.” Humming as you push open the door to the restaurant’s bar, you huff a soft laugh when a woman slightly taller than you with masses of curls in a tight bun at the nape of her neck in a black suit sidesteps the pair of you and opens the kitchen door to look inside before letting you in. “Thank you, Agent Bailey.” As odd as it is to have constant supervision like this, you’re doing your best to be patient and understanding with it. “Come on into the kitchen,” you offer to Marcus. “Brunch is almost over and this is where Juan sits when he hangs out.”

“Really? The inner sanctum already?” The tone is joking, but Marcus knows that for a lot of chefs, the kitchen is their sacred place. He wouldn’t know, because his kitchen is used to make coffee, but he’s had a few relationships with amateur gourmet cooks.

“Marcus!” There’s no question that this is where he’s supposed to be, when Juan is waving from a corner of the kitchen and immediately zips over to say hello. “How are you, man? Good to see you!”

“Hey.” He grins when he sees the other man, obviously happier here than any time in the Bureau and he’s happy for him. He seems like a completely different man, just from the quick glance. Perhaps it’s the fact that he found his soulmate. “Sorry it’s been a few weeks. Got caught up on a case.”

“I completely get it,” he assures his friend. “It’s been kind of crazy around here anyway. Weddings booked every single weekend and the restaurant stuffed full with reservations.” He beams, proud as a peacock, and waves slightly as you disappear back out through the bar to return to your counter. The inn is full up with last night’s wedding party and you have your hands full. “I want you to meet my wife,” Juan says, clapping Marcus in the shoulder and pulling him further into the kitchen.

There are only two people cooking right now and they are both winding down. Enough that the petite woman with tied-up hair and a look of intense concentration on her face can look up and smile. “I hear you talking about me,” she warns with a laugh.

“Syd, this is Marcus Pike.” Juan introduces, bringing his friend out in front of him. “Marcus, this is Sydney. The gorgeous goddess the universe decided to grace me with.”

“Nice to meet you.” Again that pesky pang of longing lurches inside Marcus but he throws her a smile and takes her hand after she offers it immediately. “I’ve only heard angelic things about you, so rest assured, he’s not talking ill.”

“He’s does nothing but tell stories about you since you guys ran into each other at Eastern Market.” Sydney tells him honestly. “Can I make you something to eat?”

“I was hoping to experience the brunch option that Juan was bragging about.” Marcus admits as he glances around, admiring the state of the art kitchen. “Didn’t expect to see this from the historical facade.” He admits. “It’s charming though.” He adds, hoping that neither one of you take offense.

"Charming is her specialty." Sydney points her thumb in the direction of the door, indicating the main lobby of the inn. "We took over running this place about three years ago now. The previous owners weren't able to keep up anymore so they sold to her and we updated the restaurant. Modern Italian dinners and brunch for the inn's guests. It's a big step up from the B&B that this place used to be." Grinning proudly, Sydney moves over to the nearest counter and plops a paper menu down at the stool beside her husband. "What would you like?"

Marcus looks at the menu and lifts a brow, impressed by the sophisticated menu. This isn’t some little spaghetti shop that pretends to be Italian. “It’s been so long since I’ve had good Uova in Purgatorio.” He moans. “Since the last time I was in Naples.” He clicks his tongue. “But I want to try the ricotta pancakes too.”

"Then you will get both," Sydney insists, clicking her tongue and getting to work. "A G-man in Naples, huh?" She barely glances up from her work as she moves. "Art crimes must be the fancy branch of the Bureau."

“I work on international cases with Interpol and Scotland Yard.” He explains as he sits down and admires the fluidity of her movements in the kitchen. She’s completely at home in her space and it’s evident she’s in command. He’s slightly envious of her comfort in a kitchen, if he’s honest.

"Oh, so it definitely is the fancy branch." She laughs. Juan hops up from his seat to grab coffee for himself and Marcus, brushing a kiss on her cheek as he moves past, and the other woman who had been cooking moves away to the other end of the room to work on cleaning up from the brunch rush.

"Fancy branch of what?" The kitchen door swings open again and you come strolling back inside looking infinitely more tired than you had just a few minutes ago but still in a generally good mood. "The wedding party is finally gone. I am officially taking my break."

Marcus stares at you for a moment and then looks down at his hands, feeling like he might be bragging if he were to tell you what they’ve been talking about. There’s something about you that is knocking him off kilter, he’s normally a little more confident than this.

"Art crimes is swanky, apparently." Sydney tells you, never stopping or slowing as she moves around like a controlled whirlwind. "Eggs in purgatory and ricotta pancakes for your brunch? I'll make up a big batch." They're two of your favourite things anyway and it's easy enough to just make a double serving of each when she knows that your break time is always mealtime.

"That sounds incredible," you moan in agreement, making a beeline for the industrial refrigerator in the corner of the room to make yourself an iced latte that is far more espresso than milk. A generous swirl of flavored syrup joins your cup before you plop down on the edge of the counter and sip your drink with a happy sigh. Normally people exclaim over you when they realize they recognize you but Marcus Pike hasn't said a word — and you wonder if he doesn't recognize you from the papers or if you even care. It's nice to not have someone make a fuss for once. To just be nice and not suck up to you for being the President's oldest child.

“Weddings take it out of you, huh?” Marcus asks, smirking a little at the drink in your hand, although it looks delicious. “Or were they just demanding?”

"It was a big party. Very specific needs." Sipping your drink and finally sitting is immediately relaxing, and you're always ready to meet new people. Especially when they're someone that your best friend's husband speaks of so highly. "Nothing I can't handle, but weddings are always tricky. It's the most important day of at least one person's life, so you always want to try to make it as perfect for them as you can. Thankfully," you gesture around you. "I have an incredible team. Syd is the best Italian chef in the Chesapeake Bay and Juanito is an incredible event coordinator."

Marcus snorts and cuts his eyes over at Badillo. “He always did have an eye for details.” He admits, snickering at the nickname you’ve bestowed on the former federal agent. “Although it’s surprising that it’s manifested in wedding planning.” He teases playfully.

"Event planning," Juan clarifies, but he's grinning regardless. "We host a lot here. Weddings, anniversaries, holiday parties, all kinds of personal events. I get to put my organizational mind to work on it. It's actually pretty rewarding."

"Don't let him sell himself short. Juan plans a hell of a wedding." There is pride on your face, pride for your friend and in your work "We've gotten written up in a bunch of bridal magazines and on websites the last few years."

“Good job, Juanito.” If there’s anything that Marcus enjoyed more than the courses in the academy, it was busting his friend’s balls. All in good fun of course, he had taken his share of ribbing as well. It was par for the course. “That sounds like a hell of a job, making people happy and sharing in their special moments.”

"We do our best." Juan will never take the credit for himself, always attributing the effort to the team as a whole. This time, though, he flashes a knowing grin at you. "Although the next one we plan might be a hell of a lot bigger than what we do here."

“Oh?” Marcus asks, turning towards you. “Are you getting married soon?” His eyes drop discreetly to your hand and he tries to remember what he’s read about you but for some reason, he’s drawing a blank.

“No, Juan just likes to tease.” You shake it off with a roll of your eyes, knowing that — unfortunately — your friend is completely right. If or when it does happen, it will be a damn circus. “It’s this…guy that I met last year, and it’s been really good and he really took all the stress of the last year in stride, and these two love to tease.” In truth, you’ve been intentionally moving forward slowly with the junior Congressman from Maryland that you met at a campaign event you attended with your mother last year. Sam is a good guy and has big ideas for the future. It’s just that you normally dive into relationships so fast and so deep that your heart does all the talking before your mind can catch up. And now that you’re a public figure, you can’t afford to have that happen again. “I’m perfectly content to watch other people have their big days for now.”

“I can imagine that it’s hard to have a relationship right now.” He sympathizes. “The press either treats you like a darling celebrity or some kind of public spectacle, right?” He asks, curious as to your view on the entire thing. Personally, he hated the idea of politics taking on a celebrity flare and you aren’t on politics, your mother is.

“I’m honestly lucky that my younger siblings take some of the focus,” you admit. So he did recognize you. It’s nice that he didn’t fuss. You’re grateful for that. “My brother is in law school and my sister is in undergrad and they’re both living in the White House while they study but…yeah. We all agreed to give up our privacy for a while so Mom can do some good work. That means relationships aren’t easy right now.”

“It’s good you had a choice.” Marcus admits. “Sometimes I watch the campaigns for some of the politicians and it’s obvious the family would rather be anywhere else and are putting on a facade.” He shrugs, not wanting to delve too deep into a subject you probably are uncomfortable with. “Nice that you don’t have too much interference here, except for the Secret Service agent.”

"Agent Bailey's okay." In fact, she's sitting outside the kitchen door right now, giving you a bit of space and privacy to try to pretend you still have a halfway normal life. "We're still getting used to each other. I had somebody else during the campaign, but she's been assigned to my sister now. It all works out in the end." Smiling, you take another sip of your coffee and wonder why your stomach is fluttering over this very kind man who has been introduced into your lives very much by chance. It's...unsettling. To say the very least. "But that's plenty about me. How about you, Special Agent Marcus Pike? Where're you from? How are you liking Art Crimes?" You grin, throwing him a mischievous expression. "Who'd you vote for, for president?"

Marcus laughs, a real laugh that comes from his belly and he relaxes. “Let’s see…I’m from the great state of Texas - Go Rangers.” He ticks off. “I love Art Crimes, especially when we can recover sentimental pieces and keep “collectors”,” he uses air quotes, “from locking away art from being enjoyed by all.” He grins at your last question. “And my momma told me never to discuss politics or religion in social settings….but….my candidate is currently hanging on my office wall.”

"Rangers, huh?" Glossing over the not insignificant tidbit that he did, in fact, vote for your mother, you find yourself thoroughly enjoying getting to know this friend of your friend. It's usually not this easy to click with a new acquaintance, although you've become an expert at seeming interested just to be polite. That doesn't seem to be necessary at all with this man. "When we get our Phillies/Rangers series this year we'll have to come up with a bet of some kind."

“It’s gonna be a losing bet on your end.” Marcus predicts. “We’ve got Darío Álvarez and then Elvis Andrus is going to continue stealing bases.”

"Oh thank god," Sydney huffs, flipping ricotta pancakes on her griddle top and grinning as she throws you a wink. "She's finally got someone else to drag to baseball games. I'm free!"

"My alleged best friend," you smirk and decide to tease her back. "And her husband are both hockey people. So I'm generally either stuck watching the game on my own or dragging Syd along with promises of beer and ballpark dogs."

“Nationals aren’t my favorite team. Since they are National League.” Marcus smirks. “But I have season tickets since it’s too expensive to fly back to Texas for every game.”

It would be bragging to admit that you've been asked to throw the first ball out at the Nationals opening game this season as the most vocally baseball-loving member of the new First Family, so you just smile. You know it can feel like a big sacrifice to leave something about home behind. "Maybe I'll see you there," you offer instead. "The Nationals aren't my team either, but the game are pretty fun."

“Oh they always are.” He admits wholeheartedly. “Plus the Navy Yard is close so it’s always interesting.”

"Heeeeere we go." Onto the counter in front of you, Sydney heaps four plates of food – making each of you identical breakfasts. "The fruit compote for the pancakes right now is cranberry lemon. And I threw a little extra chili into the sauce for the eggs." She grins. "Some folks who stay at the inn say it's too spicy but it's how we like it," she tells Marcus.

Marcus chuckles and Juan snorts, hooking his fingers towards the agent. “This man ate his way through a five alarm chili contest and didn’t even touch his beer.” He boasts to the two of you. “If it’s not spicy, I don’t want it.” Marcus confirms with a grin. “Thank you. It smells amazing.”

"Then next time you're getting Calabrian chili instead of just the wimpy flakes." Sydney promises with glee. "That's how our girl likes it, but that's too much even for me most of the time. I have to be in the mood for it."

“You like spicy?” He asks, smirking towards you. “How do you feel about the Indian food around here?”

"There's a place in DuPont Circle that is probably the best Indian food I've ever had in my entire life." Even as you're getting ready to dig into your best friend's comfort Italian fare, your mouth starts watering thinking of curries and dal. "The kind of place where they don't make it really spicy until you've been there a couple of times and they know you can handle it. I swear I've eaten there more than I've cooked my own food since moving out here."

“Rasika’s?” Marcus groans, nodding. “I love that place. They make the best curry I’ve ever eaten in my life. I’m sweating, but I never tell them to bring me the yogurt sauce.”

"If you don't sweat while you're eating there, you're doing it wrong." It's a slight point of contention with Sam, who generally considers mustard to be too spicy most of the time, but you ignore the side eye you're getting from Sydney and dig in to your brunch. Having come in early today, this is halfway through your shift and you're going to be excited to head upstairs to your little attic caretaker's apartment when the time comes this afternoon. "Mmmmm," you groan happily and do a little wiggle in your seat unconsciously. "Syd, I swear. If you hadn't already married Juan, I'd marry you for your brunch."

Marcus takes that as the best kind of advertisement and cuts into his own meal to fork up a bite of the eggs. “Christ.” He groans as soon as the flavors hit his mouth. “That’s amazing.”

"I told you," Juan boasts, sitting up in his seat a little taller with pride for his soulmate. "She's amazing."

“You weren’t kidding.” Marcus huffs, taking another bite. “If this got out, you could run on brunch alone.”

"We're considering offering an incentive package for events." Starting to clean up, Syd watches the two of you eat while she wraps the kitchen up from brunch to get everything prepared for dinner service. "Wedding brunches are coming back in fashion, but a lot of people are wanting to do morning after brunches for their families before everyone goes their separate ways."

“I can see that.” Marcus nods. “Lara and I had a lunch thing before we all said goodbye, but that was casual.”

"Your wife?" You guess, struggling to remember if Juan had mentioned that his friend was married. He's not wearing a ring, but some men don't — a habit that generally rubs you the wrong way because those men are always the ones who basically want their wives to walk around wearing a giant 'I'm married' sign but will never show any outward signs of commitment themselves.

Marcus gives a small shrug and smiles self-consciously. “Ex-wife.” He admits, knowing that soon enough the pitying looks will start. “We divorced a while ago.”

Sydney clicks her tongue, having remembered that fact, and says nothing more. You, though? For some reason you can't help yourself. Something about Marcus Pike compels you to offer comfort in whatever way you can. "If you ever find another Mrs. Pike, you let us know. We've got you covered."

Marcus chuckles. “So far, that search has been in vain.” He admits. “Apparently it’s not in the cards for me.”

"She's out there." Juan offers with confidence. "If I remember correctly, you've even got a couple of tattoos to prove it."

Marcus rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I do.” He snorts. “If I ever find her, I want to know why there is a hummingbird tramp stamp on my lower back.” He laughs. “I get why, but why???? Why a hummingbird?”

A glare of questioning moves soundlessly between you and your best friend — the perpetually meddling woman who sat next to you when you were eighteen and challenged you to answer trivia questions while you had your own hummingbird tramp stamp inked onto your skin in celebration of your high school graduation. "Oh yeah?" She asks, raising an eyebrow at you while you furious try to communicate with nothing more than wide eyes that you do not want her to ask what she's about to ask. "What kind of hummingbird? How trashy are we talking?"

“It’s not exactly trashy.” Marcus defends. “It’s actually a pretty blue and green.“

"Interesting." Sydney hums, practically giggling with glee as she cleans up the kitchen and you bury your face in your meal like it will help you escape the entire conversation. "Maybe hummingbirds are her favourite bird?"

I'm going to kill you in your sleep says the glare you send your best friend's way.

“Totally trashed my punk rock image.” He laughs. “Although I didn’t think of that at the time. Thinking I’m this hardcore next Kurt Cobain rocker and I’ve got a hummingbird tattoo on my lower back.” He snorts, shrugging slightly. “But it’s always been a question I’ve wanted to ask. What made her choose that? What’s special about it to her?”

"Hummingbirds symbolize love and devotion," you murmur next to him, not quite looking up and wondering if the world is really turning on its ear right now or if it's just that you've been thrown off kilter by the possibilities. It's not like you're the only girl in the world with a hummingbird tattoo, after all. Far from it. "And they're supposed to be good luck."

“I like that.” Marcus hums softly. “It’s wistful, hopeful.” There could be a thousand different reasons why his soulmate chose that symbol to etch on her body and in turn, his, but he would rather it be a loving sign. You aren’t looking at him, and miss the small smile he throws you. “Poetic.”

"So she's gotta be out there somewhere." Sydney needles the point a little bit, sounding breezy as hell but just about ready to pounce on any clues Marcus offers up. "Maybe a hopeless romantic with a stubborn streak and an encyclopedic knowledge of Lost Generation authors and impressionist painters?" She shrugs like she's just pulled the example out of thin air. "Who knows?"

Throwing Juan a look, Marcus smirks. “Sounds like your husband has been talking about favorite kind of woman.” He jokes, although he’s pretty sure that he would love it if his soulmate turned out to be just that. “I just want to have someone that wants to be build a lift together. A partner.” He shrugs. “Most people think that it’s crazy, but I think that your significant other should be your best friend and your lover.”

"Absolutely crazy." With as clearly sarcastic a tone as she can possibly muster, Sydney practically deadpans in Marcus's direction. "So weird. How dare you want to spend your life with someone you loves you as much as you love them?" Every single thing she's described has been about you, and while neither of the guys are picking up on that for even a single second, the fact that you have your head down over your plate means you're reading her loud and clear. "I bet your dream girl will even have a thing for your old rockstar days," she goes on, as if she's stringing out a hypothetical and not explicitly describing your opinion that musicians are sexy as hell. "Don't tell me. You were a bassist, right?"

“And vocals.” He admits, shaking his head ruefully. “It’s alright if she doesn’t like that. God, it’s been years since I’ve picked up my bass.” He realizes. “I should do that. Between the bass or the motorcycle, I just spent more time on the bike.”

Bass. Vocals. And motorcycle? You practically groan out loud but barely manage to swallow the sound and instead hop up from your seat immediately to hopefully combine the noise you just made with all manner of other commotion. "Just grabbing another drink," you explain, when all three of their heads turn toward you at once. "You, uh...you should do what makes you happy, Marcus. If that's not overstepping things for me to say. We just met today. But I've always heard that the best things in life tend to fall into your lap when you're not looking for them. So maybe just...enjoy yourself? And who knows what can happen."

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do.” Marcus admits. “My therapist agrees with you. That we need to enjoy ourselves and not just search.”

"Our therapists agree with each other, then," you admit with a chuckle. "I started seeing someone when Mom decided to run for president. I figured it would be good to have someone to check in with and make sure I was handling my stressors in a healthy way." The conversations you had had with them about whether or not to factor your soulmate into future plans when you had never met them were slightly less straightforward.

“That’s always a good thing.” He nods quickly. “I’ve never been one to think that therapists are a waste of time.” He shrugs. “My mom was a therapist all my childhood.”

"It's an incredibly important profession. And an incredibly important resource to have." Seeing as Marcus's mug was empty as well, you bring back two glasses of water to the counter and sit down again, hoping that Sydney won't keep pushing. Or at least that she won't reveal things if she does. "My little sister is a psychology major. She's thinking about medical school next, and talking about different paths she might taken with her studies. Therapist being one of them."

“It’s a good profession.” Marcus admits easily. “Just- let her know, most therapists have their own therapists they see. It’s draining to take on everyone’s secrets and burdens, trying to do the best you can to give them the tools to help themselves. So tell her that there’s no shame in that.”

"I will." It isn't worth negating the kindness of Marcus's thoughts and advice by telling him that all three of the First Kids started therapy at the start of the campaign. It's the care he has for other people — people he has never met and may never meet ever in his life, that touches you so very deeply. "Thank you, Marcus. That's very kind of you."

He nods and picks up the glass of water, needing to wash down the remnants of the eggs before starting on the pancakes. “So, Juan, how did you and your lovely wife discover you were soulmates?” He asks curiously.

"Uhm..." Juan chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck and looking to Sydney for her permission to tell the story.

"Go ahead," she laughs. "I've go to start dinner prep. Tell him as much as you want."

"It's not exactly PG," he admits, still laughing softly to himself. "The polite version is that we compared tattoos."

Marcus isn’t the head of his department because he’s dimwitted. “One night stand?” He asks, lifting his brows in surprise. It wasn’t like he had never had them himself, but both men had preferred to be in relationships rather than sleep around. Not that he’s judging.

“I was willing to take whatever that goddess was willing to give me,” Juan admits without shame. “One night would have been a memory to cherish. But the universe said it should be a lifetime, instead.”

“I’m happy for you.” Marcus promises with a slap on the back for his old friend. “You deserve it. Glad you found her.”

“You say that now.” His friend smiles happily though, beaming at the commendation. “But now it’s going to be my mission to find you that girl with the hummingbird tattoo.”

Marcus smiles, a little sadly, but he just shrugs. “I’ll find her when I’m supposed to.” He reasons. “Knowing my luck, she’s happily married.”

“Not as happily as she would be with you.” He’s confident in that, and Juan looks to you to bolster his encouragements. “How could anybody not be ecstatic to have a guy this good, right?”

It feels rude. Like a trick from the universe that you do not like one bit. Like the powers that be are rubbing your nose in your defiance of their plans. “They’d have to be blind.” You offer, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Sam is a good guy. He’s been a good boyfriend and has made you happy. Why are you suddenly thinking about someone else after an hour of knowing them? That’s utterly ridiculous. “You…never really know how the universe is going to have things work out.”

She’s just being polite. Marcus realizes that when he sees your smile, his stomach churning unhappily. It doesn’t matter, you’re seeing someone. A woman in a relationship has always been off limits to him. He doesn’t like, nor respect cheaters and yet he’s upset that you don’t seem that attracted to him. Or, you’re reluctantly attracted to him. He stares down at his pancakes and sighs. “All that matters to me if that my soulmate is happy.” He decides.

Juan and Marcus talk about this and that for the next few minutes, but you quickly finish your pancakes and excuse yourself. It was very nice to meet Marcus, and you tell him so, but you’re a little rattled by the possibility that was just laid out in front of you and you need a few deep breaths of fresh air before your break is over and you have to go back to solving guest’s dilemmas.

Juan doesn’t miss the way Marcus’s eyes follow you out of the room and he smirks. “Thinkin’ about it?” He asks, knowing you are the other man’s type.

“No.” He shakes his head quickly. “I mean, I would if she were single, but she’s not.” Deciding to change the subject, he leans in. “Did they heighten security here, or just the one agent?”

“Updated cameras and increased security personnel. We turned the spare office into a surveillance room but her Secret Service detail doesn’t butt in on anything they don’t need to.” Juan shrugs, knowing that things always change over time. “So far.”

That’s good and Marcus nods. “Sounds like you might have had some input.” He knows that Juan is very analytical, he would know what the weakness were in a place like this.

Juan snorts, taking a sip of his drink and shrugging vaguely. "My wife's childhood best friend is the First Daughter of the United States. If I can help her be safe, I'm going to."

“I can certainly understand that.” Marcus admits.

"It's a good system." Juan acknowledges. "She always has a detail agent nearby and the place needs the security because we've gotten a hell of a lot busier since the campaign last year."

“I’m sure.” Marcus snorts. “Everyone wants to claim they have some insider pull.” He says, a little cynical, but he looks around. “And I’m sure a lot of it is the fact that this place is a little gem.”

"272-year-old farmhouse with restored gardens and a barn and a gazebo from 1823. The place has had so many owners and been used for so many things." It's clear that Juan has nothing but affection for the place, and that he really has leaned into a fully civilian life. "I'm glad you came out to say hi," he tells Marcus honestly. "Hopefully we'll see more of you around here."

“With food like this?” Marcus groans, throwing his buddy a grin. “Those are the best damn pancakes that I’ve eaten in forever.”

"And considering you're a certified pancake expert, that says something." Juan chuckles. When Marcus hadn't shown up for a few weeks he was afraid that maybe he had said something wrong or that his old friend had moved on from the comradery they used to have, Apparently, neither was the case.

“Still love pancakes. It’s finding the time to eat them, that’s the problem.” He snorts. “It’s getting better now that I run the department, but after I ran into you? I was flying out two days later.”

"Sounds like you earned a day to relax." Sounds like he earned a lot more than just one day, but Juan knows how the Bureau works. A single day can sometimes be a miracle to come by. "There's books and board games in the library if you want to stay and spend some time relaxing."

“What do you have going on?” Marcus asks, tilting his head curiously.

“It’s…board game night.” As silly and domestic as it sounds, it’s a nice tradition that they’ve managed to keep going among friends. “Every month we have a group of friends over and we do a potluck for dinner. Just to unwind and be social. Just catch up, eat some good food, and play board games. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

“I don’t want to impose.” Marcus shakes his head, wondering if he’s so desperate that it sounds like great evening or if it just really was.

“It’s not imposing,” Juan assured him. “We bring new friends all the time. There’s about six of us usually, so it fluctuates depending on how many other people we bring or if someone can’t make it.”

“Well, is there a store or something?” He asks. “I can pick up some wine or something to contribute.”

“Old Town has some good liquor stores.” The historic district of Alexandria has become increasingly popular in the last several years, and the revitalization of the neighborhood has helped the inn as well.

“Anything else you could possibly want?” Marcus asks seriously. He’s willing to go get anything that could be thought of, the prospect of not spending the night alone incredibly cheering.

“Get whatever you want,” Juan encourages. “Every once in a while someone will show up with something they’ve never tried just try to it together. So really — anything you want.”

“Okay.” Marcus grins, excited about this and reaches out to slap Juan on the back. “Do you still ride bikes or have you given that up?”

"Hell no." Juan tuts, glad to see the smile back on Marcus's face. "My Indian is back at our house. We take rides when we've got time off together."

“That’s good. Although the rides have taken a pause since the pregnancy, right?” Marcus asks. “I can’t imagine a doctor signing off on a pregnant woman on the back of a bike.”

“Yeah…these days we take rides in the station wagon.” He chuckles at that, and Juan knows how ridiculously domestic it sounds but he really doesn’t care. He’s in love with his life in a very unexpected way, and that’s okay. “It’ll be nice to have someone to ride with again.”

“I can imagine.” Marcus is missing that, but on the bright side, he rides when and where he wants. “Do you guys know what you’re having yet?” He asks.

“Not yet.” Juan is excited, though, as evidenced by the way he lights up when asked about it. “It’s still too early to find out. Obviously we don’t care, as long as they’re healthy and happy.”

“Congrats, man, you’re living the dream, you know that?” As envious as he can admit to being, he’s also incredibly happy for Juan. “You deserve it. Especially after, you know…”

“Life is totally different now.” Leaving the Bureau is what was best for Juan. He knows that now, even if it was a painful decision to make back then. “I’m not going to ever downplay the things in my past, but the future is looking pretty fucking good, man.”

Completely understanding the fact that Juan doesn’t want to talk, he nods. “I’m happy for you. Truly.”

“I appreciate that, man.” Juan grins and pats Marcus on the shoulder. “Enjoy some time in town and come on back here around seven tonight. Syd isn’t working the dinner rush tonight so we’ll all be able to relax.”

“That sounds good.” The comfortable jeans and a sweater will still look sharp enough for game night and he sends his friend a smile before he walks out of the kitchen.

Things have calmed down in the lobby when you return to the front desk to pick up a few papers and check in on your concierge before retreating into your office for the rest of your shift. The inn may have calmed down but you're still spinning wildly on the idea that your soulmate might have walked through the door of the inn this morning with absolutely no fanfare and a nervous smile on his incredibly handsome face.

Nope. Stop it. Sam is coming for board game night tonight and you really fucking like him. Don't give up your whole stance on freedom of happiness just because some absolutely dishy FBI agent has your tattoo.

"Everything going okay, Malachi?" You will be professional, and not a blithering mass of nervous energy. Even if it takes all the energy you have to force it.

“Everything’s fantastic, we had another couple call to book a room for next weekend. So we officially will have no vacancies.” He reports proudly, like he had recruited the couple himself.

"Good. That's actually excellent. That means we have no vacancies at any point for two week on either side of Valentine's Day unless someone cancels." It's always possible. After all, break up happen around that particular holiday. But with the way they've been booking rooms lately, they should be able to fill a hole more easily than not. "I'm going to go to my office and work on the schedule. If you need me, just call."

“Of course.” Malachi cranes his neck as that handsome guy walks out to a beautiful motorcycle. “But before you go.” He hums. “Who is that?”

You can't help but chuckle, your concierge's obvious interest making you recognize the ridiculousness of the whole situation all over again. "That's Juan's friend," you tell him, gathering up your paperwork. "He'll be around more, and he's allowed into the kitchen. So you know he's special."

“And does Juan’s friend have a name?” He asks, smirking slightly.

"Special Agent Marcus Pike." You smirk right back at him, giving Marcus's title along with his name. By now Agent Bailey has probably done an entire workup on the agent. Why wouldn't she?

“Special Agent.” Because it’s the two of you and there’s no guest around, Malachi watches out the window with unabashed interest. “He can mount me like he mounts that bike any time.”

"Mal!" There's no reason for you to be taken aback by that comment considering how well you know Malachi Debose, but you still find yourself stifling a laugh with wide eyes. You tell yourself to joke, ignoring the twist in your chest at the idea of Marcus with anyone else. It's not up to you. He's his own person. And he might not even be your soulmate to begin with! "I'm pretty sure he's straight, honey, but you never know. It would not be the first guy you've swept out of the closet who didn't even realize they were in there in the first place."

He sighs dramatically, even though he’s smirking proudly. “You’re right.” He admits. “We’ll see how mister Special Agent Marcus Pike acts and then I’ll decide.”

"Behave yourself." Is the playful warning you give him before turning and nodding to Agent Bailey. "Time to sit in the office while I swear at my computer," you tell her. As the Secret Service agent who is with you most of the time, Kendra Bailey has learned your past, your friends, your job, and your habits like a book. She appreciates that you're not throwing yourself into politics because it means her days are a little calmer than they could be, but the coming and going of all sorts of people through the inn on a daily basis presents its own challenges.

She nods, already curious about the FBI agent that she’s encountered here. It’s not unusual to run background checks on people who continuously hang around the inn, and it sounds like he will become a fixture for the foreseeable future. “Of course, Hummingbird.”

You groan softly, realizing that that is going to get said around Marcus Pike at some point or other, and just try to shake it off for now. "You can call me by my name around here, you know." She won't. You've had this conversation more than once, but sometimes you think you'll never get used to being ma'am or Hummingbird at all times to your Secret Service detail.

“Yes ma’am.” She nods, both of you aware that she’s not going to break protocol like that. Instead, she’s turning to the chair that has been placed outside your office, tucked into a discreet corner so it’s not completely obvious that you are being guarded. Giving you the illusion of privacy.

"Someday I'm going to get you to at least come into the office." There are rules. A hell of a lot of them, in fact, and you know that they exist for a reason. But Agent Bailey is allowed to be in your office with you, and you hope it won't take your mother's entire first term in office for her to get comfortable enough with you to do that.

“I understand that, but if I’m in your office, you won’t concentrate.” She reminds you with a small, unseen smile. The first time you had insisted, you hadn’t gotten anything done.

"Too social for my own good, I guess." With a small smile exchanged between the two of you, you nod in agreement before heading down the hall to your office. She's right, and you both know it.

Outside, a snazzy sports car pulls up. Not too flashy, because a junior congressman from Maryland can’t be seen throwing money away frivolously, but sporty enough to make him grin as he changes gears. The door pops open, sunglasses tossed on the dash and Sam hustles out of his car, eager to see you.

"Hey Sam." Malachi looks up from the desk when the door opens and offers up a smile. Professional, but friendly. So far, Congressman Chase hasn't done anything to warrant the cold shoulder. "Is she expecting you?"

“Not until later, but I was hoping to surprise her.” He admits, sending the concierge a wink. “She in her office?”

"Just went in to work on the schedule." Malachi reports, but his smile morphs from professional to earnest in half a second. "The new software is giving her a headache and a half. I bet coming in with a cup of coffee with also be a welcome surprise."

“You are a good man, Malachi.” Sam slaps the antique reception stand and grins. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He lifts his brows and points at him as he changes directions to the kitchen to beg a cup of coffee from Sydney.

A knock on the kitchen door is odd but not unheard of, and Sydney glances back over her shoulder when the swinging door pushes open to admit the six-foot Congressman she now affectionately calls, "Sam Sam! As happy as I am to see you, your lady friend is not in the kitchen."

“I know.” Sam tosses the chef an easy grin. “A little birdie told me that she might appreciate a cup of coffee, so I’m here to be her runner.”

Sydney smirks, never ceasing in her work but nodding to the coffee pot in the corner of the kitchen. “Go right ahead. I’m sure she’ll be grateful.”

“Thank you.” He immediately beelines for the coffee maker, intent on also making himself a cup. Though he would prefer a cocktail. “It smells great in here, like always.” He tosses over his shoulder.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She hums happily in return. “I made a lasagna for game night. Are you staying?”

“Unless an emergency session is call.” Sam snorts. “And you know half those crusty old bastards don’t want to work.” He adds some creamer and sweetener to his, doctors yours and turns back. “Is this the lasagna with the pancetta?” He asks, giving her a pleading look.

“It is, and I did a little something different with the ricotta layer this time, so you’ll have to tell me what you think.” One hand shoos him playfully away, but she does laugh. “I’ll feed you later. Go see your lady.”

“Thank you!” He laughs as well, zipping out the door to head in to see you. Hopefully you aren’t working on anything too important that you can’t steal away some time for him.

Two short knocks on your door could be anyone, but you save your progress in working on next week’s schedule and call for them to come in. It’s probably Malachi with a guest accommodation question, which is no problem. You can hit pause on scheduling the housekeeping staff around their various class schedules to answer just about anything.

After getting the okay to enter, Sam juggles the cups and pokes his head in the door. “Can you spare a few minutes, beautiful?” He asks.

The grin that spreads on your face is surprise and relief, and you hop up from your dream to open the door fully. “If that’s coffee in your hands, I can spare more than just a few.”

“Of course it is, fixed just the way you like it.” While he doesn’t drink it nearly as sweet as you do, he also doesn’t make fun of you for it.

“To what do I owe the early visit?” The door clicks shut behind him and you sit back in your chair with a happy sigh.

“We let out early.” Sam explains. “Figured we could spend some time together .”

“I’m always glad to see you.” It’s true. It genuinely is. Which is why you hate the nagging guilt of the fact that you had just been telling yourself to stop speculating about your possible soulmate and focus on work.

“That’s a good thing.” Despite the idea that dating the First Daughter was good for his career, Sam genuinely cares for you. It might not be the passionate love he had imagined years ago, but he’s mature enough to understand that a solid connection was a good thing.

“So your meeting went alright?” The committee that he’s on had an unofficial lunch meeting today, which must have gone well if he’s already here saying hello. “I was afraid they’d have you all day and you’d miss out in lasagna and the new Clue game that Sydney’s sister picked up.”

“No.” Sam snorts. “They wanted it done as quickly as possible.” He tells you. “I’ve got to admit that I’ve never seen people that hate to work more than politicians.”

“Well that’s hardly encouraging,” you snort, and shake your head before taking a sip of hot coffee. “I guess you’ll just have to whip them into shape, Congressman. No two ways about it.”

“I’m trying.” He laughs and shrugs. “Right now I equate it to herding cats.” He jokes, sitting down on the other side of your desk and watching you for a moment while you savor your coffee.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever called a member of the House of Representatives.” The two of you share a laugh, and you shift in your seat a little with an awkward expression before talking again. “I…got an email this morning. From Mom’s office. Informing me of my first few expected photo ops as First Daughter.” It’s a big part of the job, for you at least, to look the part and play the part and help the country to see your mother as not just the president, but a family-oriented professional as well. Being the first female President has its challenges and your mother is plowing into them head on. Which, honestly? You give her a lot of credit for. “They asked if I would be willing to release some social media photos from our Valentine’s date…” The fact that you hadn’t planned one yet is slightly beyond the point. Now you pretty much have to.

“Well, what kind of pictures would you like?” Sam asks easily, aware that you don’t relish the attention, but it’s part of the job. “We can do a dinner at home, appeal to the base of Americans.” He suggests.

“I don’t love the idea of someone recognizing an aspect of your house or neighborhood and you getting doxed for it,” you admit ruefully. It would have to be Sam’s house, since you don’t actually have one. You can’t exactly put out photos of your attic apartment and expect the White House press core not to make noises. “I was thinking we could put the spotlight on a minority-owned small business or go to some low-key arts event? If they’re going to ask me to be in the spotlight then I want to use it for good.”

“Do you want to decide?” He asks, aware that you can be quite choosy at times. He doesn’t really mind. “Or do you want me to come up with something?”

“It’s probably easier if I figure it out.” You admit. It’s not your favorite option, all things considered, but since it’s dumb for you to be even vaguely upset that your boyfriend didn’t announce he had secret plans already in the works — which your stupid romantic comedy loving brain had hoped for but knew was a longshot — it’s better to just be practical. “So the Secret Service can tell me if wherever I pick is insecure or something like that. Even though I can’t imagine that anybody is out to get me. That’s absurd.”

“You’d be surprised what humans are capable of.” Sam reminds you, having read some of the most horrific reports imaginable. He likes that you are practical, even if you are a bit naive.

“Not a super fun thing to hear from your boyfriend, but okay.” It’s nothing you can’t brush off, and you do so with a wave of your hand. “There is also a state dinner coming up in a few weeks that I definitely do not want to go to without you.”

“I’m available.” He promises. “I’ve got a couple of events in my district coming up. But I’ll mark that on my calendar.”

“Thank you.” Though you aren’t blind to the ways that attending these things helps him, you appreciate the company. You aren’t effortlessly charismatic like your brother or a star student with enigmatic insights like your sister. You’re the least comfortable in the public eye out of your whole family, and that is what it is. At some point in the night when he inevitably veers off to shake hands and schmooze politically, you’ll sit quietly at your table and smile politely while you wait for Sam to come back, and that’s okay. “I really really appreciate it.”

Sam huffs, sending you a small smirk. “A night where you are wearing a beautiful dress, we eat an elegant dinner, what’s not to love?” He leaves the part about making connections unspoken, both of you know how this game is worked. “And maybe you can come spend the night at my place after.”

"What an absolutely scandalous suggestion." One hand clutches your nonexistent pearls, pretending to be aghast, but you throw him a wink. Intimacy in your relationship unfortunately does have to be scheduled at a certain point...just on the basis that you have a Secret Service agent you can't simply ditch, and he has a personal assistant that might be even more invasive than the Secret Service. "I love it."

“Good.” Sam smirks back at you and sends you his own wink. “I’ve missed a cute little snore, and I need to get some cuddling in.”

"I do not snore." Despite pouting at him – and knowing that you do, in fact, snore – you end up grinning. "But we have been low on cuddle time lately, I agree."

“Yeah, I know my job is hectic and yours isn’t a walk in the park.” He acknowledges wholeheartedly. “But I want this to work. Maybe we just need to move in together.” He hadn’t meant to just blurt that out, but he’s been thinking about it.

“I—what?” You nearly spit out the sip of coffee you had just taken and sit up arrow straight in your chair, staring at him without the ability to stop yourself. “You—you want me to—to move in with you?” It’s never been discussed. Not really. At least not with a timeline, and that’s probably your fault. You’re so prone to jumping into relationships head first that you had told yourself you would move slow with Sam. That…seems to not be the case now.

“It doesn’t have to be now.” He promises. “Just something to consider. That’s all. We would get more time together.”

"I can honestly say I was not expecting that today." It's shaken you up a little, if you're honest, but you reach over your desk and squeeze his hand before leaning out of your chair to kiss him.

“That’s not a bad thing, is it?” It’s not quite the reaction he was expecting, if he is honest with himself.

"No, not at all!" You're quick to reassure him, realizing that Sam's expression is a little more guarded than usual. You've disappointed him. That's not a feeling you like at all. Not even a little. "I'd say the fact that my boyfriend wants to spend more time with me is a very good thing." If it's such a good thing, why is your mouth dry and why are you all tense with nerves? "And I want that, too. You just surprised me, that's all."

“Of course we need to talk about it more in depth.” He relaxes slightly, happy that you are at least open to the idea.

"Is that...something you want to talk about soon?" There are ideas rolling over in your head with varying levels of comfort, but the fact is that you hadn't realized that Sam was already there. Sure you had said your I love yous already, but you really had been trying to go slower this time, and that pace had seemed to suit Sam just fine. And why is it suddenly now that your mind is stuck on the idea that he isn't your soulmate? Is it just because you met a man who could be? You had always told yourself it didn't matter before now...

“We are coming up on our one-year anniversary of dating.” He reminds you, wondering why all of a sudden you look like you’ve seen a ghost. He’s been patient, letting you move slowly since you were afraid of diving in too much too soon, but this is the natural next step. Otherwise, it will be random sleepovers whenever you can manage it for the rest of your lives and Sam doesn’t want that. “I figured we could discuss what our next steps were.” He smiles softly. “I want the next steps, whenever you’re ready.”

"You're right." He is right. The logic is there, and the sweetness, and you do genuinely like him. In fact, loving him came easily and naturally. It's just that today has you a little shaken up and you don't want to admit it to yourself. Any other day and you would have been ecstatically throwing yourself into his arms. "You're absolutely right. This is definitely next." Composing yourself into a smile and reminding yourself to goddamn relax, you pick up your now cold coffee and finish the cup. "Why don't we pick a night this week to cook dinner together and talk through what we want our future to look like?"

“That works.” He flashes you the boyish grin you claim to love and nods. “Little food. Little wine, little….cuddling while we talk. It’s exactly what we need. You’ve been peddle to the mettle lately, and so have I. It will be good to decompress and hash out our concerns.”

"Perfect." And you will, you tell yourself sternly, get your shit together by then.

“But tonight…” he winks at you. “I’m going to whoop your ass at Clue.”

Because it's your turn to host, your small apartment has been cleaned top to bottom in preparation for the night. Sydney took care of making dinner, you have dessert in the refrigerator, and you have it on the authority of the group chat that garlic bread and salad are both coming as well. Juan said he and Marcus were supplying drinks, so everything is set up with plenty of time for everyone to arrive.

Agent Bailey is sitting on the couch waiting for her evening relief so she can go home to her own family and Sam is setting a stack of mismatched plates on the dining room table when Juan, Marcus, Sydney, and her sister Anna Leigh all show up very promptly on the turn of the hour.

Marcus is a little nervous aware that he has a tenuous tie to the game night, but he is quickly at ease when everyone starts greeting people like old friends. He hadn’t quite known what to get, so he had bought several bottle of whiskey and wine, figuring someone would appreciate it. The bottle of ‘76 Statesman Reserve a personal favorite of his and the little store he had stopped at had one last bottle.

"Hey, we didn't scare Marcus off!" Maybe you're a little happy to see him, but you excuse that as being glad that Juan has his friend back and ardently ignore the way your chest clenches when he walks into your little apartment.

“Hope you don’t mind.” He offers instantly, holding back from flirting like he wants to. You are seeing someone. “But I brought gifts.” He holds up the bottle, the others in his bag.

“Statesman.” You practically groan with delight at the sight of the bottle. “When we were campaigning in Kentucky, my little brother and I toured their distillery, I love this stuff.” Fighting the instinct to offer him a hug — and it really is an instinct — you grin and wander toward the kitchen to complete introductions. “You already know Syd and Juan, of course. The beautiful agent of chaos currently throwing garlic bread in the oven is Syd’s sister Anna Leigh, and the intimidating lady on the sofa with the New York Times crossword in her lap is Agent Bailey. I don’t know if you two officially met earlier or not. Looking around, Sam is not in sight, but you chew your lip for a second and smile. “My other half seems to have disappeared, but I’m sure he’ll be right back.”

“Oh, okay.” He shouldn’t be disappointed that your boyfriend is here. That’s what he keeps telling himself. “Congressman from Maryland, right?” Okay, he might have read up on you.

“Right.” There’s a note of something off in Marcus’s voice but you can’t figure out what, so you just smile. “I promise we don’t use official titles over board games.”

“Good.” He cracks a lighthearted grin. “I hate when I’m made in charge of the jail in Monopoly.” He jokes. He hands you the bottle and looks around the little apartment. “Anything I can do to help?”

“I think we’re just waiting for Issy and then everyone will be here. So for now if you want to maybe pour drinks while we all get settled?” This is always an informal setting and you want everyone to feel relaxed as much as possible. “Let me give you the grand tour first?” What a stupid thing to say in your little, tiny space. But now you’ve said it, so you just have to pretend it was something charming to say instead of awkward.

“That sounds good.” Marcus quickly agrees, although it’s obvious that there’s not much to the small space. “The private sanctum.”

“Eat it kitchen.” Is the space you’re standing in, with a too-big dining room table that is also your prep counter because there is basically no counter space — just enough to put a few grocery bags on and nothing more. “I have an unholy love of dinner parties, hence the big table. Over here is the living room. Mandatory bar cart with the tv, and as many throw pillows as the couch can hold.” Agent Bailey currently has her arm resting on the head of a pillow shaped like a horse that you brought back from a campaign trip out West. “Bathroom is down the hall, just here.” The door is closed, so that must be where Sam is. “And just turn the corner and you’re in the bedroom-slash-library.” You have to call it that — you really have to, because the entire room is covered in wall to wall bookcases that are pretty much entirely full. The only exceptions are where your sleigh bed and writing desk sit on opposite ends of the tight room. “It’s more library than anything else.”

“Obviously like to read.” He nods. “What genre? Or is it too embarrassing to mention in company?”

“I’m not embarrassed at all to read romance novels.” A whole section of the shelf by your bed is dedicated to them, in fact. Healthy sexuality and healthy explorations of that sexuality are vital, but you won’t get that far into the topic. “I have a lot of various things here, but the majority are probably mystery, thrillers, and classics from all over the world.” The shelf you’re standing by has your collection of writing by both F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, and you smile. “Of course, some of the classics are romances. That’s to be expected.”

“They are. I find that if you limit yourself in what you read, you are missing out.” He looks over your shelf with interest. “It looks like a wonderful collection.”

“Thank you. A compliment for my books is the highest compliment possible.” There’s a warm smile on your lips when the bathroom door pulls open a few feet away and you feel like you’ve been caught although there isn’t a single thing wrong about showing a new friend around your apartment. There’s no reason to jump out of your skin, but here you are with burning cheeks feeling embarrassed.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Sam doesn’t frown, but he wonders who this man is and why he is in your bedroom.

"Hey." Your smile does widen of its own accord, and you motion between the men in a sort of vaguely formal way that is definitely odd for you. "Sam, this is Marcus. One of Juan's old friends. He came by the inn earlier today and we thought it would be nice to introduce him to the group." It's awful, and very unnecessary, how heavy your tongue feels when you go to make the introduction the opposite way. "Marcus, this is Sam. My boyfriend."

It’s a little awkward, Marcus can admit that but he extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sam.” He offers, smiling in a friendly, first meeting kind of way. “My connection to the group is through Juan.” He explains. “We were at the academy together.”

"Ah, a government man." That seems to win Sam's approval, though his handshake might be just a hair tighter than it would otherwise be based on the tension in the air. "Well, welc—"

"Babe!" Sydney's voice comes loud and clear from the other room as the door opens and the sound of chaotic friends can be heard. "Issy's here! Let's gooo!"

The introductions are interrupted and it’s probably not a bad thing. Marcus lets go of Sam’s hand and immediately makes for the door. “Guess that’s our queue.”

“Coming!” You call back, eager to be standing anywhere but your doorway between these two men. “Issy is a friend from college.” That’s the easy explanation you give Marcus as Sam steers you back to the kitchen with his hand on your back. “Syd, Anna Leigh, and Issy and I were suite mates at Mount Holyoke.”

Marcus nods, committing everyone to memory. “Nice to meet all of you. Thank you for letting me join you tonight.”

Getting everything set up doesn’t take much longer, and a buffet of cheesy garlic bread, a huge salad, Sydney’s pancetta lasagna, and the lemon tiramisu you made for dessert is all laid out on the counter. Everyone digs in and says a loud chorus of rowdy good nights when your Secret Service detail has its changing of the guard in the middle of it all. It’s a lot, and it’s chaos, but it’s so comforting because these are all people you love to spend time with. Even Marcus, as new as he is, fits right into the group effortlessly.

“Oh! Sydney.” Marcus dives back into the bag and pulls out a bottle of sparkling white grape juice and some sodas and grenadine. “I figured you might like my family’s version of Shirley Temple’s?” He offers. “So you can have a mocktail with the ladies?”

“Absolutely!” Syd’s eyes light up at the offer, and she brings her overstuffed plate over to the table to sit beside her husband. In her favorite baggy sweatshirt, no one could ever tell she’s pregnant, but one of her hands rests on the side of her belly anyway. “That sounds fantastic.”

“So my grandmother used to make these for all the kids, so we could feel special too.” Marcus explains as he grabs a wine glass and starts to mix together the non-alcoholic drink. “It had to be sparkling grape juice because of the bottle shape.” He chuckles now, but back then? He had felt grown up. “When she died, we served these at her wake.”

“That’s so sweet.” Sydney awes softly as Marcus carefully pours out the drink. “These are Birdie’s favorite, actually,” she points her thumb back at you while she chats at him. “We usually spike them with rum, of course. To be a Shirley Temple Black. I can’t remember the last time I just had a regular old Shirley Temple.”

“A dirty Shirley?” Marcus gasps in faux horror. “The best way to spike that is with Statesman.”

“On it!” You hop up from the table immediately to grab a glass and line up next to Sydney at the counter. “I’ve heard of people doing them with rum and vodka, but never with whiskey. I have to know.”

He chuckles and nods. “You won’t regret it. The grape juice plays off the smoky, oaky flavors very nicely.” He tells you. “It’s almost better than a robust bouquet on a red.”

“I can’t claim to know anything about wine, but I’m trying to learn.” Sam prefers wine, and you’ve been trying to not feel foolish when people discuss wine pairings at official dinners. It’s been a fairly deep learning curve. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

“More of a whiskey girl?” Marcus asks, filing away the information even though it’s not like he’s going to use it. One of those odd little quirks of his time in the Bureau, he tries to read people.

“Always have been.” As evidenced by the Whiskey Makes Me Frisky sweater still stuff in your closet from college, which won’t see the light of day again until your mother is out of office. “You too?” Your eyes widen immediately and you stumble over correcting yourself. “Guy, I mean? Whiskey guy?”

Marcus laughs and gives you a guilty grin. “I learned to enjoy wine. My ex was a wino to the point where we honeymooned in Napa Valley.” He snorts. “But my first love was a Jack and Coke.”

“The next time you’re sick, have a whiskey and ginger beer.” The advice comes as he hands you your glass but he looks skeptical. “I mean, it’s a good drink no matter what, but I swear it knocks out my colds faster than anything else.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Marcus hums and decides that he will make one for himself. “Tell me what you think.”

One sip has you groaning, and you bring the glass back to the table like you’ve found the Holy Grail. “Sammy, try this. I know you’re not usually big in whiskey, but this is fantastic.”

Sam wrinkles his nose, really uninterested in trying it, but he politely takes a sip. Pleasantly surprised, he makes a face. “Huh. That’s not as horrible as I imagined.”

“And that,” you look back at Marcus and laugh. “Is the highest compliment he’s ever given a whiskey drink.”

Marcus chuckles politely and motions towards the table. “There’s a nice Cabernet that he might like better.” He offers.

“That sounds perfect.” You move back to the counter to collect a wine glass, corkscrew, and the bottle to bring back, knowing that Sam will open it far more neatly than you can.

“So how has everybody been?” Prompting conversation once everyone is at the table gets the ball rolling nicely, and conversation starts as everyone starts to eat their dinner.

“Well, everyone knows that Sydney is expecting.” Juan boasts proudly, obviously loving the prospect of becoming a father. “But she started experiencing her first cravings.”

“Oooo, what are they?” Issy sits up in her chair immediately. “Please tell me it’s something non-gourmet. If this baby is a food snob I’m not going to have anything to tease you about.”

“Right now….” Juan grins and sends his wife an utterly besotted look. “Ranch flavored bugles.”

“Oh my god!” Both Issy and Anna Leigh practically scream with laughter immediately and your jaw hits the table with maniacal giggle.

“I know,” Syd moans in embarrassment. “I know! The baby likes ranch!”

“There must be a joke there somewhere.” Marcus laughs, enjoying the lighthearted atmosphere of the group and how they are all so easy with each other.

"Syd's current greatest fear is having a kid who doesn't care about food." You explain, picking up a forkful of lasagna. "If they turned out to not like food or hockey, she'll be doomed."

“I see.” He chuckles, although he himself had a less refined pallet when he was younger. Now he enjoys trying new things.

"They're exaggerating." Sydney promises, not wanting her husband's old friend to think she's that much of a snob. "Obviously no kid comes out loving caviar and oxtail."

“No, I can see why you would expect your child to give you cravings for something like this.” He praises, lifting a forkful of the lasagna. “I gave my mom cravings for salami and bologna. Which she couldn’t eat.”

"My mom had a lot of cheese cravings." Not expecting baby-oriented conversation was probably an oversight on your part, but it's fun and your best friend just absolutely glows whenever it's brought up. "With me it was gruyere, with my brother it was cheddar, and with my little sister it was asiago." The memory makes you grin, and you laugh a little, mostly to yourself. "She ate so many asiago bagels when she was pregnant with June."

“Ohhhhh I could see how that could be an easy craving.” Issy snorts. “I have cravings for those all the time and I’m not pregnant.”

"Right?" You're nodding in agreement instantly. "I'm honored that my pregnancy craving was gruyere. That's quality cheese."

“Maybe the craving will change to truffle cheddar fries.” Marcus suggests with a grin. “With ranch.”

“See, this is the kind of encouragement we should be thinking about. Positive thinking all the way.” Sydney grins, beaming across the table to her husband’s friend. Even if her hunch about the true nature of Marcus’s soulmate marks isn’t true, he’s still a good addition to the group. “What’s everybody else been up to.”

Everyone starts talking and Marcus leans back. Watching the dynamic of the group and it’s obvious that everyone is comfortable with each other. Talking over one another and laughing, poking fun in a gentle way. It seems as if Juan - and you - have a solid friends group.

The tempo of the night is unchanged from any other — there is as much laughter and fun as any game night you’ve had in years. The joy of having your friends nearby is never tempered, but tonight it is…just a little bit different. As for first time ever — with your boyfriend sitting next to you — you have to wonder if maybe your soulmate is actually sitting there at the table. And what will you do when it isn’t the man with his arm around you?

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

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#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x f!reader #The Mentalist #soulmate au #First Daughter reader #Juan Badillo #Graceland #Juan Badillo x f!OC #Juan Badillo x OC #love triangle

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absurdthirst · 6 months

Text

The Wolf in the Woods {Werewolf!Marcus Pike x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 14.4k

Warnings: Oral sex (male and female receiving), vaginal sex, wildlife, secrets, werewolves, monster fucking, werewolf tongue, werewolf cock, rough sex, harsh sex, cream pie

Comments: You finally convince Marcus to take you up to his remote cabin in the mountains. Not realizing that there is something in the woods. Something that has Marcus chaining the cabin doors shut to keep out.

**Monster fucking! Don't like it, don't read**

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

“Come on baby, it’ll be perfect. Me, you, alone for the first time in forever.” You plead your case over the phone, slightly annoyed that your boyfriend had to cancel yet another date but you don’t try to take it out on him. He’s the in-charge agent, the department head of Art Crimes. You know his job is stressful. “We can relax, sleep in.” You hum suggestively. “Spend all day in bed if we want to. I know you’ve been so busy, a weekend at that cabin of yours would be wonderfully refreshing for us both. I’ll even do all the cooking.”

Marcus smiles against the other home at the thought of you and him curling up in bed all day. Something neither of you have the luxury of due to your demanding jobs and Marcus yearns for that kind of intimacy. He pulls up the lunar chart to see when the full moon is. Shit, it’s on Saturday. He will be in transition all weekend. It’s only once a month but he has to be careful with his more feral nature around you. He bites his lip, wondering if he can lock himself out while he transitions. You are getting frustrated with him and he doesn’t want to make you walk away because he keeps flaking on you. You don’t know about his true nature and he wants to keep it that way. “Or not.” You say due to his silence and he can hear the disappointment in your voice and he knows he can’t say no.

“Okay baby. This weekend. You wanna come to mine on Friday after work and then we can head over there? Get groceries on the way? It’s not stocked up.”

You smile, relieved that he’s not blowing you off, afraid that he has been losing interest and is too much of a gentleman to break things off. “That sounds great, we can have a nice, quiet weekend getaway.” You are happy that there’s no chance of starting your period, it’s at least two weeks away so there can be a lot of sex. Having every intention of waking Marcus up with a blow job one morning. “I’ll see you on Friday, baby. Don’t worry about tonight,” you tell him, letting him hang up after a quick goodbye so he could get back to work.

****

Knocking on his door, you bite your lip. The bag slung across your shoulder is filled with lingerie and things to entice your boyfriend and you hope he enjoys the surprise. “Hey baby.” You smile when he opens the door almost as soon as you pull your hand back, like he had been waiting for you.

Marcus is nervous but he’s determined to give you a good time. He does love you. He hasn’t told you yet. He’s too afraid that if he gets too close, you will find out what he truly is. He smiles at you, hoping you don’t realize he’s been standing by the door. He takes your bag, leaning in to softly kiss you.

“Hey sweetheart. I’ve missed you.” He murmurs, “how was the drive over?”

“It was good.” You feel like Marcus’s scent has changed. It’s muskier, bolder than the normal scent he wears from body wash and cologne. Very primal and you like it. “I was daydreaming about this handsome hunk I’m going away with for the weekend.” You tease, giving him a playful wink.

Marcus inhales your scent and he swallows down the growl that threatens to work its way up his throat. He clears his throat and guides you inside. “You ready to hit the road or do you wanna use the bathroom first?”

“Oh, I probably should.” You lean in and press your lips to his. “I’ll be really quick.” You promise and rush off to the guest bathroom Marcus had down the hall. He’s perfect and you know that you want to tell him that you love him this weekend.

Marcus curls his fingers into fists, trying to stop himself from wanting to give in to the animalistic urges inside of him. The ones that want to claim you as his. He inhales deeply and carries your bag into the garage so he can place it in the trunk of his car. He has the padlocks and chains in the other bag along with his own overnight bag.

Washing your hands quickly, you come out of the bathroom just as Marcus comes in from the garage. “I’m ready whenever you are, baby.” You promise with a smile. “And I have packed a few surprises for you.”

Marcus bites his lip, smirking at you. “Yeah? I can’t wait to see ‘em. Come on. Let’s hit the road. It’s a few hours to get there and I don’t wanna get caught in Friday night traffic.” He opens the passenger door for you, helping you in and as he rounds the car, he exhales shakily, begging himself to be good this weekend. Once the car is out of the garage and he’s certain everything is locked, he hits the gas to get out of D.C.

“So I am hoping you have a grill.” You tell him once he’s off the Highway. “Maybe a couple of steaks tonight or tomorrow?” You ask.

“Rare.” Marcus nearly growls the request and your eyes widen slightly.

“Got it. You like your steak rare.” You laugh.

Marcus grips the steering wheel a little too hard and he cracks his neck. “I have a grill. Tonight maybe?” He suggests, his inner wolf growling at the thought of a rare steak. He pushes him down and turns on the radio to distract himself.

“Tonight is good.” Marcus seems a little distracted and you feel bad. Poor man has been overworked for months now. “Some red meat, Some wine, a little sex and then some sleep.” You reach over and lay your hand on his thigh. “Come back from the cabin a new man.”

Marcus chuckles nervously, “I hope.” He reaches for your hand to squeeze it and he brings it up his lips to kiss the back of it. “You’re too good to me.” He murmurs and he sighs when he lowers your hand to squeeze the gear shift with your hand in his.

Your heart melts. “I love you.” You blurt out. It’s not the romantic, sexy way you imagined telling him, but you don’t want him to doubt this for a second. You are completely head over heels for him. “I know it’s odd to say in a car, but I love you Marcus.”

Marcus is taken back by your confession and his heart melts, “I love you too.” He says, turning his head to look at you. “It’s - I wanted to tell you this weekend. Properly. Romantic. But I love you baby.” He smiles at you, kissing your hand again.

“I’m sorry.” You grin, not really sorry for it but you’ll pretend. “I just couldn’t wait. And I don’t know what it is, but you just seem….more dominate today. It’s really sexy and…” you break off, feeling slightly embarrassed by your confession.

Marcus swallows down the growl that threatens to make its way up his throat and he clears it, turning slightly to smirk at you. “Yeah? You like a bit of dominance?” He asks. Your love making so far has been just that. Soft and sensual since Marcus has been trying to conceal his true nature, even biting into the pillow when he has the urge to bite.

“Don’t get me wrong.” You hastily try to reassure him. “I love our sex life. I’m always satisfied with you.” The last thing you want is for Marcus to think you are unhappy. “I just know that exploration is always healthy in a relationship.”

Marcus flusters, knowing you want more from him. He wants to give you more but he’s afraid he’s gonna go too far, lose control. “I know. Maybe this weekend we can experiment a bit.” He compromises, knowing it might be good to let his more animalistic urges come out a little.

You don’t say anything, just lean over in your seat to kiss his cheek. “I’m going to make you the biggest, rarest steak I can find.” You promise happily. “We can split a bottle of wine. Get a little tipsy and then…” you bite your lip. “I want to suck your cock. Let you relax.”

Marcus groans, “you are too fucking good to me, baby. I- shit. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.” He says, flexing his fingers on the wheel as the urge to just pull over and claim you hits him again. The drive isn’t too long to get out of the city and soon enough Marcus is pulling up outside of his cabin in Virginia.

“I’m glad that little grocery store had everything we needed.” You had been impressed by the little country store. It seemed quaint, but inside was a good selection of food, obviously catering to people who weekend up in the mountains. “Oh this is so cute, Marcus.” You coo, taking in the rustic little one bedroom cabin. “No wonder you like to get away up here.”

Marcus smiles, trying not to frown because there’s a reason why he comes here. “Yeah it’s a nice place to escape from the hustle and bustle. I enjoy it.” He hums and kills the engine after parking the car. He gets out and scoots around the car to open your door, still a gentleman despite his biology. “Let me open up and then I’ll grab the bags.” He says and walks over to the door to open up the front door.

He seems distracted and you wonder if he was regretting bringing you. Perhaps his escape from the hustle and bustle also included you. You feel a little guilty for pushing him but you didn’t want to spend another weekend apart. “If you don’t mind, I’ll get started on dinner right away.” You offer.

“Of course babe.” Marcus smiles as he lets you in after unlocking the alarm and he prays you don’t see the scratch marks adorning the door. He should fix those but there’s been no point until now. No one else has ever come out here. He lets you in and rushes out to grab the groceries so you can start dinner right away.

It’s far more simplistic than you imagined and yet, it fits your boyfriend. “It’s rustic.” You remind yourself, knowing that it could be even more so. It could not have electricity or running water. The minimal furniture looks comfortable and you wonder if Marcus just reads or sleeps when he comes up here.

“Yeah it’s uh pretty basic.” Marcus says as he sets the bags down. He got sick of replacing furniture so it’s bare bones but it gets the job done. There’s no TV because he ripped that off the wall the first weekend he stayed in the cabin. “I’ll get our bags.” He says and kisses your forehead before he heads back out to the car.

You hum as you start to organize the groceries, pulling them out of the bags and you frown when you open the refrigerator door. The appliance was completely empty. No old jelly or even a left behind beer. “You weren’t kidding when you said it wasn’t stocked.” You shake your head, wondering if he just didn’t keep anything here or if he went out to a local restaurant while he was here. “At least we gave the pans and plates.” You tell him as he comes in. “I don’t mind basic at all. Better for snuggling up to you.”

Marcus leans in to kiss your hair, “exactly. I want this to be a good weekend.” He hopes that down to his core, and he murmurs your name as he takes the milk from your hand to put it away. He wants you to be comfortable here and he’s terrified he’s going to do something wrong. You soon get to work on making dinner and Marcus turns on the radio. “You want some help baby?”

“Would you fire up the grill?” You ask with a grin as you look up from the cutting board. Marcus had grumbled about the vegetables, although he normally is the one to want a salad. It’s cute though. “The steaks are ready to grill.”

Marcus nods, happy to do whatever you want. He wants to make sure you’re happy during your weekend, especially since he doesn’t want you to get suspicious. He playfully smacks your ass as he passes, driven by his instincts as he heads outside to get the grill ready.

“This is going to be good for us.” You smirk as you toss the salad together and take the steaks outside. “Thank you, baby.” You hum as he closes the lid on the grill, all fired up.

Marcus is a good cook, able to grill up some steaks and he makes his extra rare, the rumble in his stomach from both hunger and being restrained. He sets the steaks down on the table when they are done, thanking you for the wine you let breathe. “To us.” He toasts, wanting to make this a good weekend together.

“To us.” You had been surprised when he had taken over grilling, but you don’t complain. It makes it better, fixing a meal together. Cutting into your steak, you groan at the taste. “This is so good, baby.” You praise. “How is yours?”

“Perfect.” He practically growls, almost picking up the steak to tear into it with his teeth but he controls himself. The steak is barely cooked - a minute on each side at most. He tries to swallow down some salad but he’s so starved for meat he ignores most of it.

“Do you want some of mine?” You are startled by how quickly Marcus wolfs down his steak, but maybe he’s really hungry. “I’m stuffed.”

Marcus should tell you no but the steak looks too good so he reaches out to grab it with his hand, barely managing to grab a knife and fork to cut it when he wants to just sink his teeth into it.

“Next time I’ll get another steak.” You promise, smiling indulgently as you watch him eat. There’s something almost animalistic about his hunger and you wonder if he will carry that through to the bedroom tonight.

Marcus groans when he finishes the steak, his stomach full but it’s still not enough. “Thanks for the, uh, salad, baby.” He blushes as he looks down at his uneaten salad on his plate. “Sorry. I just really wanted steak.” He murmurs, cutting his gaze across the room.

“That’s okay.” You shrug and reach across the table to take his plates. “I don’t mind.” Standing up, you smirk. “I’ll get these washed up and meet you in the bedroom?”

Marcus nods, knowing it’s late. You left after work so it’s getting dark and he knows you want him. He can smell it on you. He wants you too, more than you could ever imagine. He growls softly under his breath when you walk into the kitchen and he stands up, not bothering to lock the doors. He will lock them later. He makes his way to the bedroom and works on stripping out of his clothes, leaving him in his boxers.

You bite your lip after you finish washing the dishes. You had let him take the bag into the bedroom, so you can’t surprise him with lingerie, so you just decide to strip down. Knowing that he would never think that was a bad thing. Quickly peeling off your clothes, you saunter towards the bedroom, eager to see his reaction to your need for him.

Marcus sees you as you enter the bedroom and his jaw drops. Fuck, you look delicious. He groans and his cock hardens in his boxers, shifting as he sits on the foot of the bed. “Fuck baby.” He murmurs, his dark eyes drinking you in and he swallows down the urge to grab you and make you his, mark you, claim you.

“I should have thought about getting out the lingerie before you came in here.” You admit, shrugging as you appreciate the possessive look in his eyes. He looks positively feral, like he just wants to eat you up and that makes your pussy throb. “Take off your boxers, baby. I want to suck your cock.”

Marcus groans, working fast to push his boxers down his legs and when you kneel in front of him, his heart pounds in his chest and he struggles to restrain himself. “Baby. You look so pretty like this.” He murmurs as you rub his thighs, looking up at him. He groans when you take his cock into your hand and he growls softly.

You aren’t sure why he’s so growly lately, but don’t mind it at all. The sounds shoot straight to your pussy and you feel yourself growing wetter. Smirking up at him, you keep eye contact as you lean in and press your tongue to the head of his cock.

“Fuckkk.” Marcus hisses, his fingers digging into the sheets and he tries to keep his eyes open as your hot tongue presses against the underside of his cock. “Fuck baby. You- shit.” He hisses, closing his eyes to keep control.

“I want you to relax.” You tell him when you pull your tongue away. Starting to slowly stroke his cock up and down before you take the head back into your mouth.

Marcus is tense, unable to help himself as he tries to control the beast within him. He doesn’t want to hurt you. It’s the last thing he wants. He struggles to not rip the sheets as you take him deeper into your hot mouth, your tongue pressed against him, and his eyes roll back when you hollow your cheeks. “Fuck baby. Jesus.” He hisses as he tries to keep his hips on the bed.

You moan around him and eagerly start to bob up and down on his cock. Wanting to feel the way his thighs tense against your breasts and he growls your name. Wanting to make him cum and fill your mouth.

“Fuck. Oh Christ. It’s so good, baby. Fuck, you’re so good to me.” He groans, his neck tensing as his cock twitches inside of your mouth. He moans your name, rocking up to push his cock deeper down your throat.

Marcus isn't overly thick, but he is long. The thrust up makes you choke slightly but you don't pull away. Making it your mission to take everything he wants to give you this weekend and beg for more. You want to make sure that this cabin and what happens in it is burned in his memory and tied to you. Letting go of his cock, you grip his thighs and let him fuck your mouth as you push down.

Marcus can’t resist, thrusting up into your mouth. He groans your name as you stay still, just letting him fuck your throat. “Fuck baby. I- I’m gonna - shit. Shit. Shit.” He hisses and his ass cheeks clench as his cock twitching, his cum hitting your tongue as you pull your head up.

Your whine is cut off by the cum flooding your mouth. It feels like he’s not cum in a year. Feeling him grab the back of your neck and hold you while his hips rock up. Your cunt is dripping at the rougher treatment. One hand slipping down and rubbing your clit as you swallow him down in big gulps.

“Fuck baby. So good to me.” Marcus hisses as you swallow every drop and his eyes open to find you rubbing your clit. Fuck, you’re so gorgeous. The sheet rips beneath his grip as he shakes through his orgasm. “Get - need to taste you.” Marcus growls as he shifts to lay down on the bed, his cock flopping from your mouth. “Sit on my face.”

You are never one who is shy about taking your own pleasure but this time it’s almost an order that you don’t want to take. To see if he would just grab you. Slowly straddling his chest, you don’t move any closer, looking down and caressing his cheek.

Marcus growls, unhappy with you not sitting on his face. He grabs your ass, fingers digging into your flesh as he drags you up his chest and over his face, his tongue diving in to slide through your folds. His growl is muffled as he samples your cunt and he sucks on your clit, ravenous for you.

Squealing in surprise, you grab onto the solid headboard to hang on as Marcus seemingly devours you. “Oh fuck, Marcus.” You moan, head dropping back and body rocking forward as he pulls you closer.

He is like a man starved, his tongue pushing into you as his nose presses against your clit. He groans your name even though you can’t understand it. He wants you. In every damn way he can have you. His fingers dig deeper, certain to leave bruises but he doesn’t care as he wants you to rock on top, take your pleasure.

You start to follow his silent command. Rolling your hips and grinding down onto his face like you are giving his face a lap job. In a way, you are, but you’re too busy massaging your tits while you moan his name again. “Marcus, oh fuck baby, your tongue is so deep.”

Your cry has him smirking against your pussy. His tongue is extra long when he’s close to the full moon and he’s glad he can use what he is for something positive. He groans into you, his nose pressed against your clit. He wants to hear you cry for him. He yearns to hear you scream.

Your eyes slip close and you whimper again and again as you rock your hips over his face. “Oh fuck baby, you’re gonna make me cum.” Panting as you get closer to the orgasm that is building up, your tongue gets looser. “I love you, oh baby, I want you, this forever.”

Marcus’s heart pounds in his chest at your words, loving how passionate you sound as you chase your orgasm. He groans as you rock faster, little whines escaping your lips and he curls his tongue, his fingers shifting to caressing your puckered hole between your cheeks after he spreads them.

“Oh shit.” Your eyes spring open in surprise. Marcus has never even ventured close to your other hole but you don’t mind, “please.” You whimper.

He understands what you need and he pushes his finger inside of you a little, desperately needing you to cum for him. He loves how you taste and how you sound when you cum.

When he slides his tongue deeper, you wail his name. Body convulsing and seizing up as you come apart. Your walls clench down around his tongue and you soak him with your juices.

Marcus laps you up, his cock now hardening at your orgasm. One of the perks of his composition is his ability to recover even as he gets older. "I fucking love you." He groans when you lift up off of him and he kisses your soaked thighs.

“I love you too.” You moan softly, giggling quietly at the post orgasm rush and wiggle down his body to press your lips to his. “Are you ready to fuck me, Agent Pike?”

Marcus nods, feeling loved and yet he’s still feral. Wanting to claim you but he channels his softer side to give you what you need tonight. “Lay down baby.” He says, lifting you off of him and you shift to lay down. He wastes no time kneeling between your legs, his hands sliding along your body until he’s cupping your tits.

Your legs drape onto his hips, eagerly wrapping around him and there’s something different about Marcus. He seems harder, sharper almost in the light of the cabin. Squeezing your tits until you gasp and arch up under his touch. “Take me, baby.” You moan.

Marcus pinches your nipples, getting a little rougher than normal. He shuffles closer on his knees and he grips his cock, pumping himself a few times. "My girl needs me to fuck her?" He coos, asking you as he jerks his cock.

“Yesssss, oh fuck yes.” You whimper, finding it incredibly sexy to watch this man stroke himself so confidently. Whatever is happening, you love it and it is making you desperate for him. “Please baby, fuck me. I need you inside me.”

He doesn’t torture you anymore, knowing he needs to be inside of you. He shuffles even closer to notch the head of his cock at your entrance after swiping it through your folds and he hisses as he pushes into you. You’re so wet. So hot. So tight. He is hesitant to be too rough but his instincts are telling him to just push deep and set a frantic pace until he cums.

The first thrust tells you that this time is going to be different. Marcus is a very careful and thorough lover. Always making sure that you are completely satisfied when you are done, but he’s very restrained. You can tell there are times that he wants to go harder or deeper and even though you assure him you can take it, he doesn’t give in.

He is feral, his chest heaving as he looks down at you. His eyes dark as he twitches deep inside of you. Usually he’d take his time letting you adjust to him but he doesn’t give you that luxury. He starts to move inside of you, harsh thrusts that makes your body jiggle.

Your eyes widen and your fingers dig into his shoulders as he starts to fuck you ruthlessly. Stealing your breath at the brutal pace that makes your entire body lurch up on the bed. “Fuck!” You scream, eyes rolling back from pleasure.

Your scream spurs him on, thrusting harder, his hands grabbing your thighs to lift them higher until he decides to push them back into your stomach. His weight pressing you into the mattress as he fucks you hard and fast. “Fuck baby. Fuck. Need you. Need this.” He growls, leaning down to lick along your neck.

You don’t know what possessed Marcus, but all you can do is cum for him. His cock hits something magical inside you and with a squeal, your walls clench down around him and soak him in a torrent of your juices.

“Fuckkkk.” Marcus hisses as you soak his stomach and pelvis with your cum, hot and wet and so fucking sexy. He hisses your name, thrusting a few times, hard and deep until his cock twitches as he cums inside of you. Painting your walls as he practically roars, unable to believe how good you feel.

It’s beastly and you are utterly captivated by the sight of Marcus, straining and grunting over you as he fills you up. The heat of his cum flooding your womb and making you moan.

Marcus kisses along your neck, refraining the urge to bite your neck. “So good.” He murmurs, “You’re so good to me.” He coos and you caress his back, “so good.”

“Baby.” You moan quietly, turning your head and kissing along his jaw. “I love you so much. That was- incredible.”

Marcus murmurs, “I love you too.” He nudges his nose against yours, trying to be affectionate and he stays inside of you but shifts to lay on his back, you on his chest. He strokes your back, knowing that once you’re asleep, he’s going to need to get the duffel bag from his car so he can prepare for midnight.

His heart is galloping in his chest and you hum, stroking his shoulder affectionately. “That was amazing.” You murmur before you yawn. “Wore me out.”

Marcus chuckles, “wore me out too, baby.” He murmurs, caressing your back as you relax on top of him. He can smell himself all over you and that makes him hum. He loves it. He loves you. “Baby, you want a snack or some water?”

“I’m good.” You purr quietly. “I’m going to go to sleep and wake up early to make sure that you get the best blow job you’ve ever had.”

Marcus snorts, “you already did that.” He kisses your hair, “but you can try to beat it baby.” He murmurs, “just go to sleep. I’ll clean you up.”

One of the best things about Marcus is his aftercare. You smile as you settle down against his chest and close your eyes. You have the best boyfriend in the entire world, one that you love.

Marcus lets you drift off to sleep before he rolls you onto your back. He pulls out of you and shuffles into the bathroom to grab a rag to clean you up. He works fast to clean you and covers you with the comforter. He kisses your forehead and makes his way into the bathroom to clean himself up. Exhaling heavily as he looks into the mirror, his fingers curl into the sink as he feels the moon is high in the sky. He needs to prepare and keep you safe inside.

****

You wake up to Marcus curled around you, his nose pressed against your neck and he is snoring like he's not slept in ten years. Your plans for waking him up to a blow job are temporarily on hold. He needs sleep more than he needs sex and you slowly slip out of his arms. You'll make some coffee and take it out to the porch so he can sleep.

Marcus had a long night. After you fell asleep, he grabbed his bag from the car and locked up the house, making sure you were secure before he chained himself to a tree a couple of miles away. He doesn’t really know what happened after midnight - he gets flashes during his sleep if it’s been a while since he’s transitioned - and last night was one of those times.

When you’re pouring a cup of the coffee, you hear Marcus whimper, making you frown as you look toward the bedroom. Deciding that he does need to rest more, you shut off your alarm before it can ring, a habit of your weekends to make sure you don’t sleep all day, and slip outside the door to the fresh morning air.

Marcus should wake up but he usually sleeps most of the day when he’s out here. Only coming here once a month when it’s needed. He curls into a ball, pulling your pillow close to breathe you in.

You sigh softly, smiling as you look out at the valley through the small clearing of trees. It really is a beautiful view, although you know you are quite isolated. There hadn’t been one light besides yours on the mountain last night. You turn back to check to make sure you closed the door and gasp loudly, almost a shriek. Deep gouges in the wood, resembling claw marks, decorate the door and frame. Many of them, as if some large creature was trying to get in. “Oh shit.” Your eyes start flickering around the woods surrounding the cabin as if you expect a creature to attack you right now.

Marcus doesn't stir until he hears your scream. He wakes with a fright and stumbles out of the cabin. "Baby. Baby. What's wrong?" He pants, still in his boxers and wondering if there's something else out there besides him.

You grab onto Marcus, turning him towards the door. “There’s something- it tried to get into the cabin!” You cry out. “Is it a bear? Did a bear try to break in?”

Marcus's eyes widen at the claw marks on the door. He tried to get in the door. He tried to get to you last night. That makes his heart pound as he steps out to look at the door frame. "Fuck baby. I- it was probably a bear. This has happened before. I - you're safe." he promises you, "I will keep you safe."

“Oh my god.” You shiver and reach out to touch the marks. “That’s a big fucking bear.” You tell him. Something seems odd, Marcus had nearly had a heart attack when he saw the marks. If it happened before, why does he look so upset? “Look!” You rush down the steps. “Tracks.”

Marcus is terrified that you’re going to find out his secret. He reaches for your shoulder. “It’s gone now. Probably smelled the food. Just - let’s go inside and have some breakfast. Probably a bear. It’s long gone, baby.” He says, trying to sound convincing.

Something about that sounds wrong but you don’t argue. Instead, you let him guide you into the cabin and close the door firmly behind the two of you. “Should we store the food differently?” You ask him, knowing he spends a lot of time up here. He would know.

Marcus shakes his head, “no. No. I don’t think that’s necessary. Why don’t we head inside and - God, I need a coffee, baby.” He tries to change the subject, his hand hovering on the small of your back to get you inside. He’s trying to keep cool but he is freaking out a little that the beast inside of him tried so desperately to get into the cabin…to get to you.

That does the trick, immediately distracting you from the animal marks on the door. “Oh baby, I’m so sorry, I woke you up.” You cup his face, feeling guilty about disturbing his sleep. “Let me go get you a coffee and I’ll start breakfast. You can lay down again if you want?”

Marcus softens and relaxes as you cup his cheek and he nods, reaching for your wrist and turning his head so he can press a soft kiss to your palm. "I'm up now sweetheart. Let's get a cup of coffee and we can work on breakfast together. I, uh, kinda just want bacon."

“Just bacon?” Your eyes widen dramatically. “Marcus Pike doesn’t want pancakes?” Teasingly, you touch the back of your hand to his forehead. “You don’t seem to be sick.”’

Marcus chuckles, "I just really want bacon." He confesses, knowing he usually loves pancakes but for some reason, he just doesn't want them today. He wants meat.

“Then bacon is what you will get.” You promise, leaning in and pressing your lips to his before you turn back to pour him a cup of coffee.

"You're too good to me." Marcus repeats for the hundredth time. He means it. You are too good for him. He's terrified of you finding out the truth. That's what sent his first wife running. He swallows harshly as you pour him a cup of coffee and he sits down at the kitchen table. "I thought maybe today we could go for a hike?" He suggests, knowing that the exercise might wear him out enough to not run too much at night.

“Sure.” You had expected to relax, but if Marcus wants to hike and show you some of the area, that’s fine with you. “I can make some sandwiches if you want? Or- no, we shouldn’t do that.” You decide. “We might attract that bear.”

Marcus doesn’t argue, wanting you to believe it’s a bear. He sips his coffee as he watches you cook. He offered to help but you told him to relax. Little do you know that it’s almost impossible since he is worried about the claw marks. He stands up when you set the bacon off to the side to drain and his hands find your waist, his lips on your neck.

“Hmmmmm.” Closing your eyes, you tilt your head to the side to give him better access to your skin. “I love when you kiss my neck. When you do anything to me, really.”

Marcus smiles against your skin, “me too. I mean, whatever you do to me…always so fucking good.” He murmurs and continues kissing along your neck, dragging the strap of your shirt down to kiss your shoulder. “Taste better than bacon.” He chuckles against your skin. “Delicious.” He says as he licks along your neck.

The hard length of his cock is starting to press against your back and you don’t mind it at all. Moaning softly as you grind back against him. He’s apparently in the mood and you aren’t going to discourage him. “Want a quickie while the food cools?” You pant out, wishing you could kiss him.

Marcus groans, grinding a little harder against you. He murmurs your name and spins you around, lifting you onto the kitchen table and he grabs the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head. “So fucking beautiful.” He hisses as he looks at your tits, wasting no time ducking down to take a nipple into his mouth.

“Fuck, Marc-“ your moan is strangled as he attacks your breasts with a ferocious hunger. His hands grabbing your ass and sliding you forward to press against your core. You aren’t wearing panties, he had put a shirt on you but no panties so his boxers are starting to rub against your clit. “Fuck. Baby.” Your eyes close as you wrap your arms around the back of his neck. “Fuck me.”

He growls, low and deep in his chest as he squeezes your ass. Fuck, he needs you. His fingers trail down from your breast to your core, groaning when he finds you wet for him. He hisses your name and moves fast to shove his boxers down, his cock hard and aching for you already. It doesn't take much to get him going during the full moon. He grips his cock, pushing your thighs further apart with his free hand as he positions himself until he is pushing into you,

He pushes the air out of your lungs in a squeal. The full length of him pushing inside you until he is grinding deeper, as if he wants to burrow inside your cunt. Your legs wrap around his waist and your own kisses start to scatter over his skin. “Oh god, I don’t know what’s happening but I love it.” You whine, incredibly turned on by how rough he’s being.

His hands grab your ass, pulling you even closer, and he starts to move inside of you. Low groans escaping his lips as he rocks into you, hard and fast. His lips find yours, smothering both of your moans, and he hisses when you bite down on his lower lip.

There’s something unique about the way that Marcus is acting and you can’t sort it out. Not that you are trying very hard when your sweet and loving boyfriend is fucking you like his life depends on it. Making your entire body sing with pleasure.

He thrusts hard and fast, the kitchen table scrapping the floor below as he fucks you like aj animal. His hand comes up to grip the back of your neck, tilting it to expose the flesh to his gaze and he leans down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin above your pulse.

“Ohhhhhh fuck.” You gasp out, shivering in pleasure and submission as you let him take what he wants. “Please.” You whimper. “Use me. Take me.”

Marcus grunts as he thrusts into you, his other hand finding your clit to rub harsh circles every time his hips pull back. It’s too much and not enough all at once. “Fuck. You feel - like a goddamn vice.” He groans as your walls flutter around him.

His voice is lower, raspier and it makes you whimper. All those times you claimed you didn’t care about dominant men going out the window as this man claims you. “Yours.” You promise. “All yours.”

“Mine.” He growls, unable to stop himself and he hisses your name as you clamp down on his cock. “Cum for me, baby. Cum for me sweet girl.” He demands, rubbing your clit a little faster and he bites down on your shoulder.

Shuddering, you can’t help but give him exactly what he wants. Crying out his name again, everything but the feeling of your cunt spasming leaves your thoughts.

Marcus hisses when you clamp down on his cock and soak him, your nails dig into his back but he doesn’t feel a thing. “You’re so - Jesus Christ. Baby. I’m gonna - you’re gonna make me. Oh fuck. Fuck!” He yelps as he cums, pushing deep to paint your walls again.

Panting, you kiss his sweaty skin as he rides out his high, lapping at his pulse tenderly and cuddling closer. “Fuck, I love you.” You whisper softly. “So much baby.”

Marcus pants as he comes to a stop, resting his forehead against yours. “Love you too. All of you.” He murmurs, wanting you to know that when he dreads you not feeling the same way about him. He’s terrified about you finding out his secret.

He clings to you for a moment and you smile as you pull away. “Me too, sweetheart. Now” you run your hand down his chest. “I need to get you fed.”

He sighs, pulling out of you, and he knows you’d never accept him, all of him. The darkest parts of him. He kisses your forehead as he steps away from you, bending down to pick up his boxers and pull them on. “I’ll get you something to clean up.”

“Handsome and helpful.” You tease, reaching out and slapping his ass as he turns around to get you a rag. “I’ll fix your plate of bacon.”

Marcus chuckles, making his way into the bathroom. He wets a rag and sees some tissues in the wastepaper basket. He frowns, bending down to pick them up and he gasps when he sees blood. “Shit.” He hisses, trying to figure out how to conceal them. He probably wiped himself off before he got back into bed with you after sunrise. He winces when you call him and he makes his way back into the kitchen.

“Breakfast is served.” You smile as you set the entire pack of bacon that you put on his plate in the spot where you moved his coffee. “Where were you thinking of hiking to?”

“I was thinking of going further up the mountain. There’s a really nice spot that looks out over the valley. I figured we could take a book or two and some drinks. Snacks should be okay. Bear likely won’t venture up that high.” He says, not wanting you to be concerned. “Thanks for the bacon baby.” He says as he hands you the rag.

“That sounds good.” You smile again, thinking that he’s the sweetest as you take the rag to clean up. “After breakfast, we’ll pack up and head off?” You ask, tossing the rag down after you clean up and sit opposite from him as he starts to wolf down the bacon with the same appetite that he had attacked the steaks last night.

Marcus is ravenous, chewing on the bacon like a rabid dog but he’s starving. He always tries to keep his meals to pure meat when he’s here but he suspects you might get suspicious of that if he doesn’t at least have some potatoes.

Watching him, you are slower to eat than he is, seeing a different facet of your normally mild mannered boyfriend. Pouring some syrup over your own pancakes, you cut into them and take a sip of your coffee.

Marcus groans as he finishes the entire plate. “Shit. Baby. I- I didn’t leave you - fuck. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, feeling guilty that he ate the entire plate without you getting even a strip.

“That’s okay.” You wave off his concern and fork up another bite of your pancakes. “I’m happy with the pancakes and my coffee.” You don’t have anymore bacon, but you look towards the fridge. “Are you still hungry? There’s some eggs in there.”

Marcus bites his lip, not wanting to eat all the food that was bought for breakfast this weekend. "I'm fine." He lies, not wanting to take more than he needs, even if the beast inside of him roars for more.

“Are you sure, baby?” You ask, concerned because he is biting his lip guiltily. “I don’t mind cooking some for you. Or, I can make sure that I make you really big roast beef sandwiches for the hike.”

Marcus smiles, “a beef sandwich sounds good. Lots of beef.” He adds, his stomach already rumbling at the thought. God, he needs more food but he doesn’t want to take from you. He’s certain he will eat when he’s outside tonight. “Finish your breakfast honey. I’ll clean up.” He says, kissing your hair as he carries his plate over to the sink.

Marcus is so damn good to you. Happily, you dig into the rest of your pancakes and by the time Marcus is ready to wash your plate, you’re finished. Kissing him as he takes it from you, you move over to the fridge. “I’ll make the sandwiches really quickly and then get dressed.”

“Sounds like a plan sweetheart.” Marcus winks at you as he finishes washing up. “I’ll go shower real quick so you can take your time.” He kisses you softly as he walks by and he makes his way into the bathroom. He glances at the trash can and looks down at his hands, seeing the small scratches that you haven’t noticed yet. He turns on the shower, waiting for the water to get hot before he steps in.

Humming to yourself, you make thick roast beef sandwiches for the both of you. Yours is thinner and you make Marcus three sandwiches to your one. Sure that the hunger that he’s been displaying is going to continue on. You had brought a backpack and you toss the bag of sandwiches in there along with a bag of beef jerky you had as well.

Marcus gets out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist and comes into the bedroom just as you approach him. “Hey babe. I left more than enough hot water. Take your time.” He insists, “I’ll get the gear ready.”

“Sandwiches are done.” You promise, smirking at the way his chest is covered in droplets of water. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready.” You just want to clean up and then throw on some hiking clothes.

Marcus nods, walking over to his case to grab the clothes he needs for hiking and he dresses while you shower. He knows these woods like the back of his hand and he knows you'll be safe with him. He is tying his boots when you come back into the bedroom.

“I’m so glad we got away this weekend.” You tell him, unwrapping your towel from around you so you can get dressed. “It’s beautiful here and I’m already in love with this place. I see why you try to spend time here every month.”

“Yeah. It’s gorgeous.” Marcus murmurs as he sits up, realizing he’s never really taken the opportunity to admire the area. He’s usually just been happy to have a secluded place to escape to. He picked this cabin because nothing is around it for miles. His eyes trail down your body as you grab your clothes and he bites his lip, cock twitching in his pants as he admires you.

Getting dressed, you lace up your own boots and turn towards him with a smile. “Ready whenever you are, handsome.” You admire the almost rugged look of him since he’s not shaved and turn to grab your backpack and water bottles.

Marcus nods, standing up as he makes his way into the kitchen to grab his backpack that you put the lunch into. “Come on baby.” He says, not bothering to lock the front door since the only dangerous thing out here is him.

Following him, Marcus leads you into the woods and you amble along behind him. Still a little nervous about the claw marks on the door, you don’t let him get more than a few steps in front of you. “Do you hike every time you come up here?” You ask. “Obviously not when it’s snowing, but ohhhh Marcus, I bet it’s gorgeous up here during the winter.”

“Not every time.” He answers your question as he follows a path he regularly takes when he does hike. “Sometimes I like to just relax and get away from the stress of work. If I’m at home, I’ll still check my phone and my emails. I’m totally at peace here. Like it’s where I’m supposed to be.”

“Maybe it is where you should be.” You could imagine it when he’s here. “Living like a mountain man. Chopping wood with your shirt off.” That thought makes you drool. “Too bad you can’t be an FBI agent from here.”

“Exactly.” Marcus sighs, stepping over a log and he turns back to hold his hand out towards you. “Careful.” He says as he helps you over it. He sniffs the air discreetly, checking for any danger. One perk of his composition and it definitely helps him in his job.

It's nice that even out here, he is such a gentleman. You squeeze his hand before letting go so he could continue to guide you deeper into the forest. "It's strange." You frown slightly. "I don't hear any bird or anything, do you?"

"No. It's - maybe there's a storm coming." He says as he looks up and ignores the fact that he knows exactly why the birds aren't singing. They always fly away when he is around, sensing his presence.

"Maybe that's it." You can accept that, although looking up doesn't do much beyond looking at the canopy. "Then we won't make it a long hike, just in case."

"Yeah." Marcus says, looking at the trees for another moment until he looks back at you. "Let's go. You gotta see this view." He offers you a grin and he makes his way through the trail he knows well until you are pushing through the bushes to a clearing.

"Oh Marcus." You gasp as you take in the view of the valley. Nothing but mountains and trees for as far as you can see. No roads that you can see. Really driving home how isolated you are. "This is- this is beautifully remote."

Marcus turns his head to look at you as you admire the view. He is in awe of how beautiful you look in the sunlight and he wishes he could take a picture. “I love you.” He blurts out, tempted to propose to you but he can’t. Not when you don’t know who he truly is. What he truly is.

Looking back at him, you smile. "I love you too, Marcus." He's sweet and his soft smile makes you fall even more in love with him. "Thank you for bringing me up here." You thank him again. "I know this is your fortress of solitude, but I feel like we are getting closer, you letting me in like this."

Marcus nods, stepping closer to you to wrap his arm around your waist. “I love you, baby.” He kisses your hair, “I’m glad I can share this place with you. It’s - it’s where I belong but life keeps bringing me back to D.C.”

“If you want….” You turn to look into his eyes. “I’ll come out here whenever you want to get away.”

Marcus nods, hesitant, but unable to say no as he looks at your beautiful face. He wants to tell you everything but he can’t. He can’t see those eyes that look at him with such love and affection turn into fear and disgust. “Wanna set up the blanket? Hiking has me starving.”

“Sure baby.” You agree quickly, sensing that something is bothering him. You pull out the blanket from your backpack and spread it on the ground. “You know…” you talk as you fuss with it. “Maybe this will become our little ritual.”

“Hopefully.” Marcus offers you a soft smile as he sits down after pulling off his backpack with your water bottles in it. “Maybe we can bring our kids here for family camping weekends.” You say and Marcus bites his lip. He doesn’t know if his condition is hereditary or not. His father passed away when he was a kid so he never knew if he had the same disposition. “Uh, yeah. Maybe.” Marcus clears his throat despite the idea of being a father making his heart swell with desire.

It’s not the response you were hoping for and you’re silent when Marcus pulls out the sandwiches and hands you the one you made for yourself. His are already in his hand. Instead of trying to keep talking, you concentrate on eating, looking out at the view.

Marcus almost feels too anxious to eat. Almost. The beast inside of him growls for more so he quickly demolishes the sandwich, moving onto the next one. “Damn. These are good, sweetheart.” He says, wanting to lighten the mood when he can sense you are upset.

“Thanks.” You don’t smile at him, finishing up your own sandwich and wiping your hands on your leggings. Maybe you were wrong about what Marcus wants and now you feel like you’re intruding on his space.

Marcus can sense that there’s something wrong. The change in the air is palpable and he hates that he can’t just tell you what he is, what he wants, how he feels. He sighs and crumbles up the bag after he finishes the last sandwich. “You wanna stay here or make our way back? I don’t wanna get caught in the storm.”

“That works for me.” You agree, biting your lip and wanting to ask Marcus if he feels like you’ve bulldozed your way into coming up here and butting into his personal time. “I think I’ll just read this afternoon if you want to nap. You didn’t sleep much last night, did you?”

Marcus is tempted to nap. That's usually what he does most of the day when he's here alone after a nonstop night. "It's so nice up here. We can come back up here another day." He says and stands up, brushing himself down and he holds his hand out towards you to help you up from the blanket.

There’s some comfort in his comment and you gladly take his hand. “Then it’s settled. I’ll read and get dinner ready, you nap.” You smile at the domesticity. “Any requests?” You had gotten a roast to put in the little oven but maybe he wasn’t feeling it.

“Anything meaty.” He chuckles as he packs up the blanket and the water bottles. “I’m lucky to have you, baby.” He says as you start to make your way back down the mountain.

“I’m glad you think so.” You admit quietly. “I was afraid I was being too pushy, asking to come up here. Intruding into your private time. I know we’re in a relationship, but I think you’re a man who likes to keep some secrets.”

Marcus tries to not react to how quickly you see right through him. He is terrified that you’ll find out the truth and run screaming away from him. “I’m a pretty open book mostly.” He chuckles, trying not to sound awkward, but failing as his stomach twists with anxiety.

“It’s okay to have secrets.” You promise him, shooting him a grin. “As long as it’s not a secret girlfriend or wife. Anything else, you tell me when you’re ready. I love you and accept you for who you are.”

Marcus closes his eyes and wishes that could be true. He knows you would never accept him if you knew he was a monster. “No secret, girlfriend, or wife.” He promises, with a chuckle. “Even I am not that good at keeping a secret like that. And you know how much of a commitment freak I am. Once I’m in, I’m all in. I don’t like cheaters.”

“I know.” You promise softly. “I don’t like cheaters either. That’s why we work so well together.” You wish you could reach out and take his hand, but that would be dangerous while on the trail. “I’m all in too. I hope you know that.”

Marcus offers you a soft smile and he walks ahead of you to help guide you through the trail. It doesn’t take long until you are in the cabin again, Marcus sitting down to take off his boots. “You want some coffee or water, babe?” He asks, wanting to look after you, reassure you that he wants to be there for you.

“Some coffee would be great.” You admit with a smile. “But don’t feel like you need to entertain me. I’ll get it.” You wave him away. “Go nap, you look tired, baby.”

Marcus is hesitant but he’s exhausted. He nods as he makes his way through to the bedroom, stripping off and groaning when he slides under the covers in the bed. He needs to rest before tonight. He’s learned that if he doesn’t nap, he’s especially ferocious when he turns. He falls asleep, unaware that you’ve headed out to the porch and he left the duffel bag on the porch.

You don’t want to move around too much, so you slip outside with your coffee and a book after getting the roast put in the oven. Sitting down and starting to read when you notice a bag off to the side. “Shit. I hope Marcus didn’t leave food in it.” You groan, hoping that it wouldn’t attract that bear. Setting your book down you move to pick it up, surprised when it’s really heavy. “What the hell?” You frown and unzip the bag, gasping when you see the heavy duty chains that are in the bag. Worried about why Marcus would have these.

Marcus is asleep, blissfully unaware of you finding the chains until he wakes up and comes into the kitchen. He sees your face and the bag on the floor and he tries to not react. “Sorry I slept so long.” He says, scratching the back of his neck as he prays you don’t ask about the chains.

You have a thousand different questions but can see that he’s not going to answer you. Or he will just lie to you. The fear in his eyes makes you wonder what the hell is going on. “That’s okay, babe.” You murmur softly, getting up and moving over to kiss him. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Marcus can tell that you’re suspicious but he’s relieved that you carried on without bringing attention to it. He sits down at the table, watching you as you work around the kitchen to finish dinner. “You’re too good to me, baby.”

"Well....I love you." You have to admit that you've wondered if Marcus has something horrible planned for you, but it doesn't even seem to be in his nature. That doesn't mean you aren't going to pretend to be asleep tonight to see what he does. Not wanting to make him suspicious, but not fully trusting that something isn't going on. Why would he have such heavy chains? Unless he locks the cabin up with them, but you doubt it. You hadn't seen them when you arrived.

Marcus looks at you, “I love you too.” He says softly, wanting you to know that he does really love you. Especially when you cast a blind eye to the bag. He watches you as you cook and he decides to open the bottle of wine he brought with him. “Want a glass?” He asks as he holds the bottle up after getting it from the cupboard.

“Sure.” You smile at him as he holds up the bottle and you have no intention of drinking any of it. Wanting to keep yourself clear headed, but you also don’t want to make him suspicious. “It will go wonderfully with the roast.”

Marcus nods, grabbing some glasses to pour out a decent amount after he uncorks the bottle and he sets the glass down. Marcus smiles at you, grabbing the plates as you pull the roast out of the oven that just barely works. He should’ve replaced it but when he’s alone, he hasn’t bothered.

Once the table is set, you slice the roast up, making sure that you just put meat on Marcus’s plate. He seems to be craving a carnivore diet and you sit down opposite his chair. “Sit down, let’s eat, baby.”

Marcus can’t help himself. He digs in before you manage to sit down with your own plate. He groans as he practically inhales the meat. “Jesus, this is amazing.” He groans as he takes a break.

You hum softly, having taken a lot less meat and filled your plate with veggies. “Want the rest of the meat babe? I made sure there’s plenty.”

Marcus finishes the plate in record time. Pushing it away once he’s done and he wipes his mouth. “Thank you babe. It was delicious.” He picks up the glass of wine, noticing that you haven’t touched yours. “You don’t like the wine?”

"No, it's -" you shake your head. "I'm sorry, my stomach is a little off kilter." You shoot him an apologetic look. "I don't think I should risk it, you know?" It's a plausible excuse for not drinking and it shouldn't make him suspicious.

Marcus nods, never one to force anyone to drink. He respects your decision so he stands up to grab you a bottle of water. “Here you go, baby.” He says and sets it down. You thank him and he sits back down while you finish eating. “I was thinking we could make some s’mores after this.”

"That would be good." You agree, knowing you would be happier if you had none of the suspicions, but it's alright. You'll build a fire and roast some marshmallows before claiming you need to sleep. To see what will happen when you are vulnerable.

****

You’ve been quiet. Marcus has noticed it and he is a little concerned. You had sat there and watched while he started the fire, only saying a few words while you cooked the marshmallows. “Are you okay, baby? You feel sick still?” Marcus asks once you’re back inside and getting ready for bed.

"I think I'm just going to pass out." You admit with a sheepish grin. One that you hope is believable. "I'm sorry that I'm putting a damper on the rest of night."

Marcus shakes his head as he sits down on the bed. “Don’t be silly, baby. It’s okay. I know you’ve not felt great. Best to get some rest.” He says as he pulls his shirt over his head. He’s gonna get into bed with you and then he’ll sneak out.

You finish getting ready for bed, trying to downplay your nervousness and you sigh softly when Marcus curls around you. "Goodnight, sweetheart." You whisper softly, hoping that he will believe that you fall asleep quickly so you can figure out what he is doing with those chains.

Marcus kisses your neck, “goodnight.” He breathes you in, sensing when you fall asleep in his arms. He gently shifts away from you, getting out of bed. He doesn’t bother redressing as he makes his way out of the cabin after picking up the duffel bag.

When Marcus had slipped from the bed, you had barely managed to keep from reacting. Tensing when you hear the slight clanking of the chains in the bag but you don't get up. You don't even open your eyes. Hearing him open the door and only then do you sit up. Wondering why he is going outside when there is a large, dangerous creature out there.

Marcus works fast to lock you in the cabin. He doesn't want the beast to try and get in, to try and hurt you. He can feel how high the moon is in the sky. He doesn't have long. He exhales shakily, locking the padlock in place just as he feels his spine start to dislocate. He howls, unable to stop himself as the transformation begins.

You shiver, hearing the howl so close to the house and fear trickles down your spine. Biting your lip and frowning. Marcus is out there and when you walk into the living room, you see the case with his gun locked inside still there. Moving to the door, you push the door open but it doesn't budge. "Marcus!"

Marcus is no longer outside. In his place is the beast he tries to contain. This cabin has been his sanctuary, the place he allows the beast to roam free to satisfy his primal urges. It helps him maintain control and right now, Marcus is not in control. He roars and arches his back as he fully transforms into the werewolf he was cursed to be from his father.

You hear monstrous sounds outside and your blood runs cold. Something is out there and your boyfriend can't protect himself. "Marcus!" You scream, shoving against the door again and again without it budging. Frantic, you turn to the shuttered windows beside the door and quickly unlatch one, opening it up and unlocking the window. You can't let him be out there alone. It's your fault. You were worried about the bear and he's locked you into the cabin, putting himself in danger.

Marcus growls, hearing a click and he doesn't have the recognition to know that you are calling his name. He wouldn't respond anyway. He's no longer the Marcus you know. He roars again, running into the clearing in front of the cabin.

Once you are on the porch, you realize exactly how bad of an idea this is. The howling of an animal makes you jump. Unable to move when a creature, a monstrous beast, breaks into the clearing. Seven feet tall when it stands on his hind legs. It looks like something out of a horror movie. A werewolf.

The wolf sniffs, turning his head towards you, and he moves fast to come over to you. Your scream echoes in the clearing and the beast slows down, slowly approaching you. You’re frozen in place, wheezing as you try to breathe but can’t. He comes closer until you can see the eyes.

You would have said that werewolves didn't exist. They were myth and legend. Designed to scare. However, you can't deny the large wolf-like creature in front of you. Larger than any wolf you've ever seen in real life and oddly humanoid in the way it can walk on its back legs. When you see the eyes, you gasp. You know those eyes. You've looked into them. Suddenly, the isolated cabin in the mountains and trips by himself make sense. "M-Marcus?"

He sniffs, innately recognizing you, and he leans closer to sniff you. His eyes widen and he whimpers, lowering his head towards you. Deep inside, Marcus is still there and he’s begging himself to keep you safe, to not scare you. He’s terrified you’re going to get in the car and run away. He wouldn’t blame you but he prays you don’t run.

"Holy shit." Your hand claps over your mouth as you stare at the creature that is apparently....your boyfriend. As if you are drawn to him, you take a step closer. The idea of diving back into the cabin disappearing as you try to rationalize this. "Oh my god.....you're a were-werewolf."

Marcus whimpers again. He loves you. He nudges his nose towards you as he bends over, the beast in him recognizing you as the woman he loves. You raise your hand, it’s shaking, and Marcus nudges his nose against your palm. “Oh my god.” You choke out, your fingers tangling into his fur and you shiver as you pet the wolf that your boyfriend had turned into. “How is this- oh my god.” You gasp in awe.

He can’t believe you’re accepting the beast inside of him. The moon is high in the sky and he whimpers softly once more, licking your hand as you turn your palm over.

“I have so many questions.” You murmur, laughing to yourself. “But you can’t answer them right now. No wonder you’ve been craving meat. I can’t believe this.”

Marcus knows he has a lot to answer but for now, he needs to let the beast roam free. He nudges your palm again before he steps back, standing at his full height, he roars out a warning for anything nearby before he steps back and runs off. He disappears through the trees, needing to run off his energy before sunrise.

“Oh my god.” You sink down onto the porch steps, nearly shaking with the knowledge that Marcus is a mythical creature. “I’ve been fucking a werewolf.” You huff out, surprised that the idea of that doesn’t horrify you like it should. You’ve seen the cheesy pornos that disguise themselves as werewolf movies. The beast taking the helpless woman under the moonlight. The thought of it is oddly erotic and you shake your head, even as you stand up to peel off your clothes.

Marcus runs for a minute until he circles back to the cabin. He enters the clearing to find you standing there, naked. His growls echoes through the forest and he approaches you slowly, confused about what you want.

You swallow nervously, wondering if this is such a good idea. Not sure how much of Marcus is conscious inside the werewolf. Or if it’s just pure animal instinct. “Hey baby.” You coo softly, calling him to you.

Marcus sniffs, smelling the arousal on your body and he is certain that you want him but he’s terrified he’s reading you wrong. He slowly approaches you until he’s close enough to touch you. His tongue comes out to lick along your neck as he bends over you.

“Oh fuck.” You gasp, unused to how rough his tongue is as it laps against your skin. Its warm and wet, making you shiver as the wind blows and cools your skin down. “I- if there’s something you want, I want it too.” You murmur quietly. “I don’t know- are you, do you - have you ever….” You trail off, embarrassed and unsure if he even understands you. “Have you ever fucked someone when you’re in this state?”

Marcus shakes his head, an intrigued whine escaping his mouth as he nuzzles your skin. He whimpers, licking you again but lower, his tongue flicking over your nipple.

“Ohhhhhh.” You moan at the contact and your fingers slide though his fur again, Rubbing his muzzle.affectionately. “I don’t know if you understand, but I love you.”

Marcus does understand, deep down, and he loves you more than anything. Especially when you are accepting him. He slides his tongue along your skin, tasting the salt and sweat and you are delicious but not in an edible way. He can’t get enough of you as he licks and licks at you, flicking his tongue over your nipple.

“Marcus.” You moan again, letting him lick at your skin, feeling yourself getting wetter by the moment. You will let him do whatever he wants, understanding that he’s the dominant one in this encounter. “I want all of you. Even when you are like this.”

Marcus knows he has to be gentle, he’s never been with anyone in this state. Isolating himself. He’s not even sure if he can but he wants to make you feel good. He shifts to kneel down, his tongue sliding along your leg until his muzzle is pressed between your thighs.

“Ohhhhh.” Human Marcus is a very generous lover, never hesitating to go down on you and make you cum. Actually enjoying it rather than just doing it because he feels like he has to like some of the men you had dated. You don’t know why you are surprised that wolf Marcus is nuzzling at your cunt to spread your legs wide for his tongue

When your tangy arousal hits his tongue, he groans deep in his throat and his tongue slides deeper. His werewolf tongue is longer so he pushes deep inside of you, curling deep until his muzzle is pressed against your folds. He is unable to believe you trust him enough to do this. That you love him enough to do this.

“Fuck!” You Yelp when his tongue pushes deep and your fingers grip his hair tight. “It’s so- fuck your tongue is so long like this.” You whine, rolling your hips down onto his muzzle even more, begging for him to continue. “You don’t have to.” You add, knowing that you don’t need to force him to do something he doesn’t want because you’re curious.

Marcus - the beast - wants you to cum. His clawed hands grab your hips, rocking you on top of his muzzle as his wet nose presses against your flesh, his tongue curling deep until he growls, wanting to feel you fall apart above him.

It doesn’t take long with that tongue curled up and reaching every inch inside your cunt. Your cry hoarse as you start to shake and tremble, holding onto the large creature while your legs nearly give out.

Marcus growls as you cum, lapping up every drop like the hungry beast he is. His claws dig into your flesh a little and he laps at you until you’re pushing on his muzzle. He doesn’t know what you want next but his cock is hard. Not like his human cock, this one is bigger, hanging hard between his hairy legs.

“Oh fuck.” Your eyes widen slightly when you see his hard cock sticking up when the creature rocks back. “That’s….impressive.” You’re dripping wet from your orgasm and his tongue and you cunt clenches at the thought of taking this monster inside you. “On my hands and knees.” You mutter to yourself as you kneel down on the ground in front of him. “Unless you want my mouth on you?”

Marcus growls, shaking his head, and he snorts, not wanting you to put your mouth on him when he’s in this state. He kneels, his claws digging into the dirt as he shuffles behind you, his large cock pressing against the back of your thigh.

“Oh fuck.” You have a feeling you will be saying that a lot. Still, you push back against the wall of fur encouragingly. “Take me.” You whimper. “I’m yours.”

Marcus doesn’t hesitate, sensing how much you want him, he can smell it on you. He growls and leans close, his cock nudging your ass a few times until he’s able to notch it at your entrance. Animal instincts take over as he pushes deep without giving you a moment, his roar echoing through the trees.

Your choked cry is nearly silent, unable to breathe as the wolf fills you beyond anything you’ve ever had before. Feeling like he’s pushed up into your throat. It hurts and feels amazing all at the same time until you feel like you’re going to pass out.

Marcus hisses, the tight cunt around his cock is wet and hot and it drives him deeper into the animal inside of him. His claws dig into the ground as he braces himself so he can thrust even harder into you. He growls, teeth flashing under the light of the full moon when he sets a harsh pace.

You’re being fucked by a werewolf. At least the movies have the animalistic pace right, the wolf slamming his cock into you so harshly it’s pushing you up along the ground. Scrapping your hands and knees. Still, you don’t cry out for him to stop. Loving the roughness of the animal.

He is rough, unrelenting as he thrusts deep and hard. Marcus would’ve slowed down, sensing your discomfort but the wolf only wants to hear you cum, wants to cum himself. His fur presses against your ass with each thrust, growls escaping his muzzle as he leans down to press his nose to your back, inhaling your scent.

You feel the hot breath of the wolf on your neck. Making you gasp as you rock forward again. Your fingers digging into the dirt as he takes what he wants, filling your cunt again and again. At least his cock isn’t covered in hair, you don’t know if you would have done that. “Ma-Marcus!” You Yelp when he hits something deep inside you.

Hearing his name spurs him on. Hitting that spot again and again, it’s feral and beyond comprehension. Marcus has given way to the beast inside of him and he wants you to cum. His teeth scrap over your neck, his hot breath puffing over you as he thrusts again and again.

“Ohhh, oh fuuuuuuuuck.” Feeling his teeth in your neck sends you over the edge. The danger makes your entire body burst in pleasure as your pussy tries to clamp down on the beast’s cock. Feeling him drill into you as you gush around him and soak him in your cum.

Marcus growls into your skin, almost a roar that echoes into the forest as he keeps fucking into you. His cock twitching as he gets closer to his own orgasm. Grunts escape along with snarls until he finally pushes deep. His roar reverberates as his cock pulses while he fills you with his cum.

You almost black out with pleasure. Collapsing into the dirt and unable to move as his thick cum pushes out of you with every rock of the beast’s hips. “Fuck”

Marcus pumps himself through his orgasm and he hisses when you slump down into the dirt and he licks along your neck, tasting your sweat. He whimpers, lost in the haze of pleasure as he laps at your skin.

“‘m good.” You slur out against the ground. “I-god.” You can’t help but start to breathlessly chuckle, unable to believe that this happened. You can feel it, you’ll feel him for days. “Love you.” You murmur, hoping Marcus can understand that in his current state.

Marcus whines softly, able to let you know the beast feels the same, and he slowly pulls out of you. The beast takes full control again as he sniffs you, a pleased whine escaping his lips as he smells you covered in his scent. He stands up on his hind legs, a howl echoing in the valley before he runs for the tree line, the beast taking over.

It takes you some time to be able to move again, literally crawling over to the steps before you can get off the ground and you wonder if it will be morning before Marcus changes back to his human form. You climb back in the window, sure that you will need a long soak in the bath after this.

Marcus runs around until he feels the sun starting to rise and his beast gives up control to allow him to transition back to his human form. He ends up unlocking the house and comes inside to find you asleep, no doubt worn out from the rough treatment. He showers and slides under the covers, curling around you.

You hum softly, stirring when you feel the warmth at your back. “Marcus?” You ask, hearing him hum.

“Go to sleep, baby.” You know he’s tired after running around all night, so you snuggle back into his embrace and close your eyes again.

Marcus is snoring as he lays on his back, your head on his chest as you sleep until his snort wakes you up. You kiss his chest, listening to his heartbeat as he rests after an active night.

He doesn’t look any different than he normally does, just as handsome as you’ve always found him but you feel like you are closer. You know his secret and you lean forward and kiss his chest gently. “Man or wolf, I want to be with you.” You whisper.

He wakes up to you cooking. The smell makes his stomach grumble as he sniffs the air. Last night hits him, memories of you taking him as the wolf make his heart pound and he is desperate to talk to you but he also wants to run away in case you regret it. Deciding to face it, he gets out of bed and pees, brushing his teeth before he makes his way into the kitchen.

“Morning.” You smile as you look up to find Marcus creeping into the kitchen. “Breakfast is almost ready but the coffee is made.” He’s got a strange look on his face, so you don’t make a joke about moving a little slow because of last night. That seems like it might spook him. “I made steak and eggs. I don’t know if you still need a lot of meat.”

“I, uh, will probably have one more day. The moon cycle…I only need meat when it’s a full moon.” He reveals, “and I’m starving.” He chuckles softly, shifting to sit down as you watch him. “I- about last night….” He trails off, terrified that you’re going to hate him.

“I found out why you come up to the cabin alone.” You fill in, biting your lip and swallowing slightly. “I didn’t- you don’t think I’m crazy, do you? After- well, because of stripping down and basically begging a werewolf to fuck me?”

Marcus stares at you. “You think you’re crazy? After you- baby, I’m a fucking werewolf.” He chokes, “and you - you didn’t run or try to shoot me. You’re not crazy. I am. Because - because I cannot believe you trusted me. You didn’t run away. You accepted me.” His eyes sting with unshed tears, “you loved me when I was - I am a monster.”

“You aren’t a monster.” You frown, setting down the spatula and moving the pan off the stove so you can move over to Marcus. “You are an amazing man. I have questions, of course I do, but the fact that you are a werewolf doesn’t change who you are every time the moon isn’t full.”

Marcus sniffs, tears sliding down his cheeks and he shakes his head. “I- my father - he was the same. It’s only during the full moon. It’s why I come here to allow the beast to be free. If he’s free during this time, I get control the rest of the time.” He explains croakily.

Reaching out, you wipe the tears away and move so you can sit in his lap. Your pussy is sore but you ignore it to wrap your arms around his neck. “So….does that mean that our kids would be like you?” You ask curiously.

“I don’t know. That’s why- it’s why I’ve been so hesitant to take the next step with you. To be all in when you discuss kids. I- I don’t know if they’d be like me. If it’s just on the male side or if a daughter would be the same. I didn’t - I know you wouldn’t want to take that risk.” Marcus chokes, burying his face in your neck.

The man who turns into a beast, one that could kill you, kill anyone, is crying into your neck as you rub his back. “Baby….I love you. I know that you would protect our kids if they did turn.”

Marcus pulls back to look at you, his lower lip trembling. “You- you don’t want to run for the hills?” He asks and when you shake your head, he reaches up to cup your cheeks. “I love you. More than anything in the world. If you want to be mine. I’ll marry you next week. I want to have babies with you. I’m all in.” He promises, nudging his nose against yours.

“I’m all in too.” You promise softly. Marcus might be a werewolf, people may tell you that you’re crazy, but you’d rather howl at the moon with him than risk losing him. “Let’s eat breakfast and then we can spend the day in bed and you can tell me about all of this while my poor little pussy recovers so the wolf can have me again tonight.”

Marcus kisses your cheek softly, “you don’t have to. I can lock you in. He won’t get to you. I won’t get to you.” He promises, wanting to make sure that you’re safe. “You don’t have to do that again if you don’t want to.”

You squirm slightly, biting your lip. “I liked it.” You admit quietly, sure that he will think you’re crazy. “It was….feral. I loved how possessive you were last night.”

His cock twitches beneath you, unable to hide the fact that he likes that you liked it. “I was not in control. The beast…he wanted to claim you. He wanted to mark you as his.” Marcus confesses, “I wanted to make sure you were mine.” He admits the more feral side of him.

“I’m yours.” You promise, kissing his lips and grinning at him. “Whenever the beast wants me, he can have me. Whenever you want me with you when you change, I’ll be here.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before we came out here. I just - I didn’t want to lose you. I love you baby. I love you. I want to be yours and be with you. If you’ll have me.” He says softly, kissing your hair.

“Of course I will.” You giggle quietly and turn his head to press your lips against his. “You, me and the moon make three.” You tease. “I love you and your alter ego.”

Marcus chuckles at your teasing and he nudges his nose against yours. “I love you, baby. So much. I want to spend the rest of our lives together. Have a family together. You’re everything to me…to us. I love you.” Marcus murmurs, kissing you softly again. He never imagined he’d find a woman who could ever love the monster inside of him but he found you. The woman he loves who accepts all of him, even the wolf. He couldn’t ask for more.

#pedro pascal #marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike smut #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike imagine #marcus pike fanfic #werewolf!Marcus Pike #werewolf au #monster fucking

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 10 months

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Every Color Illuminates

1200 Words for 1200 Followers #1

A/N: Hi friends! Welcome to the 12-A-Palooza! This event is my way of saying thank you for sticking with me. Your support and kindness toward me and my writing is out of this world and I’m grateful for every last one of you! Kicking it off with a fun one today. I definitely just leaned HARD into this AU, so I hope you all enjoy!

Warnings: none really, just a smidge of angst

Requested by: @haylzcyon - Song Choice: Spectrum - Character Choice: Marcus Pike (thank you SO MUCH for this one, Hayley!! I know he’s your numero uno, so I hope you enjoy this! 💚)

Summary: Your job keeps you surrounded by some of the most stunning pieces of art known to man. Too bad you can only see them - and the whole world for that matter - in black and white.

I need a break.

Closing your eyes, you sank into your chair and sighed. It was only 11:30, but you were considering taking your lunch an hour early. You had no meetings that day, and your next tour wasn’t until 2. None of the emails in your inbox were so time sensitive that they couldn’t wait for you to get back.

I need to clear my head.

The morning tour had been an inquisitive group, wringing you dry with questions and requests for detailed descriptions. They were precisely the kind of guests that you took the job as CA to accommodate - passionate, longing for connection, searching for understanding, new means of expression. You were proud to be the one to guide them, privileged to be the one that got to see them moved to tears when they found what they were looking for in the works in gilded frames or on marble pedestals. Art was a wide, wild world of beauty and sorrow, romance, revolution, pain and pleasure. The waters were deep for anyone to navigate, especially those who hadn’t matched and were limited to shades of gray.

You were grateful to be able to gift them color, even if only for a few moments. Even if it left you feeling drained and achingly alone sometimes.

As someone who still saw the world in grayscale, you were uniquely suited for the position. Everything that you knew about color had been painted for you by someone else, too. You were the first Graysight Color Ambassador that the National Gallery of Art had ever employed. If guest satisfaction surveys were any indication, you were also the best, Graysight or not.

You loved your job, even when it reminded you that out of everyone you’d ever met, none of them had been your match. None of them had made such an impact on your life that your eyes had opened to the full spectrum of light and color. For as good as you were at translating hues into feelings, you’d never actually seen or felt them yourself.

There were some days when you wondered if you ever would, or if you would remain in monochrome solitude forever.

Not all matches were romantic. They happened whenever two souls that were meant to share their lives with one another met. Sometimes they were instantaneous, a flood of shining color crashing through both of you the moment your match said your name or touched your skin for the first time. Other times it was gradual, grays giving way to muted tints until eventually they became red, blue, orange, green and every variation and combination.

You’d witnessed it happen, two people meeting for the first time at the museum - whether predetermined or by chance - and immediately being surrounded by colors, swaths of new sensations. You watched as people fell into one another’s arms, their faces seeming to glow with the knowledge that they had found their match, they had colored their world. And you were overjoyed for them when it happened - like it had that morning in your Graysight tour of the Rothko exhibit.

That didn’t make it easier, that happiness you felt for others who found their way out of the shadows while you were still relegated to them.

I just need to go for a walk.

You’d been in your office for less than five minutes, and were about to leave it again to take your break when you heard a knock. The director’s voice accompanied the sound, your name coming through the mahogany door that you knew was a reddish brown but could only see as grayish black. “Are you in there?”

Yes, but I don’t want to be.

Trying not to groan, you rubbed your eyes and nodded, giving your response. “Yeah, Michelle.” You dropped your hands to your desktop, releasing a breath.”Come on in.”

“Oh, good, I-” The door swung open and your boss appeared, her face falling when her eyes landed on yours. “You okay?” She came into your office and closed the door behind her, forehead furrowed in concern. “Your eyes are red.”

You waved one hand and gave her a smile that you hoped would cover the sting you still felt. “There was a match on the morning tour.” Rolling your still-watery eyes, you let out a stunted laugh. “Always gets me, you know?”

That seemed to be a good enough response, Michelle’s lop-sided frown being replaced by a grin. “Oh! Wonderful!”

“Yeah.” You nodded, melancholy still lingering in your chest. “It was.” Clearing your throat, you blinked. “I was thinking of taking my break early today, unless you needed something?”

Please say no.

“Actually-”

Fuck.

“I know you just finished the Rothko exhibit, and I know it’s hard for you to dive right back in, but-” She sucked air through her teeth. “There’s someone who needs a private tour ASAP, and I need you on this one.”

Your silence spoke for you, so she went on.

“The FBI is sending someone from their art crimes department.” She shook her head, gesturing with one hand. “They’re investigating a fraud case, but the Agent in charge isn’t familiar enough with real Rothkos to be able to spot the fakes, so he needs a crash course. Since we’re the closest museum currently showing the collection…” She trailed off, shrugging.

You tried not to wince. “Michelle, can’t Charlie or one of the regular guides take him through?”

She clicked her tongue. “Sorry, but it has to be you.” Before you could ask why, she continued. “The Agent requested our Graysight CA.”

That means…

You assumed someone working for the FBI’s art crimes division would have to have matched, would need to see color. But then, most people would say the same about you and your profession. It seemed that you had at least one thing in common.

“O-okay. What time?”

She tilted her head from one side to the other, giving you a sheepish look. “He’s here now.”

Oh.

Standing, you smoothed out your top - a blue one, or so the label told you. “Well, can’t keep the FBI waiting, right?”

You followed Michelle down to the roped off exhibit. “He’s right through there. When you’re finished, take the rest of the day off. Charlie can do your 2:00.”

With that she left, and then you saw him.

A tall, broad shouldered man in a dark suit walked towards you. Even from a distance you could tell that he had a kind face. His eyes started smiling before his lips did, but they caught up as soon as he was in front of you.

“Agent Marcus Pike.” He introduced himself, right hand extended for you to shake.

You smiled and told him your name.

But the moment he repeated it back to you, when your palms met, both of you gasped as the room around you exploded in prismatic color.

Brown. His eyes are brown.

“Marcus?” You whispered his name as purple and red swam in your peripheral, safe and warm overwhelming your thoughts. “I… don’t think you need me to-“

“No. I do.” He said your name again to send another shimmering rush through you. “I definitely do.”

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be added to or removed from the tag list, please feel free to let me know. You can also fill out the form on my Masterlist! :)

Tags: @something-tofightfor @littlemisspascal @mishasminion360 @nyctophiliiiiaaa @alraedesigns @practicalghost @tanzthompson @amb11 @harriedandharassed @woodlandmouth @swtaura @thescarletfang @trickstersp8 @princessxkenobi @imtryingmybeskar @wildmoonflower @mswarriorbabe80 @theredwritingwitch @silverstarsandsuns @pedro-pedrito-pascalito @jedi-in-crocs @hannahkatharinee

#12 a palooza!#1200 followers 1200 words #marcus pike x female reader #marcus pike x f!reader #pedrostories #marcus pike x you #soulmate au #marcus pike the mentalist #marcus pike fic #pedro pascal character #every color illuminates #SoundCloud

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thetriumphantpanda · 3 months

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LOST IN OUR VICES | ONE

Chapter Summary | A chance encounter with a handsome stranger sets off a chain of events that could all end in disaster. It's hard to say no when it feels so good though.

Pairing | Professor!Marcus Pike x Student F!Reader

Chapter Warnings | Dubious ethical relationship between a professor & student, Marcus tells a lie, mentions of food and alcohol, mentions of academia, academic failure and strained parental relationships, gratuitous descriptions of London because I live here and I love it, some heavy making out and some heavy petting, no use of y/n.

Authors Note | WELL HERE SHE IS. I have no idea how to tell you how much I am loving this so far. Professor Pike has well and truly rotted my brain so y'all have to suffer with me okay? It's gonna be fun, I promise. I would LOVE to know what you all think about this so feel free to scream at me incumbents, reblogs and asks! As always, a huge thank you to @undercoverpena for reading this over and making sure it isn't utter tripe. ILY. And to @saradika for the beautiful divider.

Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs for writing updates.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

He’s seen her there every day he’s visited the past month. Sitting on the bench, looking up at the same sculpture - a woman carved from marble - sketching into a notepad. He stands this time and watches as her finger tucks some hair behind her ear, brushing it out of her face. She looks up and tilts her head a little, eraser end of her pencil sitting between her teeth as she thinks, tracers a portion of the statue before her head is back down, looking at the page as she continues to draw.

She’s beautiful, there’s no denying it, she’s been beautiful every time he’s seen her. There’s something lonely about her too, the way she sits there on her own, artefacts and artworks for company. She’s just like him really, uprooted from a life he was no longer satisfied with, four years of a PhD and now the letters of Dr before his name. Moved to London, a new city, a fresh start as he’d coined it to his family, but he’s been here three years now, and not one thing that he wanted from his move have materialised. He knows the therapy was good for him, he knows that his haste to find someone was probably what was making him scare people off, but he doesn’t much like the other side of the coin either - a modest flat in London to himself, a small group of friends who sit around and drink beer and droll on about their academic passions, but no-one he can really call his own right now.

Dr. M Pike. Professor of Art History. That’s what his doorplate says, one of many in the small corridor at UCL. Three years and he’s still not quite sure how he made it here, or if it’s really what he wants, but it beats whatever he was doing back in D.C. that’s for sure. It had seemed like the best thing to do at the time, but when Lisbon had told him she wasn’t coming, everything about it seemed wrong, soiled somehow, by the life he’d built in his mind being torn up by someone who, looking back, had never really wanted him in the first place.

He thought about talking to her the first day he’d seen her, but then realised he was actually here to prepare for one of his teaching seminars, so squirrelled himself away to another room instead. The second time he’d seen her, she’d looked too engrossed on whatever she was working on, and then every other time, he’s convinced himself she’s here for peace, not to be bothered by some random man. But there’s something about the way she is today that makes the pull harder to resist, so he says fuck it, shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and walks over.

“You come here often?”

It’s an American accent that pulls you from your work. His voice jolts your hand, makes you press your pencil into paper too hard and at the wrong angle. You suck in a deep breath, try not to think about the hours of work he’s just ruined by startling you. You’re about to turn around and complain when he comes into your vision.

He’s tall, broad shoulders covered in a light dress shirt, two buttons undone so you can see a flash of tanned skin and a smattering of hair. It’s tucked into dark jeans, a belt keeping them tight to his trim waist. And then there’s his face - a beard, but only just and friendly brown eyes, a full mouth too. He’s handsome, there’s no way around it.

“Sorry, that was awful,” The mystery man scratches the back of his neck, “I just come here a lot and I think I’ve seen you here every time for the past month.”

You smile at that, that you’re someone he’s been picking out amongst the crowd of tourists who always come here, someone familiar to him, even if he’s not the same to you.

“I’m just working on something.” You shrug, letting your palm slyly cover the sketch you’ve been making.

The man walks in front of you slightly, takes a seat on the vacant spot on the bench and looks up at the woman carved from marble, “She’s beautiful.” He muses.

“She is.” You agree, looking over the curves of her hips, the way the marble has been carved to make it look like her clothes are wet, sticking to her breasts like she’s just climbed out of the Aegean Sea.

“You like sculpture then?”

“I do,” You nod, turning your body a little towards him, “It’s not my first artistic passion, but I’m studying for my PhD at the moment and it’s all about the female form in marble.”

“Brains as well as beauty,” He smirks a little at you, “Sounds interest though, where are you studying?”

“UCL,” You beam, because you’re proud, it wasn’t easy, you’d been rejected for your first choice research project the first time around, encouraged to choose something else from the feedback, but you were there now, and that’s what mattered, “What about you?” You ask, “What do you do that means you have to be here as much as me?”

He shrugs a little, “I teach.”

It’s vague but you don’t press, he owes you nothing, so you let it lie. You turn back to the sculpture in front of you, when your stomach grumbles. You look down at your watch. It’s 2pm and you’ve not eaten anything yet.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.” You reply meekly.

“Want to grab something to eat?” He asks, “I know a great Italian place in Soho if you fancy it?”

You look at him, eyes tightening a little. It’s been so long since anyone has shown you an ounce of interest, and now the beautiful man in a shirt and dress pants wants to take you for lunch, it all seems a bit too good to be true. But, you can hear the voice of your therapist tell you to say yes to more things, take more risks in life because not all of them are going to turn out to be bad, so you flip the front of your notepad over to cover your drawing and reach down to pick up your backpack.

“Lead the way.”

He doesn’t disappoint. Over the course of a glass of wine and a bowl of olives, you coax out his name. It’s Marcus. He’s got a PhD in Art History and moved to London from D.C. three years ago. He lives alone, near Notting Hill, he likes it because he can go searching for antiques on the weekend. He wants a dog, but he spends too much time out of the house to justify one. He likes to read and he can cook, but prefer eating out or ordering in because he’s not mastered the art of cooking for one.

When a waiter sets down your second glass of wine and your food - gnocchi with pesto and bacon for you and carbonara from Marcus, he turns the conversation back to you, sipping wine as he ask you where you live - Willesden Green, so not far from you - who you live with - myself, my dad was so proud I got into my course he pays for my rent, it’s the only way he can show he loves me - what you like to do with your free time - free time? When I have it, I read, or I walk, or I sit and draw sculptures in museums.

You don’t know whether it’s the wine or not, but the dark winter sinks in, outside cloaked in black, lights dimmed inside, and it makes him even more handsome than he was before. He makes you laugh, with his stories of his own PhD stress, how he would walk the streets of D.C. at 3am to get coffee and pancakes on his way back from the library and then collapse into bed and sleep for two hours until his alarm would wake him up and he would go all the way back to the library to do it again.

“If I ever get to that point,” You muse, stabbing a piece of gnocchi onto your fork, “I don’t think I’ll have the will to make it through.”

“You seem far too organised to me to fall into the bad habits I had.” He shrugs, looking at you over his own glass of wine as you take a bite of your food, too busy watching him to really notice the angle of your fork, green sauce smearing on the corner of your mouth as you fight it into your mouth.

Before you have a chance to reach down and grab the napkin from your lap, Marcus is reaching over the table, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the stray sauce away. It’s something that under any other circumstance would make you feel uncomfortable, but all it really makes you want to do is kiss him, especially when he apologises profusely for being so forward.

He pays for dinner, insists on it really, hidden behind the excuse that he knows how hard it is to live whilst studying. He takes you for cocktails at a bar on the end of Old Compton Street - orders himself an old fashioned whilst you opt for an amaretto sour. The bar is dark and busy, the only seats are in a corner, sat so close together your knees are touching and your shoulder is slightly leaned into his side.

“So, you said you got rejected from your first choice course?” He muses, taking a short sip of his drink.

You shrug with a nod, “I wanted to research the impressionist movement,” You start to explain, “I love Monet and Renoir but I think my research application was too broad,” Sipping your own drink you carry on talking, “There’s a great academic at UCL, Professor Pike, I was desperate to have him as my supervisor, but it wasn’t meant to be.”

You turn your head a little, watching as Marcus swallows on nothing, quickly taking another sip of his drink.

“It’s okay,” You hasten to add, “I guess if I’m not writing thousands of words about it, it won’t make me hate what I love most.”

“Smart,” Is what he says with a smirk, “You would have given him a run for his money anyway.”

“Do you know him?” You ask, “I know all of you academic types are familiar with each other.”

He swallows on nothing again, “I’ve heard of him but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

You both order another drink, sit around talking about nothing much at all, slowly moving closer as the bar gets busier, you tell yourself it’s just so you can hear him better, but he smells good, some kind of musky cologne that suits him really well, so you don’t complain about soaking it up.

When it gets late, he offers to take you home, keep you company on the tube. You know it’s not really necessary, you’ve never felt particularly unsafe walking home from the station, but if it means spending more time with him, then you don’t really mind. He lets you take the only free seat on the tube, standing in the aisle just in front of your knees so he can keep talking to you, and when you reach the other side, he walks close to you, puts a hand on your lower back which you can feel through your jacket when a group of people walk past you a little too close. He even insists on walking you to your door.

It’s quiet in the building, like it usually is. It’s only recently been built and you think you’re one of only a few people who are currently living there. You pluck your keys from your coat pocket when you reach your door, leaning your back against it.

“This is me.”

“Nice place.”

“Yeah, although I usually prefer places with more character.”

He’s stood right in front of you, rocking on his heels, that same nervous hand on the back of his neck as this afternoon, “I know this might seem weird, but would you like to go on a date sometime?”

You can help but snort a laugh, shaking your head a little, before you meet his eyes, “This wasn’t a date?” You ask coyly.

He smirks a little, cheeks flushing a little, “Did you want it to be a date?”

“I wouldn’t have let you take me for lunch if I didn’t,” You say, “But there is one thing missing.”

“Oh yeah?” He hums, “What’s that?”

Instead of speaking, you take a step forward, hands gripping the lapels of his jacket as you press up onto your toes and plant your lips on his. It’s clumsy and it’s impulsive, but you’ve wanted to do it all day. You can feel his arms wrapping around your back, dragging your body flush to his as he opens his mouth against yours right as you do the same. He tastes like mint from the gum he’s been chewing and the whisky from his drinks - it’s all you can think about as he walks you back, presses you against the door as his tongue meets with yours.

You’re thankful no-one is around. Your arms move from his jacket to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the curls there as you tilt your head to one side, a slight smacking sound from your lips as the disconnect, only to come back together seconds later. He’s good at this, you think, as his hands drop from your back to rest in the pockets on the back of your jeans, palms warm through the material. You can feel him squeeze you there a little, and you’re so close to saying fuck it and inviting him in, because if his lips are this good against yours, you can’t imagine what they’d be like in other places.

Marcus is the one that pulls away from you, resting his forehead gently to yours. You’re both breathless and you’re itching to press your mouth back to his.

“I should go.” He breathes against your mouth, pressing his lips to your in a chaste kiss.

“Yeah,” You agree, “You should.”

He steps back, takes the warmth of his palms with him, but reaches in to his pocket and hands his phone to you, “Put your number in here and I’ll call you.”

So you do, press the eleven digits into his phone along with your name and then kiss him once more before he’s turning on his heel and walking away, leaving you with a dull ache between your thighs that you’re working on relieving within five minutes of getting inside. You’re fucked.

Marcus curses himself as he settles into the seat on the bus. It’s late enough that it’s not too busy, no-one sitting next to him as he leans his head back and runs his hand over his face. He already knows he’s fucked up. The words Professor Pike and rejected from my first choice spinning around in his brain as he watches parts of North London flash past the window on his ride home.

Why hadn’t he stopped it then? He knows the rules, knows that even though he doesn’t teach her, any kind of relationships with students, no matter how mature, are off limits. And how is he supposed to keep the facade up now? It’s only a matter of time before she puts two and two together and figures out who he really is.

You’re sweet and you’re smart and you’re fucking beautiful and the best kisser he thinks he’s ever met. You have so much in common with him that it actually hurts him a little and one stupid choice to keep lying to you and the fucking ethics policy are going to keep him from something he thinks would actually be fucking good for him.

He thinks for a second, pulling out his phone and looking at your contact card that he should probably just delete your number. It’s for the best for everyone. He could avoid the museum for a while, keep his head low on campus, he knows he can avoid you. But with his finger hovering over the delete confirmation, he finds he doesn’t have the strength to do it. Stuffs his phone back in his pocket and tries to will his mind to forget the way you’d gasped into his mouth when his hands had squeezed at the swell of your ass, or the way your lips had been soft against his when he’d kissed you.

Then, led in bed, frustrations sorted by his own hand, he picks up his phone and damns himself to hell with a single text.

How about a walk around the National Gallery and dinner this weekend?

#Marcus Pike x Reader #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x f!reader #Marcus Pike smut #Marcus Pike #marcus pike fanfiction #Marcus Pike fanfic #Marcus Pike fic #Pedro pascal #Marcus Pike Pedro Pascal #the mentalist #the mentalist fic #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #Marcus Pike fluff #Marcus Pike au #pedro characters #pedrostories

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atinylittlepain · 4 months

Text

PART TWO

marcus pike x f!reader

no masterlist for this man, good luck to this man - read part one tho it's fun

warnings | 18+ smut, sucking and fucking and also angst, mentions of sex work, marcus is a freak ass sugar daddy with a cunty lil blackberry and a bmw vroom vroom

note: this is OLD, this is from the ARCHIVE, leave me alone and also i love you muah kiss for you

@idolatrybarbie come get your juice

....................................

People are staring. Backpacks held in slack hands, necks craned around to catch a glimpse of the beemer pulled up at the curb outside the library, sleek silver rims glinting in the afternoon light. But it’s the man leaning up against the side of the car that’s really piquing people’s interest.

“Hey, baby, you ready to go?” A kiss to her cheek before his lips catch hers, a quick smack that she doesn’t let deepen under so many watchful eyes.

“Hi, Marcus, thank you for picking me up, but you could’ve just met me at my apartment, it’s no big deal.” He scoffs at that, his aviators slipping down his nose as he squints at her.

“You know I don’t like you riding public transportation, it’s not–” She cuts him off with another kiss, rubbing her palm up and down the lapel of his suit jacket.

“Not safe, I know. But I’ve been getting around just fine on the bus for a while now and I’ve yet to get murdered. So I don’t think you have to worry about it.” He chuckles, pressing his sunglasses back up before opening the passenger side door for her, all ease as he leans over the top of the door to steal one more kiss as she ducks into the BMW.

Things have been different, and good, since she met Marcus. She had been a bit surprised when he called only a few hours after he dropped her off at her apartment that morning.

“Do I look like a complete dope calling you this soon?”

“I kinda like it actually. You aren’t one to play games, huh?” A laugh crackling over the phone and a sigh.

“I guess I have a bit of a one-track mind. When I want something I gotta go after it– and I just sounded like a total tool saying that, didn’t I?”

“Coming from anyone else, I’d say yes. But I think you’re a little too sweet to really be a tool. So, are you gonna ask me out or what?” Another laugh, her smile broadening at the sound.

“You’re gonna be the boss here, aren’t you?”“Count on it, babe.”

It’s been a little over a month since he called, and they’ve been seeing each other a lot, enough for her to have learned a considerable amount more about Marcus Pike. First and foremost, he’s a romantic, almost painfully so, flowers and good morning texts, dates to the arthouse theater to see classic movies about love triumphant, followed by meals at restaurants that could wipe her rent money for the month with one main course. That’s the second thing she’s learned about him, he likes to take care of her. It had started innocently enough, after the first time he took her to one of those aforementioned swanky restaurants and she expressed concern that she had stuck out like a sore thumb in the upscale space, it feeling impossible for her to dress nice enough to fit in. He had her in the BMW and on the way to a trail of boutiques before she could even protest, and she ended that day with an overwhelming number of shopping bags, tufts of tissue paper stamped with the names of brands she had never dreamed of buying for herself. And it had only escalated from there, from meals out to fresh sets of paint and easels to jewelry dripping in silver and gold, infamous powder blue boxes with satin white bows that always reveal something fit to make her head spin it’s so dazzling. And today is no different, a gift waiting for her on the plush leather of the passenger seat, Marcus glancing at her as he weaves through DC traffic, trying to catch her reaction when she opens it.

“Oh my god, Marcus. It’s– it’s so lovely. It must have cost a fortune, though. I couldn’t possibly–” He cuts her off with a light squeeze to her thigh where his palm is curled, lips crooking in a grin though he keeps his eyes on the road.

“Don’t worry about that. Just wanted to get you something nice. And I was thinking you could wear it tonight to dinner, if you like it?” How this man manages to thread confidence with his shyness is still beyond her, an endearing combination that only makes her want to figure him out more. She leans over the console, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before settling back down in her seat.

“I love it and I’d love to wear it tonight. Thank you.” She holds the bracelet up, letting it catch the fading afternoon light, a perfect string of diamonds glinting and glaring in the sun. It’s the same dance every time, she says she couldn’t possibly, and he tells her she absolutely can, and then she ends up with something shiny and expensive around her wrist, her neck, dangling from her earlobes, or flickering on her fingers. All she can figure is that whatever higher-up government type he is, he must be really really high up to be throwing money around like this.

“I’ll be back down in a minute, just need to grab my bag and then I’m all yours.” It’s Memorial Day weekend, three whole days off for the both of them, and Marcus has asked her to spend it all with him, something she was more than happy to agree to.

She pauses for a moment in her bathroom, swiping quick knuckles under her eyes, her week of exams showing in the dark circles resting there, and the late nights at the club certainly aren’t helping either. It’s a touchy subject for them, for him, and she knows it. She tries to reassure him that it’s just business, good money, but it hadn’t been just business with him, and she understands why he always gets a bit stiff when she mentions that she has a shift.

“All set?” She hums an mmhmm, Marcus taking her bag from her to tuck into the trunk before they get on their way to his place.

Logan Circle, one of the trendiest neighborhoods in DC, beautiful brownstones framed by sleepy-looking trees and winding parks. It had caught her off guard the first time he brought her over to his place, leading her by the hand up the steps of one of those brownstones, all twining ivy and high-arched windows, all his. He had offered her a sheepish grin and a shrug when she had quirked her eyebrows at him, explaining it away as one of the perks from the Bureau.

She still feels a bit out of place amongst the sleek, dark wood, though he’s quick to distract her from it with a warm palm on her back and an easy smile.

“Reservation’s at seven so we have a little time to rest up if that sounds good to you?” His hands thread together around her waist, pulling her close enough to lay a kiss to her forehead.

“Is this your very nice way of telling me I look tired?” That’s another thing she’s learned about him, just how easy it is to throw him off, make him blush, a nervous laugh bubbling up in his chest.

“No, I just know how hard you’ve been working lately to get your school year wrapped up and– and at the club–” She gives him a look that he knows means don’t start. He had brought it up last week over the phone, when she couldn’t say yes to dinner plans because of a shift at Pandora’s.

“Well what if– what if you didn’t have to work anymore?”

“That’d be amazing, and while we’re at it, I’d also like a unicorn. It’s just not a possibility for me right now, Marc, I’m sorry.”

“But what if it was a possibility? I mean, what if I–”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I have a pretty good idea actually. And my answer is no. Thank you, Marcus, really, but I’m not letting you spend any more money on me than you already are. I’m a big girl, baby, I can handle myself.”

He had let out a huff at that, but had begrudgingly let it go, though he has been dropping hints all week about his discontent with how much she’s still working, subtle, but prickly. But he holds his tongue now, smile simpering beneath his scruff as she slips her palms from his chest up to twine behind his neck.

“What I really want right now is a long shower. I feel like I’m covered in goo from the kids I was working with today.” His smile broadens at that, one of his hands slipping up to ghost along her collarbone

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but–” He gently scrapes his thumbnail along the top of her sternum, bringing away flecks of dried paint that she groans at.

“Oh my god, how did I miss that? I swear, these practicum hours make me rethink my career choice every time.” It’s an easy moment, a sigh and a smile shared that’s abruptly interrupted by his phone ringing, shoulders slumping as he reaches into his suit pocket to pull out his thrumming Blackberry, offering her a sheepish smile when he checks the caller ID before answering it.

“This is Agent Pike.” She presses a kiss to the corner of his jaw before slipping out of his hold as he starts talking quietly to whoever it is on the other end of the phone, showing herself upstairs with her bag in hand. She knows her way around by now, padding into his bedroom, only a little surprised by the garment bag laid out on his bed, shoebox resting on the ground next to it.

Just a peek, she unzips the garment bag, letting her hand run over the fabric inside, and quickly realizes that wherever they’re going to dinner tonight must be fancy, black silk slipping underneath her palm. She’ll have to scold him for it later, but for now, she’s too focused on washing off whatever little kid shmutz she managed to pick up during the day, making a beeline for his bathroom to get the water warmed up.

She groans when she steps under the warm water, sore muscles unraveling with the heat. There had been a few clients this week who had been particularly physical, and she’s certainly feeling it now. It’s rare for her to have to end a session early, most clients respectful and happy to follow the club’s rules, but one man in particular had obviously not been interested in being compliant, so much so that she had to call her boss in to escort him off the premises. She hadn’t been too phased by it though, just pissed more than anything else. But she’s been doing this for long enough to not let these things affect her, letting the majority of her good, easy to work with clients drown out the rare rotten one. And it isn’t like she’s going to be doing this for much longer either. One more year of school and she’ll be able to trade in her time at the club for a teaching license and a much different life.

“Did that happen at work?” She all but jumps out of her skin, Marcus’ voice startling her out of her thoughts as she turns to find him slipping into the shower with her, his bareness still sending her mind into a sweet haze. But she’s quick to snap out of it when his hand brushes over the bruise blooming on her thigh, his brow furrowing even more when she winces at the sensation.

“Oh, that? Um, yeah, but it’s no big deal, someone just got a little too worked up, that’s all.” He doesn’t like that one bit, his jaw shifting in a grind as he looks at her.

“Is it– are you ok?” She offers him a smile, tugging him closer so she can slip her palms over his chest, his hands settling on the curve of her waist.

“I’m fine, Marc, I promise. No harm, no foul.”

“Looks like harm to me.” He says it absentmindedly, his eyes still trained on the bruise, words a low murmur, his nostrils flaring as he takes a sharp inhale.

“Hey, I said I’m fine, alright? Let’s get cleaned up, babe, don’t worry about it.” She knows it’s a bit of a move, leaning in for a kiss that she easily deepens, trying to steer his mind away from worry and succeeding when she coaxes a little groan out of him with the way she tugs at his hair. But he’s not interested in pulling away too soon, licking hotly into her mouth, swallowing the gasp she lets out when her back meets the cold tile of the shower, a heady contrast to the way his body presses against her, slick and warm in the rising steam. He’s certainly gotten more confident with her, and while she likes this side of him, wandering hands and hard kisses, it’s the shyness that still peeks through that makes her heart flip in her chest.

“Wanna taste you. Can I, please?” She slicks his wet mop of hair back out of his face, a smile crooking across her lips as she nods.

“Mmhmm, I’m all yours. Want you to make me feel good.” She hadn’t been expecting him to drop down to his knees right then and there, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in her chest when he does, his hands holding her firm and steady by her hips as he lays open-mouthed kisses across her stomach. But that laugh fizzles out when he dips his head lower, letting his mouth drag over the bruise on her thigh, making her cry out when he presses a hard kiss to it, like he’s trying to stamp it out with his lips. He doesn’t linger there long, laying a much sweeter kiss over the mottled skin before letting his mouth slide up to where she really wants him.

…

“Can you do me up?” She watches him in the mirror as he steps behind her, a low hum in his throat as he slips the zipper of her dress up. It’s perfect, classy, a smooth, simple slip that rests just at her shins and practically drips off the curves of her body it fits so well. He always gets it right, and she’s always surprised that he does.

“You look beautiful. And I have one thing to add.” She catches the glint of it in the mirror, his hands arcing over her head to bring the delicate necklace to rest against her clavicle. A string of diamonds that matches her bracelet. Before she can say anything, he presses a kiss to the side of her neck, his hands dropping down to smooth over her hips.

“Look like a million bucks, baby.”

“I better not be wearing a million bucks right now.” She says it jokingly, but when he doesn’t respond, only quirking an eyebrow at her, she turns in his hold with a scoff.

“Marcus, I swear to god, if you–”

“I’m kidding. Don’t worry about the cost, huh? Just think of it as a little– end of the school year gift, that’s all.” All she can do is let out a sigh, getting to work on his loose tie as he looks down through his lashes at her. He looks like a million bucks too, sleek, black suit over a crisp button-up, the scent of his cologne wrapping her up as she shimmies his tie into place.

“Well, thank you for the gifts. If your goal is to spoil me completely rotten, I’d say you’re succeeding.” His smile turns into a grin at that, stealing a quick kiss as she smooths down the collar of his shirt.

“That’s what I like to hear. Now c’mon, knowing you, you probably worked right through lunch and are starving right now. Let’s get some dinner in you.”

…

“Please follow me this way, Mr. and Mrs. Pike, your table is ready for you.” She nearly chokes at what the waiter calls them, though Marcus takes it in stride, offering her a smile and shrug as he guides her further into the restaurant with a palm on her low back.

She was right, it’s fancy as hell, all dim lights and rich, wood tables, men in suits and their wives decked out in their finest. And it only dawns on her that they fit right in once they’re actually seated at their own table, her eyes glancing around at this strange game of adult dress-up.

“We’ll do a bottle of your Riesling and one of your Shiraz as well, thank you.” White for her, red for him, he doesn’t even have to look at the menu to put in the order, and she can’t figure out just why that’s so hot.

“Did you hear about that new installment coming downtown? They’re calling it a revival of abstract expressionism meets modern minimalism. Apparently it’s hot.” She grins at the dramatic wag of his eyebrows as he speaks, leaning in closer to respond.

“I hadn’t heard about that, no. Sounds like whoever it is, they’re trying to do it all. We’ll have to go check it out, huh?” An outsider looking in on their relationship would be hard pressed to figure out just why they mesh well together, a decade apart and coming from two completely different worlds. But they come together well in peculiar ways, art being one of them. Marcus could talk for hours about the history, styles and forms rising and falling with time, and she can too, while also applying it all in her own work as a painter, something that he loves to hear her talk about, her process and projects. She’s still not sure why he’s so well-versed in it all, with such a keen eye, especially given her very vague understanding of his work as some sort of big wig FBI boss, but she loves that they can talk like this about something that bores most of her friends. They’ve gone out gallery hopping a few times together and, grand gestures and fancy dinners aside, it’s probably her favorite thing to do with him, wandering around downtown and seeing whatever art they can find.

Dinner starts to pass languidly by as they slip into conversation about the new gallery opening, unfurling into her own projects that she’s hoping to submit for showings once they’re finished. But as dessert is laid before them and her attention is drawn away from Marcus for a moment, her eyes land on someone across the restaurant, and her stomach sinks. While Marcus thanks the waiter, she can’t take her eyes off the man across the room, sitting with his wife, wearing the same suit he had on when he came into the club earlier that week, the same suit he left in when her boss kicked him out for not following the rules. And in a sickening twist, his eyes meet hers, an all too clear flash of recognition behind the smug grin that spreads across his face.

“Are you ok?” Marcus’ voice snaps her attention back to him and she tries to coax a smile onto her face, though she can’t help the way her eyes jerk over his shoulder and back to the man who’s still staring her down. And when she gives him no answer, Marcus finally cranes his neck around to see just what it is she keeps looking at.

“Do you– do you know him?” He looks back over his shoulder at the man who has finally stopped staring now that it’s caught Marcus’ attention. But before she can make some sort of excuse up, Marcus’ face falls in clear realization.

“Oh, I see. He’s one of your clients, isn’t he?”

“Fortunately, not anymore, he’s not.” It comes out before she can even think to stop herself, something dark flashing across Marcus’ face at her words.

“Are you telling me he’s the one who did that to you?” She doesn’t need an explanation to know what he means when he says that, her hand subconsciously going to rest over her thigh where the bruise lies beneath her dress. She feels frozen in place, her mind going blank as Marcus stares at her, his jaw hard-set and his eyes swimming. And when she gives him no response, he scoffs, turning in his seat, clearly ready to get up and march across the restaurant to where the man and his wife are just getting up to leave.

“Marc, don’t. Just– for me, please, don’t.” She wills him to stay in his seat with her hand placed over his on the table, letting out a sigh when he ultimately turns back around with a huff.

Total silence and downturned eyes, he’s quick to get the check and get them on their way back to his house. A cold prickle runs up her spine as they drive when his hand that normally rests easy and warm on her thigh remains on the wheel, not even a glance her way, his jaw ticking with what she can only assume is anger. And when they do get back to his place, and the silence continues, Marcus going into the kitchen to fix himself a drink without so much as looking at her, she assumes that it’s finally become too much for him, that she had been stupid to think this could work. She quickly and quietly slips into his bedroom, first placing her shoes back in the wrapping-paper-lined box before unfastening her bracelet and necklace and laying them on his dresser, though she figures they were never really hers to begin with. Her bag next, tucking back inside the things she had already unpacked before getting to work on the zipper of her dress.

“What are you doing?” She turns to find him standing in the doorway, lips parted and brow furrowed, and suddenly a thick heat creeps up her throat, stealing any strength from her voice.

“I thought I should probably go.” His face scrunches up at that and he steps further into the room, closing the distance between them, though he hesitates to reach for her, his hands flexing by his sides.

“What do you– what do you mean go? Where are you going?”

“Home, Marcus, I’m going home. I understand if this is too much–”

“That’s not– it’s not too much. I just– I hate it, ok? I really fucking hate it.” His tone is sharp, clipped, an edge of frustration that she hasn’t heard from him before and it makes her pause before asking him the only thing she can think of.

“My work? That’s what you mean? You hate my work?” He drags a hand through his hair, letting out a hard exhale as he shakes his head.

“I mean– yes. I hate that you have to put up with shit like that, with men like that. I hate that I lie in bed at night wondering what you’re doing and what person you’re doing it with, or to– fuck, I hate all of it. But I think what I hate the most is that you feel like you have to do it. And you’re too proud to let me get you out of it, something that I would be beyond elated to do, by the way.” Finished with his rant, he lets out a bitter laugh, the sound only fueling the anger she feels rising like bile in her throat.

“Oh, so what? Your solution is for you to just swoop in and– and play the fucking hero? Are you gonna put me on retainer, Marcus? Is that your plan? Just throw money at me so I’ll fucking stick around?” It’s awful, poison on her tongue that she doesn’t even mean, not really, and when he looks at her, face stricken and eyes glistening, any fire fizzles out into a sad whimper in her throat.

“Is that really what you think of me? That I’m just, what? Trying to buy you?” She keeps her mouth pressed in a thin line, afraid of what might come spilling out if she doesn’t, watching him slump down on the edge of the bed with a tired laugh.

“I just want to take care of you, that’s it. And I have the means to do it and fuck, I’m sorry if that comes across as me throwing money at you. But this is what I know how to do. I can take care of you, and I want to, and I wish that you’d let me.” Silence settles between them, thick and formless. Looking at him, his face tilted down to his hands in his lap, the curve of his frown, she feels herself being tugged toward something that, deep down, she knows is a terrible idea.

Barefoot, her half-unzipped dress hanging loosely on her shoulders, she pads over to him, standing between his legs, though he doesn’t look up until she coaxes him with her palm tucked along his jaw.

“I’m sorry, Marcus. That wasn’t fair, what I said. I just– I need you to try to understand this from my perspective. If I did– if I let you take care of me like that, I couldn’t help but feel trapped, and I’m sorry, I know that’s a terrible thing to say, but it has to be said. I’d feel like you’d have this– this thing hanging over my head and–” “I would never hold anything against you. That’s not how I work, and this isn’t some game to me. Fuck, I think you’re brilliant, alright? And I want you, so badly. I want you safe, and not having to worry about all this shit. I want you with me.”

“But what happens when you don’t want me anymore? What happens when I’ve quit my job and I’m dependent on you and one day you decide that you’re done with this, with me? What happens when the floor falls out from under me, Marc?”

“I’m not going to let that happen.” She can’t help the scoff she lets out, her hand falling away from his face as she takes a few steps back.

“That’s really easy to say right now, but one day this isn’t all going to be so new. What happens–” He cuts her off, standing up and taking her face in his hands, his eyes clear with a confidence that makes her shiver.

“If that time comes when either of us want to walk away, you have my word that I will make sure you land on your feet. I wouldn’t let you fall like that, I wouldn’t do that to you.” They’re nice words, words she wants to believe, though she can’t shake that feeling in her stomach like she’s about to go into complete free-fall.

“I’m asking you to trust me, that’s all.”

“That’s a lot, Marc.” His thumb is a soothing arc along her cheek, and she feels that same pull toward whatever this brink is that she’s about to tip over with him.

“I know, fuck, I know. But if you let me, I will give you everything, anything you want, anything you need. I just need you to trust me.” There’s nothing but certainty in his expression, and although there’s a part of her that wants to step away, to get out before she’s tangled up, she chooses not to listen to it, instead stepping over that edge and sending them both spiraling as she closes the space between them and presses her lips to his.

Where he deals in diamonds and dresses and dollars, care of a particular kind, she holds sway in sweat and skin and sensation, a delicate balance of power held in each other’s palms. Here, now, in the dim light of his bedroom, she holds dominion, no permission needed for the way her hands coax his tie undone, his jacket off, layer upon layer removed as she wills it. And when he finally stands before her in just his briefs, she guides his hands to the straps of her dress, letting him do the rest as the sleek fabric slips into a puddle around her feet. It never gets old, the way he looks at her, how his eyes darken, flickering heavy and hooded over her body, the way his throat bobs when his gaze finally finds hers.

“Could you– will you, um, will you wear those, for me?” He nods his head over to his dresser, to where she had laid out the jewelry he gave her, and she finds herself smiling at his timid request.

“Why don’t you put them back on me, baby?” He does, first clasping the bracelet around her wrist, laying a kiss to the jump of her pulse before delicately laying the necklace against her sternum, the cool bite of the chain causing her to shiver as he takes a step back to look at her, now dressed in nothing but a pair of panties and those glittering gifts.

“Lay down for me.” His eyes don’t leave her as he does, catching every move as she slips her panties down her legs before crawling up the bed to settle in his lap, her thighs framing his hips. It’s smooth and simple, a call and response in the way he tilts his chin up to meet her dipping down, open mouths willing and receiving of what the other is giving, a hot press of tongues and teeth. She grinds her hips down hard, letting the slick heat of her cunt drag over his boxers, his cock already straining against the fabric.

“Tell me what you want, baby, and it’s all yours.” She seals her words with a nip of her teeth over the hinge of his jaw, smiling against his skin when he lets out a long sigh as she continues to roll her hips with his.

“Just want you, fuck, wanna feel you, wanna be inside you, please.” Her smile goes cheshire bright at his breathless words, and she lets her hands slip down to drag along the waistband of his boxers.

“Always so polite for me, Marcus. Love that about you, gonna give you what you want.” A tap of her fingers to his hip is all he needs to shift so she can shrug his boxers down his legs, his cock resting flushed and heavy against his stomach as she settles herself back in a straddle over his hips, hovering just over where he really wants her. She can only tease him so much when she wants him just as bad as he wants her, so she wastes no time in bringing her palm to his throbbing length, dragging the tip of him through her dripping cunt before sinking down on him in one, languid, stretch. They both let out sighs that slip into moans as she stills with her hips seated against his, his fingers tensing and flexing into the curve of her ass where his hands are splayed. Still settling into the feel of him, a fullness that makes her head swim, she lays a smattering of kisses into his hair, coaxing his face up from where he had his forehead pressed against her sternum, his lips finding hers in a hot drag as she starts to move her hips.

It starts slow and sweet, finding an easy rhythm of riding him that has them both sighing at the slick drag. Marcus dips his head down, mouthing at the tops of her breasts, making her gasp when his teeth graze over the peak of one of her nipples, her back arching into his touch. But she snaps that sweetness into a snarl all at once, dragging her fingers back through his hair, tugging harshly to tilt his head back, a groan breaking in his chest as she starts to bounce on his dick.

“Want you to listen to me while I fuck you, baby, can you do that for me?” He nods his head as best he can with her fingers still tangled in his hair, holding his gaze steady on her.

“Yes, fuck– I can– can listen, just, please keep doing that.” She grinds her hips down on a particularly hard bounce, his eyes rolling back in his head as she continues to ride him.

“I’m gonna trust you. I’m choosing to trust you. But let me make a few things very clear to you.” She tries to keep her voice steady, stern, though it still comes out a bit breathless with the way she’s working herself on his throbbing cock, biting back a whimper as he grazes that just right spot inside her.

“I am not going to be your pet, do you understand me? That’s not what this is going to be. If you want a kept woman, find someone else.” He lets out a slurred chant of ok and I understand intermixed with a few choice curses, his blunt fingernails digging half-moons into her ass, hips canting up to meet hers with each bounce.

“I like you, a lot. And I want to be with you, fuck– and I’m grateful for what you’re giving me–” A broken moan keeps her from finishing her sentence, sensation starting to make her thoughts swim when he plants his feet into the mattress to start thrusting harder, their hips mashing together every time, pleasure settling heavy and tight in her spine.

“But I’m still going to work– not at Pandora’s– but a more, christ– normal job. Making my own money. I’m not going to be some– credit-card swiping– spoiled little– trophy girlfriend.” Each phrase is said with another pass of her hips, both of them letting out sharp gasps with each thrust, and she holds it together just long enough to get out what she wants to say, finally letting go of her grip in his hair, instead pressing her palms into his chest to get him to lay down fully as she seeks out that snapping point of pleasure. Marcus brings a hand around, his thumb finding her clit in a hot drag that sets a moan loose in her chest, her cunt spasming around his cock.

“I understand, I do, I swear. Please, baby, wanna feel you– want you to come so bad. Let me have it– let me have it all.” She unravels with his rasped-out pleas, back arching in a perfect curl of pleasure as his hands guide her in a close grind, following after her with a clipped groan of her name, the warmth of him making her shudder as she slumps down against his chest. They lay like that for a while, skin sticking slick, their heaving chests pressing against each other in a shared rhythm as he runs his palms up and down her spine. A silent understanding sealed in sweat and salt.

“So you’ll– you’re gonna stay?” She could laugh, it’s such a ridiculous question for him to ask after she just all but rode him to hell. But when she lifts her head to meet his gaze, seeing the very serious scrunch of his brows, that laugh dies in her throat with the realization that he’s genuinely asking, and genuinely worried about the answer. Ducking down, she first presses a kiss to his chest before leaning back up to slot her lips with his, simple and sweet.

“I’m not going anywhere, Marcus, I promise.”

…

“Are you gonna get that?” Marcus looks at her over the rim of his coffee mug, brow quirking at her question.

“Why don’t you go see who it was?” She snorts at that, watching his eyes flicker as he takes another swig of coffee.

“Uh, I’m not wearing pants. And also, I’m not the one who lives here.” He’s putting on a show, she knows it, humming as if in thought at her statement, the corners of his lips twitching in a stifled smile.

“It’s early, baby, no one’s gonna see. Just go take a look for me, huh?” He can no longer hold back his grin, going all crooked with whatever scheme he’s got cooked up for her.

“Alright, fine, I’ll play along. But you’re cheesy, you know that, right?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” She huffs at him, finally getting up from the kitchen table to pad over to the front door. She figures it’s probably flowers, or maybe another garment bag for whatever he has planned for them today. Not wanting to give Marcus’ neighbors a show, she cracks the door just enough to peek her head out, her jaw dropping at what she sees.

“Oh my god.” Silver, glossy, and gleaming in the early morning light. A sleek silhouette, and that unmistakable hood ornament perched right over the front grille, the Mercedes Benz insignia shining proudly. And on the roof of the car sits the biggest, gaudiest red bow she’s ever seen.

“What do you think?” She turns around to find Marcus standing behind her, a set of car keys dangling from one of his fingers, grinning from ear to ear.

“I think you’re lucky you’re cute. Seriously, Marcus, this is– this is–” He cuts her off with a smacking kiss, pressing the car keys into her hand as he does.

“This is me taking care of you. No more metrorail, no more bus. You’re gonna be a woman who drives from now on.”

“I– you– you’re not gonna take no for an answer, are you?” He tilts his head at her, eyes crinkling up as he slips his arm around her waist, pulling her away from the door and into his chest.

“On this? No, no I’m not.” It’s just a touch of arrogance, in the slant of his smile, the way he hums a laugh when she shakes her head at him, giving a half-hearted smack to his chest.

“Hmm, well aren’t you something else.”

“Oh baby, I’m just getting started.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike smut #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike fluff #marcus pike fic #marcus pike angst #marcus pike imagine #marcus pike au #whatta man

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trulybetty · 5 months

Text

dec' 08 x sweets

Prompt: sweets Pairing: marcus pike x f!Reader Word Count: 3,196 Warnings: barely beta’d, all mistakes my own, this is au and way off the plot of anything to do with The Mentalist, mentions of baked goods and fluff and I apologize for the tough of angst 🍰 Summary: Maplewood, a small town nestled in northern BC where people flock to see the festive decorations of main street and enjoy the festive traditions. It's been a couple months since you arrived in Maplewood and your relationship with Marcus has blossomed, but could there be a road bump ahead that might cloud the festive season? AO3: Linked

x. masterlist

Something Festive This Way Comes Part I

Much like all the businesses and homes in Maplewood, Black Cat Books was fully decked out for the holidays. Between the shelves crammed with books and tables piled high with paperbacks every available space was full of tinsel, baubles and fairy lights. Libby had been absolutely giddy when you’d agreed to help decorate the place.

You still didn’t know how she managed to store so many seasonal decorations in her storeroom, let alone how she managed to fit decorations into every nook and cranny of the store. Everywhere you looked there was something, all leading to the crowning glory at the front of the store. The bright pink tree she’d decorated with miniature handmade books for the Merry Tree Trek.

However, since taking your new job your days in the bookstore had been greatly reduced so you jumped at any chance to be in there to find yourself lost in the endless sea of stories and whimsy that both Black Cat Books and Libby offered.

“Stop trying to get me to walk under the mistletoe,” You complained when Marcus steered you away once again from the string of lights you were fussing with.

“I have no clue what you’re referring to,” he shrugged nonchalantly as he crossed his arms at his chest, “Just wanted to show you a potential place for more light.”

You looked up pointedly at the mistletoe you were now standing under and raised an eyebrow as you looked back at Marcus, the grin on his face no longer concealable.

“Well, since we’re here, they say it’s bad luck if you don’t…” he trailed off, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to yours. Your breath hitched, your heart fluttered and you closed your eyes, eagerly awaiting the soft press of his lips against yours, the promise of mistletoe magic hanging in the air.

But a kiss didn’t come.

Frowning, you opened your eyes to find Marcus’s attention taken by something outside the frost-kissed window of the bookstore.

“Are you okay, Marcus?” you asked, a note of concern hanging off your words as you followed his line of sight across the street to the warmly lit bakery, its windows foggy from the heat within.

Sarah and Maria were holding down the fort allowing you and Marcus the afternoon together and the place appeared to be still standing in one piece. You squinted to try and see what it was that had caught his attention. The only thing that stood out was the lone figure standing in front of the bakery window.

Taking his hand in yours you gave it a gentle squeeze, “Marcus?” you asked again, and you frowned, his face was pale - it looked like he’d seen a ghost.

You hadn’t seen Marcus in two days.

Two days since you were both in the bookstore.

It wasn’t as if he’d disappeared altogether, he was currently at the bakery and you had tried the day before to go see him but Frank had turned up and hadn’t taken the hint. So you’d taken your pastry and made your way back to work.

Speaking of work, your new job at the Maplewood Tourism Board was proving to be a lot more than you had expected for a seemingly sleepy town.

The Winter Christmas Eve Ball was the crown jewel of Maplewood's holiday season, and as a fresh face on the Tourism Board, you were thrown into the merry deep end. Every day was a whirlwind of phone calls, schedules, and coordination with local businesses. The festive season was a community effort, and everyone wanted to make this year's events more magical than the last.

Tapping your pen against the desk you decided to call it a day. Your head was spinning with festivities and a list of events for the town for the month to organize and there was a promise of a drink over a pizza with Marcus. His offer of an apology to make up for his absence. Work had ramped up with an influx of tourists for the holiday season. Apparently, your short tenure with the tourism board had yielded quick results.

Stepping out of the bustling office, you made your way through the snow-dusted streets of Maplewood, the festive decorations twinkling in the early evening light. As you approached Maple Delights, you could see through the steamed-up windows that the bakery was in full swing, with Sarah cheerfully serving a steady stream of customers.

Pushing the door open, you were greeted by the familiar, comforting aroma of freshly baked goods. The warmth of the bakery enveloped you, a stark contrast to the chill outside. You scanned the shop for Marcus but there was no sight of him.

“Is he around?” you asked from the back of the queue as you caught Sarah’s eye.

Sarah closed the lid on a bright pink cake box, stamped with the bakery logo before she pulled a string of twine to secure it, she nodded to the back, “You’re in luck, he just got back from the coffee shop.”

You nodded your thanks and headed to the back of the shop and to the kitchen.

Marcus was pulling out a large bowl of what smelled like gingerbread dough when you stepped into the kitchen.

“Hey, Marcus,” you called out softly, not wanting to startle him.

He looked up, his expression shifting from concentration to surprise, then a warm smile as he recognized you. “Hey! What brings you by? Shouldn't you be neck-deep in Winter Ball plans?”

You walked over, leaning against the counter. “I am, but I needed a break so I left early. I wanted to see how you're doing.”

Marcus wiped his hands on his apron, his smile lingering. “I’m doing alright, just a bit swamped with the holiday rush. Always the same this time of year,” he said, a hint of weariness in his voice.

You nodded, noticing the flour dusting his hair and the tired lines around his eyes. “I can see that. The bakery looks busier than ever,” you paused as you watched him roll out the dough, the scent of ginger and cinnamon filling the kitchen. “…the other day, in the bookstore. You seemed really distracted before we left, you sure everything is okay?”

He hesitated for a moment, then let out a sigh. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just long hours.” Marcus quickly changed the subject, “So, pizza night? I hope you’re ready for my world-famous ‘after-hours bakery pizza’ – it’s a special treat,” he finished with a wink.

Marcus' switch of topics didn't go unnoticed, but you decided not to push any further.

“Your world-famous pizza, huh? I'm intrigued,” you said with a playful smile, trying to lighten the mood.

Marcus's face lit up at the chance to shift the focus to something more positive, “Just you wait, it's something else.”

The sight of the joy on his face was infectious, “Big promises Pike,” you chided with a smile.

As the bakery doors closed for the evening, the atmosphere inside shifted. The bustling energy of the day gave way to a more intimate, relaxed setting. It was just you and Marcus, alone with the warmth of the ovens and the soft glow of the kitchen lights.

Your eyes followed his movements as he peeled off his plaid shirt, revealing only a plain black t-shirt that was already dusted with a light layer of flour. You couldn't help but admire him in this simple moment, a man at ease in his own skin.

He began to walk you through his pizza-making process, his hands skillfully kneading the dough. There was something mesmerizing about watching him work, the way his hands moved with such confidence and care.

“Come here,” he said, guiding you to take his spot as he stood behind you, his hands running the length of your arms until they covered yours and guided them in the same motions he'd just demonstrated to knead the dough on the flour dusted table.

As you continued to work on the dough, Marcus's body behind yours felt warm and comforting. His breath tickled your ear as he whispered instructions and encouragement.

“See how the dough starts to come together?” he said, his voice low and soothing.

You nodded, enjoying the closeness between you two. Marcus's hands moved with yours, guiding you through the process until the dough was perfectly kneaded.

“Great job,” he said, stepping back to admire your handiwork. “I think we make a great team.”

You couldn't help but smile at his words, feeling a flutter in your stomach at his compliment.

After topping the pizza with fresh ingredients Marcus had pulled from the walk in fridge. Ingredients he'd picked up from the local market the day before in preparation for your date. Marcus placed the pizza in the oven with a satisfied grin. “Now we just have to wait for it to bake,” he said, as you jumped up onto the table.

The air between you two crackled with unspoken words and shared smiles. He moved closer, his hands leaving traces of flour on your knees as he stood between your legs.

“I'm glad you're here,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

You up at him, feeling a rush of warmth in your chest. “Me too,” you replied sincerely. There was something about him that always made you feel at ease and happy.

Your heart raced as he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a soft and gentle kiss. Your fingers found their way into his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened.

Marcus's hands traced up your thighs, sending shivers down your spine. You parted your lips, inviting him to deepen the kiss, as his hands moved to your hips. The warmth between you two was palpable, and every touch made your heart race faster.

As you pulled back from the kiss to catch your breath, Marcus's hands slid up to your hips, causing you to shiver at his touch. You moved your hands to his chest, feeling the solidness of his muscles beneath your fingers.

Suddenly, the timer on the oven beeped, and Marcus reluctantly pulled away. “I guess that's our signal,” he said with a chuckle.

You hopped down from the table as he took the pizza out of the oven. The aroma was mouthwatering, and you couldn't wait to dig in.

The snow crunched under your boots as you left True North Brews, the warmth of the coffee cups in your hands contrasting sharply with the chilly air. Maplewood was a hive of activity, with residents bustling about, embracing the festive season's joy.

As you turned the corner, you nearly bumped into a woman standing in the middle of the sidewalk. She was staring intently at the bakery down the street.

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” you exclaimed, instinctively stepping back.

The woman turned, offering a small, somewhat forced smile. “No harm done. I should have been watching where I was standing.”

You noticed the lost look on her face, “You're not from around here are you?”

She laughed, “That obvious hey?”

You smiled, “Only because I was stood where you are with the exact same look a couple months ago. What brings you to Maplewood?”

“I'm here to catch up with someone,” she paused before she carried on, "You don't happen to know Marcus Pike by chance?”

The name 'Marcus' caught you off guard, causing you to fumble one of the coffee cups, barely catching it before it spilled.

“Marcus, from Maple Delights?” you asked, trying to mask the surprise in your voice.

“Yes! That Marcus,” she confirmed, her eyes briefly flitting back to the bakery. “I stopped by but he's not there today they said. I know it's a small town, but any chance do you know where I could find him?”

You swallowed down a lump in your throat, you knew exactly where Marcus was. He was in your bed in your apartment above the bookshop after your pizza date at the bakery last night, waiting for you to come back with the coffees in your hands.

Before you could open your mouth to respond, the woman shook her head as she laughed, “Jeeze, look at me asking questions and I haven't even introduced myself, my name is Theresa,” she said, offering her hand to you.

#december x 500 #something festive this way comes #maplewood au #marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x female reader #marcus pike fanfiction #jmarcus pike fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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wardenparker · 3 months

Text

Hummingbird Has Landed, ch 2

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 12.6k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: occasional mention of American politics, pregnant character, food/alcohol consumption, mentions of clothing/regulated dressing for occasions, mentions of therapy because we believe in self care here, reader is in a previous relationship, love triangle* Mentions of sick loved ones, mutual pining, personal guilt, relationship turmoil. Summary: After only knowing Marcus for a brief time, you can already feel emotions beginning to build. Will that spell trouble for the relationship you've worked so hard to build with Sam, or will something else altogether begun to sow seeds of doubt? Notes: Once again I'm afraid I have to ask forgiveness in the edit of this chapter. I went away for a few days this week and ever since my chronic illness has been utterly kicking my ass. Hopefully I didn't miss too many errors here.

Game night will probably go down in the year's history as one of the best and most fun times that Marcus has had in a long time. He had laughed until his stomach hurt, his abs aching the next week for at least three days. He's gotten an open invitation back, but he doesn't know if that was a good thing, if he's honest with himself. His attraction to you is something that he's got to get ahold of if he's going to socialize with you more. It seems like everything about you just makes the heavens sing and the sun shine. It's crazy and he hates that, considering you are very happy in a relationship.

Eastern Market is his usual haunt on the weekend, preferring it to a generic grocery store, and he’s lost in thought enough that he doesn’t notice a familiar face at the florist’s stand across the way as he’s walking through the stalls. "Some peaches will be good." Marcus decides, looking through some of the fruits that have been trucked in from warmer states. "Peach smoothies." He decides, walking towards the gorgeous plump peaches on display.

If you were any other person in the world, it would be you who bumped into him and not the Secret Service agent contractually obligated to come along on your errands. As it is, when Agent Bailey defends you from being bumped into by the familiar figure of Marcus Pike, you’re the one who apologizes. “Oh! I’m so sorry, excuse u—Marcus?”

“Oh, hi!” Marcus shakes his head, reaching out and taking your arm. “I am so sorry. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.” He apologizes. “Was focused on getting some peaches and didn’t notice anything or anyone, obviously.” He flushes slightly, feeling that pull towards you and hating that he looks like a jerk, or maybe just thoughtless, in front of you. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

"Not at all." The flowers in your hands and the canvas shopping bags on your arm aren't harmed either, and you find yourself smiling much more brightly than you were even a second ago. "No harm done to me or to Agent Bailey, not to worry. Is it errand day for you, too?"

“Trying to eat healthier.” Marcus admits, slightly upset by the prospect but he figures that just comes with getting older. “Figured the produce here would be better than in a grocery store. Are these for the inn?” He asks, looking at the flowers in your hands and immediately reaches for them. “Let me help.”

"I thought my apartment could use some brightening up." He's seen the organized chaos that you live in and you're not embarrassed by it by any means, but there is a small sting to buying your own flowers just a few days before Valentine's Day. Sam isn't a flowers guy and that's perfectly fine, but you're definitely a flowers girl. When Marcus scoops them up without a second thought and stays by your side, you can feel your cheeks heat up. "I, um—thank you.

“Of course.” He huffs, as if newly made acquaintances should always scoop up flowers from you. “You chose brilliantly. They are gorgeous. Have you already paid for them?”

"Yes, so don't even try." It's just a playful warning that comes with a waggle of your finger, but you really have a feeling that he would try to pay for them if you hadn't.

He grumbles at that slightly. “Well, okay.” It’s almost pathetic that he takes note of what kind of flowers you like and he smirks. “So which flower is your favorite in this?” He asks.

"These," you point out a geometrically fascinating flower with petals that seem to spiral endlessly. "They're called camellias. We called them Winter Roses when I was growing up, but I've always loved them." The intimacy of the question goes straight over your head, just excited to have something pretty to split amongst the small vases in your little space.

“Camellias.” Marcus repeats the flower, filing away the information even though he shouldn’t use it. “They are beautiful.”

"Not everyone has them, so I tend to get my flowers here just to make sure they're in the mix." Barely aware that you're standing in the middle of a bustling market with people trying to move all around you, you have to shake away the warmth settling in you that is definitely not due to any kind of attraction. Nope. Not even a little. Not at all. "You, um..." you gesture to the next stall, where he was originally headed when the collision happened. "Peaches?"

“Peaches? Oh right, peaches.” Marcus laughs at himself and shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, I’m – I forgot.” He snorts. “I was thinking about fresh peach smoothies.”

"Ooooo, that sounds incredible." All of a sudden it's the best idea you've heard all day, and you grin mischievously. "It's not exactly standard, but the next time you're craving a sweet after having Indian take out? Make a peach smoothie. It's got that same vibe as a mango lassi but it's slightly sweeter, and it's the most refreshing thing ever."

“I was actually thinking about having Indian tonight.” Marcus admits with a grin. “To reward myself for eating healthier.”

"Best reward in the world." You agree easily. "I told myself I was going to cook tonight and make sure there were leftovers for another day this week, but I am teetering dangerously close to just calling for take-out as well."

"Well..." Marcus almost doesn't offer, because of the fact that you have a boyfriend, but he is truly meaning this as a friendly offer. "If we went to have Indian together, it wouldn't be as bad as ordering it as take out, would it?" He ventures, raising his brows in offer.

You should say no, You should absolutely say no. Not because the invitation is improper in any way — after all, he's a friend. But because of the way your heart bumps and skips at the offer like you hope he means it as more. He doesn't, and that is a good thing. In fact, Marcus and Sam got along fairly well at game night. But you can't help the way your cheeks burn pleasantly. "DuPont Circle?" You ask, confirming that he means he was intending to order from the same place you were. When he nods, you do too. "That sounds really nice."

"This way..." He's immensely happy you are agreeing to come to eat with him. "We can order the samosas and pakoras and not feel any guilt what so ever." He tells you, grinning at you.

"No guilt, but definitely extra time at the gym." His smile is dangerous, but apparently your self-preservation instincts aren't nearly as good as you think they are, because the only alarm bell going off in your head is the one that says Don't Let It Become a Date! which you just brush off. Surely that won't even be a possibility. It can't, because you and Sam have a good thing going. "Although, you're not masochistic enough to have my little brother as your biweekly gym buddy, so your trips are probably far less traumatic than mine," you offer with a laugh.

"Nope." Marcus chuckles. "I just torture myself by running around the Mall during my lunchbreaks instead of spending it in museums or at the food trucks." He snorts. "I just get to smell them just off the Mall."

"Have you lived in DC for three years without doing any of the food trucks out on the Mall?" That might be the most appalling thing you've ever heard in your life, and you nearly drop the peach that you had just picked up to add to your basket.

"Oh no." He laughs at that. "First six months I was here, I fucking lived off food trucks." He admits. "I was undercover and my contact checked in with me through the food trucks."

"Oh, thank God." The both of you laugh as you wipe imaginary sweat of your forehead as though it had made you nervous. "If you had never had Julia's Empanadas, I might have had to drag you down to the Mall right now."

"Then I wouldn't have room for Indian." Marcus groans, rolling his eyes at the thought of how many empanadas he would try to fit in his stomach if you went to Julia's Empanadas. "And I'm really craving Indian."

"I am too." Although, now you're going to be thinking about empanadas for ages. Maybe you'll have to try making some. "How has your week been?" Making small talk is easy with him, as you poke through the fruit bins to find peaches, apples, and pears to snack on this week.

"It's been alright." He shrugs slightly. "Depositions for a few upcoming cases. So I've had to revisit case files and work with the district attorney's office to make sure that there aren't any surprises."

"Paperwork and meetings," you nod in understanding. "I get that. Being my own boss is a hell of a lot more paperwork and meetings than I ever thought it would be."

"Ordering supplies, creating events to drum up interest. Balancing budgets." He nods. "I can imagine that it feels like it's hard to get a free moment for yourself."

The way you nod is tired but proud. Every ounce of hard work that you put into that inn is worthwhile, and you do it with straight shoulders and as much determination as you can possibly summon. "Today is my first day off in...two or three weeks? It's...a lot. But it's so worthwhile. And it means that Syd has her place, too. I wouldn't trade it for anything."

"So how did you come to have the inn?" Marcus has been curious about that. "Was it always your dream? Or something you fell into?'

"I really, really liked throwing parties when I was younger." That's the easy way to start, as you both move to the line to pay for your bundles of fruit at this particular stall. "That grew up into loving to have guests over all the time. And then dreaming about running a hotel. So I took my sociology and history double major and got a job a hotel in Philly after college, putting myself through a hospitality degree while I started learning the ropes. It was a lot of years of working my way up, but eventually I got hired as the manager for the Inn at Jones Point under the old owners. They were struggling to keep up with new technology and losing clients because of it, and then..." Your eyes flick up to Marcus, almost apologizing for telling him the whole story. "We found out the reason Anita was having so much trouble learning the new technology was early-onset dementia alongside a sizeable brain tumor. I bought the inn from them when they made the decision that a comfortable end to her life was the most important thing they could do. Michael – Anita's husband – he comes around once a week for dinner and to check up on the place now that she's gone. He likes to keep an eye on it for her."

“That’s….” Marcus softens so much at the background story. “Beautiful. You are maintaining their legacy while adapting it to the new realities of time. Weathering time.”

"That farmhouse has been standing since the 1700s. We're just part of its legacy, not the other way around." The pair of you step up to be next in line, with Agent Bailey standing mere feet away managing to look imposing and nonchalant all at once. "The best part is that it could give Sydney her restaurant, and Juan a way to find himself in all the event planning. We didn't know what a team we'd be until we got going and now it's...it's just amazing."

“That’s incredible, and the fact that the place runs so smoothly is a testament to your hard work.” Marcus praises. He’s read some of the reviews and they are all positive, even the ones that had events beyond your control.

“That’s very kind of you.” Kind is an operative word for Marcus. As are sweet, funny, intelli— Nope, stop it, you’re getting dreamy again. Even the momentary distraction of having to pay for fruit is a welcome one if it gets your mind off that track.

Ouch. Kind is such a word that lands him in the friend zone. Which is where he has to be with you, but it still hurts. No longer edgy or cool like he was when he was in his old band. “What else do you need to get?” He asks, swinging his head around at the options available.

“I’m almost done actually.” It didn’t escape you that he flinched slightly when you were trying to be grateful and at least a little complimentary, and suddenly your stomach flips in fear that he might not like spending time with you are much as it seems. Or that you’d done something wrong. “I just wanted to get some fresh bread. But…I don’t know how much more you have to do.”

“Nothing.” He promises, shooting you a grin. “The least I can do is carrying things. Since you are saving me from a night of trying to cook.”

“Never learned to cook or just never got good at it?” There is a difference, after all, and it isn’t about want. Some people find cooking to be an incredible challenge. He gives you a look when you take your parcel of fruit from the vendor and accepts it on your behalf with thanks. Like a damn gentleman, you think with a pant in your chest.

“Never really had the time or the inclination.” He admits. “It’s hard to be enthusiastic about cooking for one, you know what I mean?”

“But that’s when you get to experiment!” Maybe it’s years of being friends with Sydney, whose world revolves around her tastebuds, but cooking has always been an outlet for you. It’s one of the only things you dislike about your apartment —the teeny tiny kitchen. “You can test out new things and weird combinations, and if it’s not great then the only person who knows is you. But if it’s awesome?” You grin up at him like you’re unveiling some kind of ultimate secret. “You become a rockstar at the next office potluck.”

Marcus chuckles. “I’m a rockstar anyway.” He jokes. “I’m the one who brings in the pizza and Chinese for the late nights in the office.”

“Okay, actually, that does count for a lot.” Walking in the direction of the bakery where you get all of your sweet treats and fresh bread, you readjust your shopping bag on your arm and try to glance around the place to survey your surroundings the way Agent Bailey has been teaching you. A comprehensive knowledge of your surroundings, she calls it. “I can’t really cook for my staff much when they have Sydney’s kitchen nearby, but I leave baked goods in the break room from time to time as a thank you. They work so hard.”

“There’s nothing better than snagging a muffin or a cookie when you’re rushing around.” Marcus agrees wisely.

“Or a slice of pizza.” It sounds like he works hard to keep his team in good spirits the same way you do, and you have to commend that in someone who works in such a dour field. Even art crimes — being less violent in nature, according to what you looked up the other night out of sheer curiosity — can’t possible be all sunshine and roses.

“Exactly.” He nods. “Sometimes we have all night surveillance or going through the evidence when something is time sensitive. My teams work better when they are well fed, and know how much they are appreciated.” He shrugs slightly, “everyone could benefit from know that every now and again.”

"Sometimes the weddings we run are just...they're insane. Or last year we had an entire family reunion take over the grounds for four very long days. I can't imagine it's half as stressful as what you deal with but the days can be really long and busy in their own right." For what it's worth, at least, you do love your job. And it's obvious that Marcus feels just as passionately about what he does.

“Oof.” He winces. “I bet the staff wanted to break out a bottle of bubbly when they were checked out.” Marcus jokes, chuckling slightly. “Yeah a lot of people don’t understand that when you love your job, the long hours are worth it.”

"Yeah." A tinge of regret breaks your smile, barely twitching in the corner of your mouth, and you barely nod. He can't possibly know what kind of a nerve he's hit — hell, you barely know yourself and you're the one feeling it. It just...it stings.

“Did I say something wrong?” He asks, immediately concerned when your smile seems almost sad.

"No." You reassure him much too quickly, and flinch in your own right when he looks skeptical. "It's just...not everyone thinks what I do is as worthwhile as, say, something like what you do. A—and that makes sense. Running an inn and upholding the law are—they're not the same. I'm not saying they are. It's just...that important to me. That's all."

“Whoever believes that is wrong.” Marcus insists wholeheartedly. “Running an inn is absolutely crucial. Maybe not to everyone, but to the people who need a little escape, a retreat to relax and revive themselves, your inn is a haven to them.” He is speaking passionately because he believes it. “When I’m out of town on a case, I hope that I can book a little inn. Something more personable than a Holiday Inn, so when I come back, it’s like a little slice of home.”

“I appreciate that. Really. It’s—I guess it’s a sore spot at the moment and I didn’t realize it. That’s all.” And you are absolutely not going to allow yourself to indulge in the image of Marcus coming back to the inn for you. Your place is not his ‘ little slice of home’. Even if you’re wondering what the would feel like if it was real.

“Well, you can always gripe and complain if you need to.” He promises.

“No, that’s—that’s not it.” It’s a little embarrassing, if you’re honest, but that’s only because you’re fighting being attracted to the man beside you. Otherwise you would just be chatting to a friend. “I just…don’t get to spend as much time with Sam as he would like. That’s all. Because we both have busy jobs.”

Marcus winces. “With the job he has, it would be hard unless you didn’t work.” He murmurs quietly. “But what counts is that you make the time you do have together special.”

“That’s what I said. Making the most of our time it’s what is most important.” The topic had come up again in conversation when you and Sam had talked about next steps — through the odd avenue of discussing your commute. His house to the inn isn’t a prohibitive drive, but it will warrant either having a lot of work done on your car or getting an upgrade. Right now you have no commute whatsoever, so you’re barely using your car outside of town.

“My favorite thing to do with my ex-wife was to curl up and watch a movie.” He admits. “Or work on a crossword together.”

“Those…” You laugh quietly, almost self-consciously, and shrug with the air of someone who is just about to give up. “Are the things I do with my good friend Agent Bailey, here. Though she kicks my ass at the Times Sunday crossword every single week.”

He rolls his eyes at himself. “I know it’s an old person’s activity, but I was normally exhausted from the academy.”

“Don’t you dare besmirch the Times Crossword.” A waggles finger and disapproving tsk seems to amuse him and it makes you smile, too. “That’s a mandatory topic of conversation at my mother’s dinner table.”

“Your mother enjoys the Times Crossword?” He asks, grinning at you. “She would get along with my parents. They have two subscriptions just so they can each do their own.”

“I’m keeping that in mind for Dad’s birthday this year.” It’s a brilliant idea. They would love to make a competition of it. It would be the highlight of their week.

“My parents got it as a wedding present and they enjoyed it so much, they kept it.” He tells you, smiling fondly at the memory of the two of them arguing playfully over their crosswords.

“That’s incredibly sweet.” There is a crowd at the bakery, as to be expected, so you and Marcus step into line to wait your turn. “I love the idea of being able to share small things with your partner. They’re every bit as important as the grand gestures, if not more.”

“Sometimes the smaller gestures are the most meaningful.” He admits with a grin. “I love cherry Danishes, and so did my ex. We would find these combo boxes of assorted and she would get the cherry one.”

“Giving up your favorite Danish flavor is not small.” An attempt at lightening the already light and sweet conversation is maybe…just trying to keep your own mind off of things. But that somehow doesn’t keep you from admitting the truth before you can stop yourself. “I have yet to meet the man I would give up my lemon poppyseed muffin for.”

“That’s only because you’ve never traded for a raspberry crumble muffin.” Marcus vows, smirking at the way you look stingy, even though he knows for a fact you aren’t.

“You’re on, Pike.” The smirk on his lips spreads to yours as effortlessly as breathing. “But lemon poppyseed is pretty impossible to unseat.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever had a raspberry crumble then.” He huffs, looking offended at the idea. “But I don’t think this place has them. I get them from a little bakery near the Bureau. I’ll have to bring you one.”

“I’ll get you a lemon poppyseed from the coffeeshop I go to in Old Town.” Even as its coming out of your mouth you know it sounds like flirting, but the fact is that you just feel so naturally comfortable with him. There is nothing flirtatious about muffins, you tell yourself. Nothing at all. “We can compare notes.”

“That sounds like a plan to me.” Marcus is extremely happy that you would like to make plans with him, any plans. Even if it’s just a friendly wager. “I’ll get the raspberry crumble. I say we each get two. And if you like the other one so much, you have to give up both.”

“Deal.” You put your hand out to him, willing to make a friendly bet on almost anything. That’s gotten you and your brother in trouble before, but this is harmless.

Marcus grins as he takes your hand, imagining that lightning bolts are shooting up his hand. Winking, he laughs, “just don’t be disappointed when you break that little rule of yours for me.” He boasts.

“We’ll see.” The tone of the thing really tries for teasing, but you end up so taken aback by the electricity in shaking his hand that you fluster — which is only compounded when you end up next in line and completely forget the word for ‘sourdough’ in the process.

“I, uh, I want-“ you seem completely out of it, and the bored looking boy behind the counter seems to be getting annoyed with you. “Can we have just a second?” Marcus asks, pulling you back and allowing another couple to go ahead of the two of you. “I’ve completely forgotten what I wanted.” He takes the blame, not wanting to embarrass you.

“Bread?” You manage to supply, feeling like a world class idiot for clamming up on something so routine. If being around him is going to be this big of a problem, you need to get yourself in order.

“Yeah, bread.” He nods, wrinkling his nose slightly. “What’s that type that I like?”

At this point he could mean him or he could mean you, or he could even just be speaking in theoreticals, but you have you head in straight enough again to blow out a breath and remember yourself. “Sourdough. I forgot the damn word for sourdough.”

“Thats it.” He snaps his fingers and looks back at the boy. “Could we get some sourdough bread?”

“Sure.” The kid looks at the both of you like you’ve gone insane but turns around to bag a loaf of freshly baked bread without a second thought for his strange customers.

Marcus pays for the bread, even with you huffing beside him and guides you towards the clearing. “That wasn’t that bad.”

“Only because you saved me from sputtering like an idiot.” It’s beside the point that he is also the reason you were sputtering in the first place. That doesn’t matter. It’s the fact that you couldn’t keep it together that bothers you. “Thanks for that.��

“Not at all.” He waves off your thanks. “Everyone has those moments.” He promises, smiling at you.

There is such a moment of relief when you exhale again that you have to make light of it or else you’re in danger of feeling far more grateful than is probably necessary, and that makes your chest ache in a dull and insistent kind of way. “That’s either very sweet of you or a complete placation, but either way I appreciate it.”

“No placation, I promise.” He crosses his finger over his heart and smiles at you. “Anywhere else?”

“That was the last thing for me.” Even though you have plans to have dinner with him that night you still can’t help feeling a little disappointed that the impromptu shopping trip has come to an end. “Unless you needed something else?”

“Well…” Marcus looks around, not wanting to let you leave just yet. “Maybe I could find a plant to kill?” He asks. “Something to brighten up my place?”

"Bit of a black thumb?" The excuse to not say goodbye yet is welcome, and you end up smiling more broadly than you mean to. "Let's see what we can do about that."

“More that I forget to set up someone to water my plants when I go out of town and they die miserable, thirsty deaths while I’m away.” He flashes you a guilty grin. “I’m a murderer.”

“Very rude of you to do to your plants.” The wholesome, straight-faced nod that you cry for cracks on a giggle, though, and you nod in the direction of an entirely different florist stand than the one you were at before. “What you need is a succulent.”

“That sounds a little dirty.” Marcus admits, not even realizes how flirtatious that sounds.

It does. And you didn’t mean for it to. You were just talking about the type of plant he could get. But then there’s that grin on his face and it’s so fucking puckish and * handsome* that you practically groan about how unfair the whole damn thing is. “Whoops?” You offer, obviously not apologetic in the least.

He snorts and winks at you again. “I don’t mind. Sometimes being a little dirty is a good thing.” It’s borderline inappropriate, so Marcus doesn’t say anything else.

“Sometimes it’s the fun of an otherwise boring day.” But since you’re genuinely afraid you might say too much if you go ahead with this line of thought, and since Agent Bailey is steadily avoiding your eyes like an older sister trying not to bear witness to your trouble making, you clear your throat and change the subject. “I think I snake plant would work for you. They’re really easy to care for and great for beginners or busy people.”

Marcus takes your lead and nods seriously. “I’ll take some advice. Any advice.” He shrugs slightly. “I wish I had the time for pets, but I don’t and it’s wrong to do that to them.”

“If I could have a dog, I would have a little corgi or a Yorkie in a heartbeat.” It comes with an almost wistful sigh, but you feel the same way he does. It would be cruel to the animal you’re supposed to be taking care of. “But since I have no concept of work-life balance? I have plants.”

“I’ll start with plants.” Marcus huffs. “If I can keep one alive? Maybe I’ll move on to cats? They are low maintenance.”

“Cats are fantastic. Sydney and Anna Leigh always had a couple when we were growing up and they can’t be the sweetest animals in the world.” There is a florist that specializes in succulents and potted plants further into the market and you head that way, chatting as you go. “I just always said I would want my kids to grow up with a puppy.”

“Puppy, a swing set in the yard and dinner together.” Marcus adds wistfully, having his own version of that same dream. “Every kid needs a puppy pal.”

“That’s exactly what I said.” And the knot in your stomach tells you that that isn’t a coincidence — that the future you’ve dreamt about probably lines up with the one he wants in so many different ways.

“We had my dog for nearly twenty years.” Marcus tells you. “He was my best friend and the best soul I’ve ever met.”

“I got Alex instead of a dog,” you giggle, silliness tinging the edge of his sweet nostalgia. “My little brother.”

“Isn’t a younger brother the same thing?” He asks with a grin.

“Very much so. And Alex is as much Golden Retriever as he is human.” If he were here, he’d give you so much grief for that comparison, but you stand by it. “What kind of dog did you have?”

Marcus chuckles. “A golden retriever.” He tells you without skipping a beat. “I’ve got a picture of him, wanna see?”

“Absolutely!” They say you’re either a kid person or a dog person, but you’re definitely both. Anything cute and squishy is right up your alley.

Digging out his wallet, it might be a little old fashioned to carry a physical photo of the favorite family pet, but he likes looking at it sometimes. He’s holding his dog, Hansel, in the picture. The white around the dog’s snout indicative of the older age of the golden retriever. “Here he is. Hansel.”

“What an angel!” If you could jump right through the photo and squeeze his beautiful face you would — the only problem is that you don’t know if you mean young Marcus or the dog.

“Wasn’t he?” Marcus hums happily. “He slept in my room growing up. Hated me leaving for college, although I hated being apart from him too.”

"How could you possibly leave that face? Look at him!" Yeah, it's definitely the dog that you're talking about. At least right now.

“Yeah.” He smiles down at the photo, unable to resist brushing his thumb over the canine face with happy memories flooding through him. “He was the best.”

"So would you want another Golden Retriever?" Looking between him and the photo, you think you might be able to guess the answer yourself. "Or will no other Golden ever live up to him?"

“Probably not.” Marcus shrugs. “He was from a litter of puppies at the shelter. It was just a coincidence that he was a pure Golden.” He frowns slightly. “I would want to adopt. It’s the best way to give a loving home to an animal.”

"Adopting is the only way." On that, you can firmly agree. But you point to the florist stand up ahead and touch his arm gently in an unconscious moment of casual comfort. "First, let's get you a plant to adopt."

“Yes, I would prefer adopted over nursery grown.” Marcus jokes, trying to ignore how easy it is to be with you. You can just be a friend. It’s possible and it’s possible he’s lying to himself.

"Wild, orphaned plants wandering the lonely roads with all their belongings tied up in a little bandana on a stick," you tease, conjuring the image of a cartoon orphan as best you can. To the girl behind the counter, you turn your full attention and the best conspiratorial smile you can conjure. "We're looking for something he'll have trouble killing," you confide with a chuckle. "Something like a snake plant, maybe? Or if you have a better recommendation we're all ears."

“It’s best to start them out with a plant before having pets or kids, isn’t it?” She asks with a grin, eyeing Marcus in amusement. “But he seems like the trustworthy type to me.”

"A fine, upstanding citizen if ever I saw one." The smirk you offer her is playful, and you glance up at Marcus beside you. "Plus, I'll be keeping an eye on the situation. For the good of the adoptee, of course."

“Of course.” She nods seriously, even though there is a definitely shaking to her voice, like she’s holding back laughter. “Let me show you the best options for a recovering black thumb.”

It's several minutes of back and forth with the florist who parries your playful banter well, and you end up leaving her stand with not just a lovely potted snake plant for Marcus, but an identical one for your apartment as well. "I had to!" You coo, when Marcus laughs at the little plant that you're cradling like a newborn. "It's so precious! And they're twins! I couldn't just leave it abandoned."

“Well, we have to name them.” Marcus decides. “Twin names.” He grins at you, “what do you think?”

"Luke and Leia," you joke right away, because that will always be the first pair of twins you think of in any situation. "Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum? Oh, do the creepy girls from The Shining have names?"

Considering The Shining was his first foray into horror when he was younger, it was also one of his favorites. "No, they were just called Grady Daughters one and two." He tells you. "But..." He whips out his phone. "They are Lisa and Louise Burns, in real life."

“So are the plants Grady and Burns, or Lisa and Louise?” Either way they’re exceedingly silly choices, and you’re going for it.

“Either one works for me.” Marcus laughs. “It depends on if the plants are male or female.” He jokes.

“I think we probably get to pick,” you joke right back, making a show of rolling your eyes at him even though you’re laughing.

“Hmmmmm.” He pretends to take a closer look at his plant. “I’m going to surprise you.” He decides. “My plant is female.”

“Oh, that’s no surprise to me.” The smirk you shoot back at him is probably the lightest and most carefree you r felt in ages, and just for the moment you’re not going to second guess it. You’re just going to revel in the moment. “All my plants are female.”

He snickers with you and then tilts his head. “Lisa or Louise for you?” He asks, before he answers. “I bet you want the name Louise. You’ll pretend it’s for Thelma and Louise.”

“I—how—” Staring at him in utter confusion does not help matters one bit, but you still don’t have any clue as to how he could possibly have guessed that about you after only having met you two whole times. “So?” You ask after a second, realizing you’re laughing with the absurdity.

You have the most beautiful laughs Marcus has ever heard, and he loves that he caused it. There’s a flash of guilt that comes with the thought and he decides to reel it back into the scope of reality. You are becoming a friend, nothing more. “Who wouldn’t?” He asks, still chuckling. “They were the greatest female duo in modern cinema. In my opinion.”

“They line up against Idgie and Ruth from Fried Green Tomatoes.” You’ll stand by that pairing until the day you die, but the way warmth is spreading through your chest and your fingers ache dully from wanting to reach out for him is a special, damning sort of agony. “And I will die on that hill.”

“I had completely forgotten about Idgie and Ruth.” He admits, hanging his head in shame. “Forgive me.”

“Just this once.” There is still a teasing grin on your face when your phone goes off in your pocket. Sam’s name splashed across your caller ID and guilt crawls through your veins immediately. “I’m sorry,” you apologize, glancing up at Marcus. “Just give me one second.”

Marcus catches a glimpse of the name and it’s like he’s doused with cold water. “Of course.” He murmurs politely, turning towards a little book stand to give you some privacy, beating himself up for flirting with another man’s significant other.

“Hey honey.” The second you pick up the phone with a plant in your other arm and your groceries weighing on your shoulder, that is the second you feel most self-conscious.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice comes over the line and he has a straightforward attitude, jumping into the reason for his call. “I’ve had a dinner invite tonight, some potential donors.” He tells you. “Can you make it?”

“I—” It’s not like it’s an unusual request. If he has a work event tonight then the best possible person he can have at his side is you. The idea of having dinner with Marcus had been so uplifting, and now cancelling on him makes you feel awful. But this is your boyfriend. “Yeah. Yeah, I can make it. Where and when? Is there a dress code?”

Sam rattles off the address and dress code. “Thanks honey, I knew I could count on you.” He tells you before he murmurs to someone else. “Hey, I’ve got to go, I love you.” The line clicks off immediately.

“I love you too.” It’s said to the silence, and you look down at your phone for a moment before pocketing it again. Marcus has stepped away to give you privacy, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other before walking back over to him. “I’m really sorry,” you murmur, actually looking as apologetic as you feel. “Can we postpone dinner tonight?”

“Oh….yeah, of course.” He hates the way the feels rejected, but you have priorities, ones that aren’t him. “That’s no problem at all.” He nods quickly and looks around. “Well, we should probably get your things to your car, right?”

“I—I’m really sorry.” Repeating it just makes you feel worse. But both of you feel worse, unbeknownst to you, and you walk in the direction of your car with Agent Bailey her usual two steps behind. “Something came up.”

“Not a problem at all.” Marcus promises you, plastering on a smile as you turn to him at your car. “I understand. Believe me, I’ve had plenty of things come up.”

"It was really nice to run into you today." There is no word of a lie or even exaggeration in that, and you take your flowers from Marcus's arms carefully, loading it into the backseat with your other bags and Louise the snake plant.

“Yeah, it was nice seeing you. Marcus holds up his plant. “Thanks for the help.” He hums. “Hopefully I won’t kill Thelma.”

"If you do, try to make it as spectacular as possible." Offering him a half smile, you realize that you just wish you could give him a big hug, but that would be totally out of line. So instead all you can think to do is shift your weight awkwardly again before opening your car door. "I'll see you around, Marcus."

“See ya.” He nods and turns around to walk to his car. He doesn’t turn around, knowing that it would look weird if he did.

Once you’re in the car with Agent Bailey and focused on getting back home to put everything away and make a cup of coffee before you have to start getting ready for the night, you sigh softly and sit back in your seat. You can feel the curiosity of the Secret Service agent beside you and you wonder if you look as guilty as you. “That was a nice surprise.”

“Yes.” Agent Bailey hums. “Special Agent Pike was quite a surprise.”

“He’s nice,” you defend, very aware that you’re defending yourself and not him.

“He’s very nice.” She agrees. “And exactly who he says he is.” Of course a background check had been done on the agent, which she was glad of now that he had popped back up on radar. Not quite sure what to make of the interaction at the market, it’s also not her place to judge it.

"Well, that's a comfort." The drive back to Alexandria won't take long, but you twist your hands around the steering wheel a few times before pulling out into traffic. "Unfortunately, tonight will be the opposite," you tell her with a dramatic sigh that cushions the blow of having to attend an impromptu event. "Sam asked me to come to a dinner party tonight. Last minute invitation, I guess somebody had a seat they needed filled and asked him."

“I see.” Now she has to find out where you are going to be, who is on the guest least and it means overtime tonight. She doesn’t sigh, but she wants to, much preferring to go to small Indian restaurant over some political function. “I’m sure it will be a lovely evening.”

"I know you have to vet everything." The process seems exhausting, but you would never question the agent's ability to get her job done. "It's a private party at Arthur Connesby's house. The aerospace tech guy? Apparently it's a party for his wife, but everybody invited are Sam's constituents. I have a feeling they're going to spend the night trying to pitch their own interests to him, but if nothing else they might donate to his next campaign if they feel like they got to be friendly with him." It sounds like it will be a fairly boring night of overly rich old men feeling self-important, but Sam asked you to be there and that's why you're going.

“Noted.” The agent is immediately firing off a text to her support team, letting them know about the change of plans tonight.

"I know it's not what we had in mind." The night has gone from staying home and watching a movie and maybe playing cards, to dinner out, to an entire party. It's a lot of jumps in not much time. "And I appreciate you being flexible. Truly."

“It’s my job to protect you no matter what.” She reminds you softly. She enjoys you, has gotten to know you and thinks you are lovely, but you are Hummingbird to her. The First Daughter of the President of the United States and her assignment. She would guard you regardless of what you were doing because it’s her job.

"Right." You nod slightly, eyes cast back out on the road, and try not to slump even a little as you drive. It's not necessary to be everyone's best friend. You know that on a practical level. Right now your energy is better served focusing on the night ahead. "Well, I can still be grateful. So thank you. For...being professional. An very good at your job."

She knows that you are disappointed, but one of the cardinal rules of the secret service is to not be emotionally attached to your assignment. It would be too difficult to make life or death decisions. “Protecting you has been my pleasure.” She promises.

"I appreciate that." For better or for worse, the Secret Service will be a part of your life for the rest of your life. So if you can't be friends, at least you can appreciate each other. For now, though, you ought to focus. A party with your boyfriend's constituents is no place to have your mind wander.

The dinner party is exactly what you imagined it would be. Self important people, boasting about how important they are as they fawn over ‘more’ important people. Or the people who could give them access to the power they wished to have. Sam was in his element, smiling and shaking hands. Listening to ideas with a feigned interest that comes naturally to politicians.

He's charismatic enough to keep their attention but has enough of his own heart left that he does seem to care about issues being brought to him. Unfortunately for these folks, they're talking about a whole lot of things that just one man can't change on their behalf. So all he can really do is listen and express interest in whatever plight it is they have.

You have found yourself in the rather unfortunate position of being inundated by the significant others of these men, and when the party turns to mingling after dinner they somehow manage to whisk you away to the garden where you aren't sure if they're planning on trying to get you to dance with various people, or maybe join their country clubs, You really can't tell which.

“You must tell me, how is living in the White House?” One asks you, under the impression that you are still living with your mother.

“I understand it’s very comfortable.” It’s almost a relief that these women seem not to know a thing about you beside who your mother is. Your greatest fear about the whole thing was being hounded through every day of your life — so far that hasn’t been the case. But it’s been barely more than a month. There’s time. “However, I chose not to reside there.”

“Oh, what a shame.” She hums, wondering why you wouldn’t want to call the most famous house in America home. “I hear that it’s haunted.”

“That is what they say.” And according to your little sister, it’s absolutely true. But an upscale party of relatively stuffy guests like this doesn’t seem like the place to spout tales of your sister taking her homework to the Lincoln bedroom. “And it’s certainly very beautiful.”

“I would love to take a tour sometime.” She tells you, hoping that you might offer to set it up for her. An intimate tour would be amazing.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” You aren’t the sort of person who would exchange favors, so the thought that this could mean a donation for Sam’s campaign in the near future. Instead, you just know it would be something nice. “I can have something put together for you if you like?”

“That would be lovely!” She exclaimed, sending you a warm smile. “You know, you and the congressman make a beautiful couple. Possibly even presidential one day.” It’s a fishing expedition, feeling you out for your thoughts on a possible run.

"Possibly." And two weeks ago, you might have beamed at that implication. At the idea of Sam moving through his career with such gusto and motivation that he makes it all the way to the White House. But seeing what your father contends with as First Gentleman, the idea of being First Lady sounds overwhelming to you. It's even less likely that you would end up in politics yourself. "Sam takes his work very seriously, and he has high hopes for the future of our country."

“And what about you?” She asks. “You made waves, positive ones in my opinion, during your mother’s campaign about your stance on soulmates.”

"I don't have any political ambitions for myself." Of that, you can absolutely assure her. "While I'm more than happy to support the people around me, I'm very happy with my own career."

“At least until Congressman Chase makes an honest woman out of you.” She hums. “Then it’s so hard to balance your own career while supporting the ambitions of your husband.” There’s a rueful chuckle on her part. “Believe me, I know.”

"I won't be giving up my career." This is always a topic of conversation amongst significant others, you've found, and a topic that your father has contended with on multiple occasions. As your mother's career grew, he became a stay-at-home-dad and raised three kids. Because it was something he wanted to do, not because it was forced on him. And that has always been the key to you. "I own a business. So it's essentially my first child already."

“Oh?” Her brows wing up in surprise. “My apologies. I must have misunderstood.” Her eyes slide past you. “Excuse me, I must go catch Mrs. Jackson before she leaves.” She cuts off the conversation and hustles away.

It's a bit on and definitely abrupt, but the conversation wasn't very enjoyable to begin with so you smile politely and just let it roll off your back. Whatever she 'misunderstood' doesn't really concern you. Some gossip article must have speculated on the next steps of your relationship with Sam and you try not to let that kind of nonsense get to you.

“Having fun?” Sam comes up to you, his hand slipping around your waist and he presses a kiss to your cheek. “You look amazing, especially since it was so last minute.”

"You always like this dress." The first time you wore it was the nominating party after the Democratic National Convention, and then again to a fundraiser in Chicago. That was the night you met Sam, and he had remarked even then that the dress was particularly beautiful. It seemed like the logical choice for tonight based on that alone. "It's a nice party." The food was predictable but tasty, and the drinks are flowing, just like the way you expected the night to go. "Do we think there will be birthday cake?" You ask conspiratorially, looking up at him beside you with a smirk. "Is that something people still do for fancy fiftieth birthdays?"

“Cake is universal.” Sam snorts and nods. “I have it on good authority the cake is a chocolate raspberry mascarpone cream cake.” He tells you, knowing it will be an idea you carry back to Sydney.

"I know exactly what Saturday's dessert special is going to be." Somehow your best friend will turn a classic cake into something elegant and thoughtful, and you know the entire restaurant will go nuts for it. They always do, when Sydney gets to show off. "Are you having a good night? I know you had high hopes for networking tonight."

“It’s going well.” He hums happily and beams at you. “How about you? Working the other side for me?” He teases playfully, aware you don’t usually like campaigning.

"Nothing that will get me in trouble with my Mom's staff." Not that he would ever ask you to do anything like that. Sam doesn't go in for most of the entitled bullshit that other politicians do. "One request for a White House tour that I'll put through the appropriate channels. Nothing too odd."

“Interesting.” Sam looks thoughtful. “Who asked for that?”

"Shelly D'Amario." The wife of District Attorney-turned-Superior Court Judge Raymond D'Amario was one of the few people you had recognized from press coverage of events supporting your mother's campaign. Her husband's politics were lined up with most moderate Democrats, and he tended to hand down verdicts with thoughtful conclusions at the end of each case. He's one of those people you wouldn't have minded at all sitting at this dinner party with, but unfortunately the Judge was not able to attend.

“Oh.” Sam nods. “I was at another dinner with her and the judge just the other night.” He tells you. “Picking his brain about Constitutional law.”

“She was very nice.” Though instinct takes over, and you chew on your bottom lip for a second before going on. “Did you guys talk…about me at all? About us, I mean? At your dinner?”

“Well, naturally you came up.” Sam admits with a slight frown, wondering if Shelly had somehow insulted you. “Not everyone is dating the daughter of the current sitting President. But I didn’t share any private details about you.” He promises. “Or your family.”

“I know you wouldn’t do that.” If he was the sort of person who went around sharing personal details with anyone and everyone, you wouldn’t have been able to trust him. Especially not under the condition you met in. Campaigns are cutthroat. “She just…said something that kind of confused me, that’s all.”

“What confused you?” He asks, trying to recall the exact details of the dinner with the judge and his wife.

Without wanting to imply that he might have said anything, you still glance around you to make sure that Agent Bailey is the only one close enough by to overhear you. “She seemed to be under the impression that I would be quitting my job if we ever have a family. And when I said that wasn’t the case, she said she must have ‘misunderstood’ something and walked away immediately.”

Understand dawns in his eyes and Sam shifts slightly. “Well, that’s not something we’ve talked about just yet.” He reminds you. “That’s a conversation we need to have.”

"Right." You couldn't agree more. "Which is why I was confused that she seemed to have heard an opinion about it somewhere before. But it was probably just some gossip article."

He hesitates and then decides to come clean, you don’t like liars. “I might have voice my hopes for our future.” He admits. “It’s not so unexpected, is it?” He asks. “I’ll be spending a lot of time at different events and I will want you by my side.”

"Sam..." There's disappointment in your voice that you don't bother to hide. Of course he's absolutely entitled to talk about hopes, as he puts it, but you can't believe that he would ever think you would give up the inn. "I own the place, honey. It's not like taking a smaller role in an office or shifting to part time somewhere."

“Yes, you own it.” Sam stresses. “But you can have someone else manage it.”

"But I don't want to have someone else manage it." It's really like you can't believe your ears. Sam has never voiced anything like this before within the dynamic of your relationship and he knows very well how proud you are of your work at the inn and how much it means to you.

By the set of your jaw and the frown on your face, Sam knows that he can’t argue the point right now. He shakes his head, smiling at you and taking your hand. “You’re right. I—I wasn’t thinking about how much you love your inn.” He admits softly. “Let’s just forget about it, hm?”

"O—okay." There he is again. Your understanding, supportive Sam smiling at you and taking the stress out of the situation. The man you started dating almost a year ago. Dependable. "Okay."

“Good.” He pats your hand gently and leans in to kiss you softly. “But I do still want to talk about moving in together.”

"After our date on Tuesday?" The Valentine's night you had settled on together is dinner at a small, family-owned restaurant in his hometown followed by a fundraiser screening of short films made by local high schoolers looking to update their school's resources with the proceeds. Community-oriented is the theme of the night.

“That sounds appropriate.” He agrees with a nod. “For now, let’s just enjoy the rest of the evening.” He looks towards your secret service agent. “Will you be allowed to come to my place tonight?”

"I think that can be arranged." The invitation means you'll be sleeping over at his place twice this week, which is definitely more than you've been able to do lately and maybe that's a good thing. Maybe you just need to refocus yourself. And stop thinking about Marcus, for fuck's sake. You slip your arm around Sam's waist and lean into his side. "I just have to let Bailey know. Her relief agent will have to be told to go to your place instead of mine."

"Of course." Even though it irritates him, he nods. Understanding that you cannot help it right now. After your mother's term, perhaps you will decline protection.

"I know it isn't perfect." He's bristled about lack of privacy before, and though you can't say that you really blame him? There's nothing you can do about it. Secret Service protect for the President's immediate family is mandatory. And hell, you have a Secret Service agent in your apartment every night. At least when you stay with Sam, your agent usually stays in the living room or their car like a stakeout. It's typically left up to them. But still, you do understand the objection. "I'm sorry. It is what it is."

"I know." He sighs softly, hating that the evening has been sidetracked from what he imagined. "I understand. I just don't like them be so close when we are alone." He admits.

"I know." The last five minutes have become increasingly uncomfortable, but you still stick close to Sam and continue smiling, aware that eyes at the party might be on you just like they are anytime you go anywhere outside of your little haven at the inn. "But better that, than someone breaking into your house."

He doesn't point out that he has a security system and his townhouse is in a gate community. There's no point and it would just further cause an discussion that is best left for the relative privacy of his bedroom - with a secret service agent parked outside in his living room. He sighs. "Shall we get more wine?" He asks, trying to change the subject.

"Sure." There are people starting to dance to the music being piped through outdoor speakers, but you're not really in a dancing mood. There's too much swirling around in your mind to be light on your feet. "Wine sounds like a good plan."

Sam leads you over to the bar, ever the gentleman and stands beside you to look at the drink selections. "They have a nice pinot grigio." He murmurs softly.

"Is that what you want too?" The bar is open, of course, but the catering company has allowed the bartender to put out a small and discreet tip jar for the reasonably large party tonight, and you have a few more bills in your purse that you're happy to add to the jar.

"I think I'm going to stick with the pinot noir." He tells you, holding up his almost empty glass.

You order both glasses without hesitation and tip the very pleasant bartender, handing Sam his glass after it's put on the bar top. Just something nice to get the night back on track. At least as far as the two of you go.

"So I think that we should drink our wine and then dance." Sam suggests. It would be a good visual and romantic as a bonus. He's not calculating, but he does understand that optics are important in politics. It's a good opportunity to romance you and look good for the discreet photographers that are roaming around.

"And at some point, eat cake." Trying to lighten the mood a little is really your go-to for diffusing tension in any situation, and the air around the two of you feels a little thick, so you offer him a big smile instead of getting serious again.

"Eating cake is always a good way to spend a night." Sam agrees, smiling back at you.

"Morning." You haul yourself into the restaurant's kitchen the next morning when you arrive bright and early for your eight-a.m. start time looking vaguely less drowsy than usual. The other member of your Secret Service detail — Agent Sisson — has music taste more in line with yours and you'd listened to Duran Duran on your way back to town this morning. That and a cup of strong coffee means that you're feeling okay but definitely in need of breakfast.

“Wellllllll,” Sydney’s grin is bright as she eyes you. “I see the walk of shame has taken on a festive air.” She teases, laughing as she moves over to pour you a cup of coffee. “I take it last night went well?”

“I have enough time to go upstairs and change before work,” you grumble, though you’re smiling and accept the cup of coffee gratefully. “Usual boring party, but I bring you home a new cake flavor combination to try, and it was nice to see Sam.”

She snorts. “Nice to see Sam.” She mimics. “It’s like you ran into him in the store.” She huffs at you. “This is your boyfriend. The man you love.”

“And that’s why it’s nice to see him more than just one measly night a week.” Given that you have a few minutes, you hop up on a stool at the counter beside her work station and groan in appreciation at the slice of sweet Italian brioche and carefully cut piece of frittata she plates up for you without hesitation. “Oh my god, thank you. All I’ve had so far is coffee. We overslept and both had to run out to get to work on time.”

“Overslept…” she rolls her eyes and rubs her stomach. “I wish I could remember what that was like.” She grumbles. “This one is giving me heartburn all the time and keeping my sleep short.”

“They just really want to make sure you remember they’re there,” you tease, picking up a forkful of frittata and not even caring what’s inside. Everything Syd makes it incredible. “Twenty-seven whole more weeks of this, Mama. Get excited!”

“I am, I promise. But the kid can let me sleep in a little, right?” She huffs playfully. “So how was the dinner? You came back from the market in a hurry so I didn’t get to talk to you. Did you forget about this or was it last minute?”

“It was last minute. He got a spontaneous invitation to a potential supporter’s wife’s birthday party.” Oh my god, spinach and artichoke frittata, so fucking good. “She got the gift of bragging rights that a Congressman and the First Daughter came to her party, and a very nice bottle of champagne.”

“Sounds like a ton of fun.” Sydney likes hobnobbing even less than you do, preferring to be on the service side of fancy events. “So you ate mildly bland catered food and drank way too much wine?”

“Exactly. Which is why this tastes even more incredible than usual.” You point at your plate even while scooping up another bite. “So did you and Juanito ever decide what you’re doing tomorrow? I know you scheduled yourself for the dinner rush, but you’ve got to do something.”

“My husband is amazing.” She promises, beaming in delight. “He actually got us reservations at St. Regis for the Valentine’s Day Afternoon Tea.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet! It’s so utterly romantic I could barf.” The momentary flash of jealousy is nothing, and you’re genuinely happy that they’ll be able to get out and do something. They work so incredibly hard and never complain for a second. “It’s perfect, Syd. I want a full report.”

“I’m excited.” She admits, biting her lip and fiddling with her practical silicone wedding band that she wears in the kitchen. “I’ve also been promised a very relaxing massage and a few orgasms.”

“All things which you deserve very much.” You raise your coffee cup in salute to her and grin.

“At the very least.” She huffs, her own grin one of pure happiness. “I am growing Badillo’s baby.” She reminds you, as if it isn’t common knowledge at this point. She’s so proud of being with her soulmate and she cock her head at you curiously. “Have you given any more thought to that tattoo?” She pries gently.

“Yes and no…” It’s much more yes than no, if you’re honest with yourself, but the fact is that it’s probably not good to think about it as much as you have. It’s like a never-ending loop in your mind and you absolutely can’t shake it. “I just don’t know what good it would do to bring it up. Or who I would even bring it up to.”

“You know who you should bring it up to.” She huffs.

“Who?” You challenge, feeling like you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place without doing so much as being awake this morning. “My boyfriend of almost a year who asked me to move in with him and wants to start planning our future? Or the guy I barely know who invited me to dinner yesterday when I ran into him at Eastern Market and looked so hurt when I had to ask him to reschedule that I still feel like I kicked the world’s cutest puppy?” Clearly it’s been on your mind, and Syd is really the one person you can talk to about any of it. But admitting that you’ve been thinking about Marcus feels like cheating and you have always despised cheaters deeply. Being cheated on will do that to a person.

“You ran into Marcus?” Her eyes widen with the new information and she immediately sets down her spoon and walks around the counter to hug you. “Oh honey, talk to me. What happened?” She asks softly. While she might be pushing you to at least ask if you might be soulmates, she doesn’t want you to be upset.

“It wasn’t a big deal…we ran into each other and we finished our shopping together.” It’s such a relief to have a space to talk about it, and yet you know you’re blowing it out of proportion in your head. It was just a coincidence that you ran into him. Not fate. “We were both talking about wanting Indian for dinner so he asked if I wanted to go to the restaurant with him. We were just going to hang out. Then Sam called.”

“And of course you said yes to Sam.” Sydney doesn’t exactly approve of the way Sam seems to think that you wait for his call and will drop everything to accommodate him, but she doesn’t say anything. “How did Marcus take the change of plans?”

“He said he understood and that it was fine.” Which is, technically, what happened. So when you shift your eyes away from hers, Sydney makes a noise and you cave. “He seemed disappointed,” you admit, throwing up your hands. “But I’m probably just projecting that.”

“Anyone would be disappointed to not spend time with you.” Sydney defends immediately, always the best cheerleader for you. “Maybe text him and reschedule?” She suggests. “Friends have dinner, it’s not cheating. You aren’t going out on a date.”

“I know it’s not cheating.” Syd knows better than anyone why you hate liars and cheaters. “I texted him on my way in this morning to reschedule, but I don’t…I don’t know if he’ll respond. He was probably just being polite asking in the first place.”

“I doubt that.” Sydney had seen the covert looks that each one of them had given the other when they weren’t looking during game night. Both of them were curious and she is interested to know about that hummingbird tattoo, it’s not common, despite what you might say.

“Then it’s because I’m best friends with his friend’s soulmate,” you reason instead.

“No, it’s because Juan said that Marcus was trying to be polite but that he was interested in you.” Sydney tells you.

You feel the blood drain from your face shamefully fast, and your eyes dart up to meet your best friend’s. “He said that?”

“Yes.” She isn’t going to lie to you, Juan had told her that. “But, he also said that Marcus respects relationships and he’s not the type of man to make a move on you if you’re in a relationship.” She knows how you feel about that kind of thing and she agrees with you.

“Well…I mean…that’s good? Isn’t it? That just means he’s respectful.” Still , you find yourself sitting on the idea that Marcus likes you and being halfway between mortified and grinning. It feels ultimately childish and yet like your chest is filling full of something very much like joy.

“According to Juan, Marcus Pike is the best man, the best person that he’s ever known.” Sydney acknowledges with a nod, deciding not to comment on your giddy expression. “Even though he was busy with training at the academy, he was always helping with housework or running errands to take care of things.” She shrugs. “His ex-wife was a med student. So I guess she’s a doctor now.”

“It’s just a coincidence.” This mantra of yours is going to get old quick, but you have a partner. A long term one, even. One that until a week or so ago, you had thought you had a future with. Now that resolve is waning and you don’t really know how you started to question yourself so easily.

Sensing that you’ve dug your heels in, she backs off, giving a small shrug. “I’m sure it is.” She hums. “So what are your Valentine’s Day plans with Sam?” She asks. “Did he plan something romantic?”

“We’re going to dinner and then a community fundraiser in his district.” It doesn’t sound romantic, you will admit that, but anything too luxurious you did can be perceived in a very wrong way by the general public if it gets out. A Congressman and the First Daughter going to a spa getaway or the symphony would be seen as being out of touch with the people. “He…wants to talk about the future.”

“And you don’t sound like it’s a conversation that you are eager to have.” She sits down, her own herbal tea in front of her and she frowns slightly.

“I’m…not sure, honestly.” Without hesitation and without filter, the explanation about your conversation with Judge D’Amario’s wife and what Sam said at dinner with them comes tumbling out of your mouth and you can’t help but cringe to yourself when you get it all out in the open air. “Am I overreacting? Please tell me I’m overreacting.”

Sydney winces and gives you a small shrug. “He has known from the beginning that you aren’t the type to want to be a typical politician’s spouse and give up your career.” She reminds you. “Remember that night out in Alexandria? Where we were bar hopping? I had a very frank conversation with him about that.”

“You did?” Your forehead scrunches as you take a sip of coffee. “Then why would he think I would be willing to have someone else manage the inn?”

“I don’t know if I can answer that.” She admits quietly. “But I think he gave them his true ideal. You quitting and being by his side for all his accomplishments.”

“It’s not that I’m not proud of him.” Some would argue that that is what it signals, but you and Sydney are not those types of people. “He’s doing such good work, and I do want to have kids and a house and all that domestic stuff. I just…I don’t want to give up working. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life standing behind a podium waving politely. I’m—I want to be me, not an extension of my partner.”

“I know that.” She reaches out and takes your hand. “But does Sam? Really? I think that he can convince you that it’s what you want.” She huffs. “I know he’s a good guy, but is he the right guy?”

“Not everybody finds perfect,” you remind her quietly, knowing that that is exactly what she has with Juan. Their version of perfect is about support, respect, and unending silliness, and you’ve always craved the same. But there aren’t many men in the world like Juan. Not many at all.

“That doesn’t mean you need to settle.” She tells you, squeezing your hand gently. “If you are happy, I’m happy. All I want is for you to be happy.”

“To be honest?” Closing your eyes for a second to swallow a sigh, the best you can do is shake your head. “I didn’t think I was settling. But now I can’t help but wonder…”

“Then you owe it to yourself, and to Sam, to make sure before you commit any further.” She suggests, knowing that you would feel horrible about divorcing later on.

“How?” It’s an honest question, since the situation is tangled up in guesses and implied maybes. “Break up with Sam because Marcus might be my soulmate? What happens if I’m wrong and I regret the whole thing? Sam would never take me back and I would deserve it.”

“Ask Marcus to show you the tattoo.” She hums. “That’s not cheating. It would be no different than seeing him in swimming trunks.”

“If he ever responds to me.” Which you sort of doubt. You sort of did just drop plans with him the second your boyfriend called. But you are the kind of person who makes your relationship a priority. You always have been.

“And if he doesn’t….” She shrugs. “You just deal with that.” She frowns. “But I would be upset if you had done the same to me.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t have a right to be upset with me.” Marcus has a right to feel however he feels. He’s human, after all. “This whole thing is just so out of left field. Especially after spending all of last year talking about freedom of affection and being happy with a partner who isn’t your soulmate.”

“Except you had never potentially met your soulmate.” She pauses and shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, if you don’t want to pursue it, don’t. Juan won’t say anything and I’ll just encourage him to hang out with Marcus on a guys night.”

“I don’t know,” you admit honestly, poking at the remains of your breakfast with a frown. “First let’s see if he speaks to me again. I gotta go change my clothes for work.” A heavy blanket of tension works on you that wasn’t there when you came home, and you drag yourself off the stool with a swallowed sigh. “Thanks for breakfast, honey.”

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs, wishing for a moment that Juan hadn’t run into Marcus. Hadn’t mentioned a tattoo that was throwing you into a spin. “I’m here whenever you need.”

“Thank you.” Coming around the counter, you wrap your arms around her tightly and inhale, trying to remember your yoga and let the stress roll off your shoulders and not carry it into the work day. “And I’m always here for you. No matter what.”

“I know.” She grins into your shoulder. “You’re my best friend, bitch.” She teases. “I will go to war for you, bury bodies and not even think twice.”

"No hesitation." You link your pinkies together, the same way you have since you were little kids. "I really have to go change now. But thanks for listening to me ramble and fret."

“Anytime.” She scoffs, waving away your thanks. “You’ve listened to me plenty.” Lately it’s been about being a good mother and not completely wrecking Baby Badillo, but she understands the need to just vent. You’re there for one another, both of you, through thick and thin.

______

HHL: @haileymorelikestupid @anoverwhelmingdin @storiesofthefandomlovers

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oogaboogasphincter · 5 months

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Deceits of the Devil (priest!marcus pike x f!reader) | chapter two: the magician

chapter summary: after the harvest dinner, you're kept up all night by a frightening plague and are bedridden for the next couple days. when sunday arrives, never did you think you would look forward to mass as much as you do now that father pike is involved. yet another illness bewilders you during the service and a knight in an alb comes to your rescue - and gives you some very interesting information. does this help you feel less alone or will it make you even more of an apostate?

word count/series~chapter-specific warnings: 6.1k+ words // MATURE (18+ ONLY) MDNI! reader uses she/her pronouns and is incredibly non-religious, slow burn taboo relationship, lots of religious/spiritual talk, horror elements and general spookiness ~ descriptions of vomiting/vomit, some light body horror, fainting, discussions of health, slow burn is slow burning, WE LEARN HIS FIRST NAME IN THE NEXT CHAPTER TRUST I WILL SPARE YOU PRECIOUS READER FROM READING FATHER PIKE AS EVERY OTHER WORD GOING FORTH

a/n: i'm not really sure if i like this chapter, i think i do?? again i'm not really sure where i'm going with this story, but i'm just trying to go with the flow and have some fun with minimalist editing. i have some ideas for later chapters but i'm not too sure how i'm going to get there yet. marcus seems a little ooc to me in this chapter, but he also only had like 30 minutes of canon screen time so i feel like i'm entitled to some creative liberties 😭 again, let me know what you liked and what you'd like to see more of in future chapters! :) *moodboard is for aesthetics only, reader has no physical description

The embroidered rosettes lining the hand towel’s edges start to warp into one dusty pink blur as you swallow back bile again. You’ve been hunched over the toilet all night, switching between dry heaving and being sick so often that you can’t tell the difference anymore. Knelt on the cold tile, with the moonlight that comes through the window making a mockery of your candlelight, you feel incredibly alone in Lucy’s house. She’s just upstairs in her room, but you don’t want to disturb her from sleep at this hour of the night. You’ll continue to wick your own cold sweat away and clean any residue of gut spillage until you’ve emptied yourself - a point you thought you had reached hours ago.

When you got back to Lucy’s you felt fine, jovial even. The innocent flirtations and budding friendship you shared with Father Pike at the harvest dinner injected a spring into your step, one so strong that Lucy commented on it with a smile. She gave you a quick tour of her inherited cottage, since you only had time to change clothes after arriving from the airport before you were sprinting off to the cathedral.

The house is all vintage charm, with quaint rooms and antiquities. Lucy’s room is upstairs, neighboring the room that belonged to her mother before she passed away. Lucy has left it untouched in its entirety because her wounds are still too tender to prod, which you respect with wholeheartedness. You didn’t ask questions when she walked past the room as soon as she introduced it. Downstairs contains the living room, which is populated with wicker and wool save for the pink velvet couch. The kitchen is embellished with mint gingham, complementing the vintage and well-kept appliances. Lucy has an en suite, so the downstairs bathroom is all yours, with its clawfoot tub beneath a massive shuttered window that overlooks the backyard’s garden. Your bedroom has the same whimsical view, albeit from a much smaller window. It seemed dark when you first walked in, but the towering beautyberry bushes just outside explained that. The room is largely taken up by the queen bed, outfitted with pine-colored linen, so you suppose that accounts for the extra shadows too. Despite the eerie silence that shrouds the house, you can see yourself living here peacefully for your visit.

The two of you said your goodnights to each other and retreated to your assigned rooms. You hung up your clothes, stocked the bathroom with your toiletries and cuddled up in the sheets for their first time cradling someone ever. The stress and excitement from your evening had drained you of energy, but somehow you couldn’t find sleep. Actually, you know exactly why you couldn’t sleep: visions of Father Pike danced in your head like goddamn sugarplums. While your visit is contingent on when you’ve deemed your stay sufficient - and when you’ve been accepted for an apartment in a city thousands of miles away from this village stuck in an orthodox time warp - Father Pike is a major draw to settle your wings.

Regardless of the opportunity that cities hold, it’s difficult for you to find people you mesh well with. You don’t make it any easier on yourself, opting to sequester yourself to university, work, your solitary bedroom, rather than put yourself out there. But that’s because when you do, you find arrogance, cruelty, entitlement. It’s easier on your heart to be alone and you enjoy your own company.

Enter: Father Pike. He was kind, kinder than anyone else at the cathedral. You might be biased, with his dreamy eyes deviously manipulatling your impression of him into a favorable one. Maybe he didn’t show you any more chivalry than any other person would have, you just spent more time with him so it unfolded naturally. But no - he felt different. You tossed from one side to the other, wracking your brain for answers and scrambling your thoughts once they had composed into investigated little piles to see if an answer was lying in plain sight instead of hidden amongst overthinking. Nevertheless, your mystery remained unsolved of any concrete reasoning.

You decided it was his honesty: the way he treated you with understanding delicacy when you revealed your unreligious core; how he laughed at your atrocious jokes that erred on the side of being sacrilegious - a genuine laugh at that; his smirk that took pleasure in the mischief shared between you two when he helped maintain your guise, one that gleamed with… dare you say it… devilishness.

Without your permission, your brain, slightly delirious with exhaustion, began orchestrating a symphony named after him. As you drifted off to sleep, the cozy scent of cinnamon filled your nose, the warmth of his gentle yet confident touch tingled all over your skin. He was like a plate of steaming waffles on a blustery morning, an everlasting hug, a book destined to be your favorite that’s hidden amongst the most unassuming shelves, just waiting to be picked up and cherished by you. You’re doomed.

A sharp pain in your stomach awakened you and the nonstop churning that followed it had you fleeing to the bathroom. The light was unresponsive when you flipped the switch, and after a few more unsuccessful tries, you barely had time to light a candle before your body unleashed itself. Thankfully you had gotten some light because you were in no shape to aim for the toilet in darkness. You attribute your upset stomach to a multitude of reasons: the nerves from seeing your best friend in-person for the first time in a year; the sudden illness you experienced; the butterflies that Father Pike gave you. You had even begun thinking that maybe there was a part of the meal that triggered you, but there’s no way you’re still harboring anything you consumed in the last twenty four hours.

Like any time you’re sick, you start trying to think of things that calm you down. Maybe if it is in fact your nerves that are acting up, some peace will help put a stop to your blight. You close your eyes and rest your head against the toilet seat, breathing in and out, images coming clearer to your mind with each breath. A field of flowers dancing underneath happy sunlight, the gentle lapping of ocean waves on a clear day, the scent of a puppy’s fur, Father Pike’s hands…

Your efforts have the complete opposite effect of your intention. The veins that web across the top of Father Pike’s hands, instead of the heady attraction they conjured earlier, make you squirm like eels caught in a trap. With every little detail about him that you try to remember comes a drowning of illness. Is he… is he making you sick?

You close your eyes as your body hurls forward into the toilet again. Sweat trickles down your temples and invades your eyes, stinging them with salt and forces you to wrench them open. When you look in the toilet, you jump back with a startle. It can’t be. You scrub your eyes with the backs of your fingers before slowly grasping the bowl with your two shaky hands and peer inside: your vomit is bright green. The pile of sludge glows inside, too weak to illuminate the bathroom, but enough to constrict your pupils out of both exposure and fear.

What the fuck?! Like roadkill, you turn away out of revulsion but can’t stop staring back at the offense through your periphery. Could you even flush this thing? It looks like radioactive waste straight out of a bad post-apocalyptic movie. With every second that passes of it just sitting there, you become frightened to a degree where you can’t stop trembling. That thing just came from your body. In the dark, now accompanied by neon ambience, your hand searches blindly while your eyes are glued to the monstrosity, like it will get up and walk away. You grab the hand towel to wipe your mouth clean, but you curl into it, muffling your sobs. You wish someone was there to tell you that you’re fine, there’s nothing wrong with you, just to hold you. Only one person clouds your mind…

More lime green empties into the toilet. You huff in frustration, completely fed up. At this point, you’ll disregard the unnatural hue of your vomit as a fluke if you could just stop and be granted the ability to sleep. As silly as it sounds, you determine there is a brown-eyed common denominator in all your illnesses. So, with the dismal energy that remains, you thwart all thoughts of him away. You shut your mind’s doors, shutter the windows, pull the blanket up and over your head and hunker down in your mental fortress. You can feel the arrows of lust being shot at the walls, incessant and ambitious in breaking you down. You don’t let them nudge one brick. They soon retreat and your castle falls silent, like there had never been a threat in the first place.

To your surprise, it works. Like magic, you’re finally granted some mercy by your body. The cramping dissipates like cotton candy in a puddle, and suddenly, you feel all better. Your muscles are a little sore from seizing and releasing, but other than that, you’re… fine. The cold sweat evaporates and the acidic taste in your mouth is neutralized. You grimace at your puke, which has reverted to its horrible organic color. You seriously don’t know which is more putrid: this horribleness or the glow stick version.

You now feel comfortable - and eager - to flush so you do. You stuff the soiled towel into the laundry bin, making a mental promise to Lucy that you’ll do your best to scrub any evidence of this night out of it. Within minutes, you’re flopping down onto your bed, huddling under the covers and finding a sleep too peaceful to follow the horrors you just suffered.

—-

Saturday you’re bedridden - against your will. You tell Lucy about your blunder, excluding the radioactivity bit, and she cancels the activities she had lined up for you two to have some fun, forcing you to stay confined to your bed. She serves you tea and keeps you on a diet of bread, apples and chicken soup, rolling her eyes at you when you beg and whine for a piece of her dessert. But, your best friend always knows best.

When you settle down for the night, a fear creeps up in you that the events of last night will repeat themselves, or even worse, go to more horrid lengths. But, thankfully, you feel like normal before bed and you stay asleep, thanking the stars and moon in your dreams. You had kept your mind clear of Father Pike, you noted.

—-

Sunday morning is here and you get out of bed jittering with excitement. Today you’re going to mass and that means you get to see Father Pike again. You laugh at your own foolishness when you realize this will be only the second time you’re seeing him, tugging your jeans up over your hips and jumping to get the job done faster. But, in a town desolate of amusement, you allow yourself to lean into the infatuation. There’s nothing wrong with a little blossoming crush, you tell yourself, untouchable or not.

Lucy chuckles when you walk into the kitchen, her cereal spoon hovering in mid-air, “Wooow,” she elongates the syllable as you twirl on your heel, showing off your incredibly mundane outfit, “I haven’t seen you up and awake this early in… how many years ago were we in kindergarten?”

“Oh, ha ha,” you grumble playfully, pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and taking the seat across from her. You keep your eyes trained on your breakfast, feeling your best friend’s gaze boring into your lips that twitch with a smile you can’t fight no matter how hard you try. The silence of the cottage, save for the awkward clanking of your spoons, rips a giggle from you that you smother with your hand.

“Don’t act like I don’t know why you’re so chipper,” she accuses conspiratorially. You look up at her, your anxious shoulders deflating with an impatient sigh.

“Just tell me what time we’re leaving.”

—-

The cathedral looks much less cozy in the brightening sunlight than it did illuminated by warm-toned street lights and candle sticks the night prior, but it’s no less majestic. There are crows perched on the roof, cawing a morning chorus. The structure’s hulking size seems less threatening by their presence in addition to the pale backdrop of the morning. The inky blackness of the night sky has opened to reveal a powder blue, bouncing off camel coats and cherry scarves that had been twisted into muddy smudges and blood ties at the harvest dinner. Even the cathedral’s inner hull seems more like an endless cavern than a sinister vacuum, with your curiosity being stimulated by all that you could not see before; what lies inside all of the corridors, the hidden passageways, the arched doors? Maybe that’s something you could ask Father Pike.

All of the newfound loveliness aside, it doesn’t erase the feeling that you’re in a place where you don’t belong. You didn’t quite think through all the ramifications of seeking out your holy crush, but who doesn’t forfeit their rationale in the face of infatuation? You’re always open to learning, especially about cultures that you’re not a part of, but you didn’t think mass would be this boring.

Lucy briefed you about when to stand, sit, stand again, when to sing and when to be quiet. So no one would suspect a thing, you follow along like a lamb with the same robotic obedience that everyone else does. You’re surprised to find personal dismay at the lack of life behind the hymns that the other goers recite, nor is there any in Father Thorn’s sermon. It saddens you that these people dedicate their lives to this higher cause, boast about how it divinely guides them to choose the right paths in life, only for them to sing with as much enthusiasm as you do. Father Thorn stands painfully erect, addressing the room like a schoolteacher whose monotone and thoughtless eyes make you think that maybe there was some reluctance in his profession of choice. From the piercing glare he gave you yesterday, you know better than to imagine questioning his integrity lest you want your severed head deposited into his goblet.

Father Gala flanks the droning priest in a gilded throne that must serve no other purpose than to support the elderly Father’s aching bones. He listens on with a permanent soft smile, flickering his eyes amongst the audience with visible cheerfulness. His eyes lit up when he noticed you in the crowd and gave you a friendly nod, which you returned with amicability. Lucy nudged you on the shoulder when he glanced away with a whisper, “Look, you’ve made a friend.”

And on Father Thorn’s other side stands who you’ve been aching to see for a whole of thirty six hours. He had taken very seriously to carry out the beginning demands of mass, saying his prayers and following the proposed movements with an almost militaristic adherence. But since the reading of scriptures began, his shoulders relaxed and his fingers interlocked in front of himself with peace. His brown eyes gaze absentmindedly to the narthex behind you and you so desperately want to get up close and see how the sunlight that streams in through all angles of the building hit his irises. Do they shimmer with threads of gold, or do umber chasms allude an unreachable depth?

Your crush seems eons away from where you sit a few rows back from the sanctuary. The sermon fizzles out to a barely noticeable hum as a tornado of names rushes through your head while you assess your preferred priest and try to imagine which would fit him best. While you’re intent on respecting his title and maintaining proper etiquette for someone you literally just met a few days ago (and internally cringing at the speed of which this infatuation has snowballed) you have to at least dream of what you could call him.

Is he a David? No, he’s too young for such an old name. But it is biblical and maybe he’s a junior, or the third or fourth. Dave as a nickname is where you draw the line. That just feels all wrong.

Possibly something strong and sturdy, like Joel? Eh, Joel sounds too ornery and old again.

Go simpler, you think, Jack. No offense to all the great Jacks of the world, but it would be a shame if this exceptional man was dubbed so plainly.

And none of these options sound good with his last name, which you know as fact: David Pike, Joel Pike, Jack Pike. No, no, definitely not.

Cutting into your brainstorm, you agree that Father Pike can wear anything and look great. He has his usual black priest garb on, but layered atop is a white robe whose seams are trimmed with a red and gold pattern of tiles. If you’re being completely honest… it’s a little heinous. The fabric looks starched beyond belief and the decoration screams of yester-millenia. But, somehow, his virility isn’t snatched by the drabness. His shoulders maintain that delectable broadness you noticed at the dinner, along with a poise that is mannered yet youthful. The golden threads shimmer adorably in the sunlight with the fidgets of his wrist as he fiddles with the side of his thumbnail.

As if on cue, his eyes land on you just when your cheeks break out in a heat. Your heart jumps to your throat momentarily but is lulled back down to your chest by his soft, tender smile and the identifying gleam in his gaze. It’s as if you’re his puppet and he’s pulling the strings to shape your lips into a smile to match his own, completely unable to control your body. You think you can’t find him cuter but then he’s upturning his hand so his palm faces you and he waves. Again with your bodily autonomy extinct, you wave back with the shy nature of a blushing virgin.

Lucy notices your hand first and her eyes are quick to follow your tunnel vision. She takes your wrist and lowers it to your lap, glancing at you with that funny mixture of scorn and encouragement that only a best friend can give. “Not now,” she whispers quickly before returning her attention to Thorn’s speech with the shadow of a smirk. Father Pike still looks at you.

Your mind drifts deliriously to a part of mass that Lucy called communion, when the parishioner metaphorically drinks the blood and eats the body of Christ, or drinks wine from the goblet and eats a wafer from the hand of a priest. The seduction engulfs your mind like a virus thinking about sipping from a goblet that Father Pike holds in his strong hands, meeting his gaze while your throat bobs with drink. While taking the wafer into your mouth as he places it on your tongue, maybe he’s slow to withdraw and your lips would catch on his finger…

Lucy taps your bicep to indicate to you it’s time to stand again. Father Thorn’s voice is suddenly much louder, booming in your ears and reverberating in your chest, down to the ground beneath your feet.

“God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father; through him all things were made.”

A fickle tingling lunges through your veins, sending your nervous system into a familiar panic. When have you felt this peculiar feeling before? You feel ill, like you want to curl up on the floor and empty yourself, or passing out would be an easier option. Oh no.

“For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven,”

Everyone bends at the waist, bowing towards the sanctuary, but you remain standing upright, frozen. Your eyes bulge with wild terror. The blood drains from your face. Father Pike meets your gaze and he furrows his brow in confusion at first, before you watch him be consumed with brazen worry.

“And by the Holy Spirit was incarnate of the Virgin Mary, and became man.”

Father Pike disappears from your sight as your eyes roll into the back of your head.

—-

You come to groggily with a lukewarm cloth being pressed to your temple. A low, firm voice is muffled and distant in your ear despite its closeness, but you absorb its warmth intravenously, “Hey, hey, hey…”

You can hear his strain to remain calm and steady. He drifts away for a moment, you feel your feet being propped up on a pillow, and his breath is back at your ear, ghosting over your dewy cheek.

Under the safeguard of questionable consciousness and the panicked edge in his soul, he lets an endearment slip, “Wake up, pretty girl, come on…” he whispers in an increasingly pleading tone. His timbre does the opposite of his intention and keeps you wanting to stay asleep, to writhe and drown in his comfort within the darkness of your mind. In your dreams, you can be his pretty girl.

You roll onto your side and grumble, fighting to stay in your head. The unforgiving surface you’re laid out on shoves against your bones but you remain stubborn. The man at your back chuckles under his breath. He pries your arm from your side and overturns it in his hands, cradling it delicately, and you wish to feel those arms and hands encapsulate you, engulf you like a snake and constrict. But then he’s pinching the tender patch of your inner bicep, jolting you awake. You tear your arm back and by the offense on your face, he knows you’re back in reality.

Someone had moved you from the spot you had collapsed to this room, empty of anyone besides Father Pike. It’s quiet and dull, exposed stone comprising both the walls and floor. You’re sprawled out on a large and long wooden table, atop a sweetly placed blanket that unfortunately doesn’t do much to cushion. Wardrobes and other tables dot the rest of the room, illuminated by the small and sparse stained glass windows that line the perimeter.

Father Pike assesses your mindful curiosity and deems you sound and coherent. He decides to awaken you further with a little well-intentioned abrasiveness.

“Are you going to do this every time I see you?”

“I hope not,” you sit up and Father Pike is quick to put a hand on your back, steadying you. Only now with your eyes open do you realize just how incredibly close he is to you; his lips parted with apprehension are mere inches from yours. You meet his eyes and you were right - they glow in the sunlight, the caramel streaks highlighted and accompanied by obscured taupe that shelters his innermost secrets. You flinch away imperceptibly, afraid of your own arousal.

“Are you-” he has to clear his throat, turning away to spare you before he tries again. His voice was tight with nerves.

“Do you feel okay?” Much smoother but there’s still a hint of constraint. He’s softened from their teasing.

You think for a moment, mentally check in with your body then answer honestly, “Yes, I’m okay.” And you are. Besides a subtle ache on your outer thigh, which you assume broke your fall, you feel completely normal.

Father Pike stands from where he knelt and puts the back of his hand to your forehead, checking your temperature. You try your very best not to drench your panties. “Do you feel any pressure in your head? Any nausea? Do you feel dizzy while sitting right now?” It’s a barrage of questions, but in his comforting tone it doesn’t feel anywhere near overwhelming or like an interrogation.

“No pressure, no nausea. I feel a tiny bit dizzy, but nothing like before. And after all, I did hit my- did I hit my head?”

“No, your thigh hit the ground first. It looked like you twisted your knee on your way down. Thankfully, because if you hadn’t, you would’ve hit your head first.”

Now that he mentions it, your knee does feel a bit funny. Hopefully it’ll just bruise over and won’t cause any lingering issues.

Your thoughts are obliterated when Father Pike takes your face in his palms, tilting your chin up so he can look into your eyes. He’s checking your pupil size, but it sends an unwarranted, delectable chill up your spine nonetheless. There goes your attempts to avoid a mess between your thighs. You gulp foolishly and he looks at your throat bob. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip before sealing his mouth closed. A habit you can picture him doing any time he’s deep in thought, this time it’s dipped in eroticism.

“Does being unknowledgeable about the church really stress you out this much?” He’s caring, concerned. Condescension, intolerance and disdain are in a different galaxy entirely than his intentions. His eyes bore into yours considerably, assessing you like you did him earlier. Trying to figure you out.

You gather your thoughts, taking into account the near-fainting spell you had on Friday and trying with all your might to remember only the vital details of what happened during the night after you got home. Coming up with no definite answer, you shrug, “No, this felt completely unrelated. It was just my body acting out of order.” You had felt uncomfortable during the sermon, but not fearful. It didn’t wrack your nerves to sit there and listen to illusionary words like it had when Father Gala shook your hand for the first time. But even then, your illness had come after the stress. Your sea of anxiety had been drained and what came to be revealed at the bottom was a previously undiscovered chest of volatile poisons. They felt correlated, perhaps, but not connected.

Father Pike’s worry remains in his face like he doesn’t believe you. Not because he thinks you’re lying, but almost like… there’s something you don’t understand that’s happening. Suddenly it feels a little awkward between you two, with the cause blurry. You decide it’s best to elaborate so you both can have a few more pieces to aid in finding a solution.

The door is a good distance away from Father Pike’s back and looks as though it’s made of the sturdiest oak to ever grow, but you still don’t trust it. If someone were to lean their ear against the other side, in addition to the enshrouding silence, they could clearly hear what is being said. Mass must have ended a while ago, but the cathedral is open to roaming parishioners, tourists and other inquiring minds. You lean towards Father Pike and he comes to stand at the edge of the table. Lowering your voice, not nearly to a whisper but close enough, you confide in him again,

“But, I won’t lie. I feel as if one wrong move will get me permanently exiled.”

His expression doesn’t change. The neutrality of it is a little disconcerting, actually, with the way he just remains standing there with his fingertips perched on the edge of the wood, until he retracts himself to where he had been a few feet away. He doesn’t deny nor confirm your feelings, his eyes downcast.

He clears his throat again. “Are you anemic? Diabetic? Do you have any reason why you’d have fainting spells?” His tone is steeped in worry, rushed. Like he just wants a clear-cut answer so that neither of you have to keep guessing or digging deeper.

And he’s almost a little… aggravated? His words are acute and directed at you, like you’re suddenly the reason to blame. It is your body that’s being troublesome, but you’d like to know what’s been going on with it recently just as much as he does. Even if you did, it’s not your responsibility to tell him, nor your fault for its antics. With his sight still turned away, busy adjusting your feet on the pillow, you furrow your brows in disbelief and make your scoff come off as animated, playful, “I didn’t know you doubled as a doctor, Father Pike.”

Luckily, that seems to put him at ease. The bothered creases in his forehead smooth away and he looks back up at you with a humble smile, as if to say he’s sorry for getting so suddenly worked up. He rests his hand on your shin, so naturally, but he takes it away the same moment and puts his arms at his sides. You know he wanted to leave it there, the flicker of guilt across his face evident. You rein yourself back, tightening the restraints that have come loose on your attraction; you don’t want to break him.

His voice reverts to its baseline calmness, “I don’t. My brother is a doctor and I would help him review for tests, so that gave me a lot of free training and insight. Just being around him, the physician’s mindset started to rub off on me. They see things in such a peculiar, analytical way, so different from my own. Logic prevails over everything… it’s helped me to decipher who really needs the help and who doesn’t.”

Oh. Such a strange thing to hear Father Pike admit that… it gets your gears going.

You approach it as gently as you can, while still feeding your curiosity, “Hey… aren’t you guys supposed to believe that Christ can cure anything?”

You don’t think you mean to bat your eyelashes at him provocatively but you do. He smirks, shakes his head with a chuckle that more or less comes out as an amused exhale from his nose. He cuts your boldness back down to a humble level, “I thought you didn’t know much about the church?”

Oh? His accusatory smugness mirrors yours. Two can play at this game, apparently.

“I don’t, but I know enough that you guys put all your faith into your, well, faith.”

The waning dizziness you felt earlier has officially rid itself, so you feel it’s safe to sit up on the table. Father Pike takes a seat as well in a chair that he’s pulled from aside one of the wardrobes, positioning it close to you so that he’s not too far should you feel woozy again.

“Well, yes…” He’s thinking, does that godforsaken thing with his tongue on his lip again. Then comes the confession.

“Some of the parishioners… they’re painfully alone. The only people they talk to are family who either forget their existence half the time or enable them. Being alone all the time, you need to entertain yourself with something. They’ve been reading the same scriptures for their entire lives, it plays behind their eyelids whenever they close; it’s in their dreams.” He takes a heavy breath, steadying himself for the brutal honesty he’s about to lay out to you. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this naked before in his life.

“It’s not like the Bible gets an update,” you kid quietly. That gets him. The skin around his eyes crinkles as Father Pike laughs heartily, nodding his head, “Exactly.” He echoes you with amusement, “It’s not like the Bible gets an update,” his smile grows fonder. You mourn the joy that leaves his face when it’s replaced with a solemn frown.

“As much as they don’t want to admit it, the people of this town are like any other. They yearn for change. They need something new, fresh, to stimulate their minds, or at the very least, a distraction from their loneliness. So, on a very normal day, their knee starts to hurt. And then as the days go on and they do their usual tasks, the knee begins to hurt more. It worsens until they fool themselves into walking with a limp, saying that they can’t live their excruciatingly mundane lives anymore. Because they desperately want a change, no matter if it’s a hindrance.

“Sometimes, pity is king.

“They refuse to go to the doctor without the church’s approval. They come and see to me, or one of the other Fathers, and we talk through their ailments. I say a blessing or two, and on their way home, suddenly that appointment they were pleading for has lost all urgency. They’ve been miraculously cured by us, or God. But we’re not doing any radical, magical healing here. Don’t get me wrong, there are very real illnesses that affect our parish.”

He pauses to look around the room, as if someone has slipped through the cracks in the rock and hears his rational disagreement as something obscenely blasphemous. His voice is low and wary, but you’re proud to detect a streak of confidence when he talks about his personal beliefs.

“The others here, they shun modern medicine. They believe what you said, that all things can be cured through Christ. But… that’s not entirely right to me. There are people who need more… pragmatic cures. Then there are others who all they need is a little motivation from the spirit.”

You never thought you’d be empathizing with a priest over feelings of exclusion, no less somewhere in the heart of a cathedral, surrounded by religious paraphernalia. It doesn’t feel like Father Pike is baiting you to say that the church is a farce just so he can blackmail you later. His quick, breathless words speak for themselves; he’s been dying to show someone his heart. But are you really the first outsider to cross his path? There has had to have been someone who wandered into Carmeltree unknowingly or a resident that didn’t readily accept the teachings that they began being indoctrinated with since birth. Father Pike’s motive doesn’t seem malicious, but it’s unclear.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs, clasping his hands together with a smile amused by the simplicity of his answer, “I have one of your secrets, and now you have one of mine.”

Dry chuckles fill the room. “That’s a pretty big secret,” you joke.

“What about it?”

“Well,” worry crosses your face, imagining what the Bible wavers would do if they heard what Father Pike is spilling across you now, “if anyone else heard it, about their priest, well, you’d be…”

“Exiled?”

“Yes. Mamed, called a fraud or a non-believer.”

“Well that’s incorrect. I’m a believer.”

“Not by their standards, you aren’t.”

“See why I’ve confided in you?”

A steady wave of recognition settles in the air. Two people with their morals in line but would be labeled heathens by the rest of the conservative population have established a safehouse in one another to retreat to if need be. Lucy was right - you have made a friend, she just had the wrong Father.

The elderly one’s cane taps ring out in the gaping corridor outside your room, alerting you and your friend that your divulgence must end. The stiffness returns to his back, squaring his shoulders underneath that heavy-looking alb as he stands and scribbles something on a piece of paper.

Don’t think about the sweat on his skin. Dappling his muscles, collecting in pools until they runneth over and stream down in little rivulets…

He helps you to your feet with a hand in yours, but it’s shoving the paper into your palm before you have the chance to drool over its warmth. “Here’s the town doctor’s details. If you feel unwell or the fainting persists, please go see him. I don’t-”

There’s a knock at the door. “Father Pike?”

He makes a comically fearful face at you, clenching his bared teeth and widening his eyes, snapping to put a finger to his lips when he elicits your desired giggles.

“One moment please!”

He ushers you to a door at the back corner of the room, leading to one of the many magnificent courtyards incorporated into the cathedral.

You turn back on the step to take one last look at him, “Thank you for all your help.”

He takes your hand in his own two, like his Father before him.

“You’re in my prayers.”

You go to leave, but he murmurs urgently, leaning out of the doorframe, “Come back tomorrow. I can help strengthen your act.”

He winks at you.

A friend, you remind yourself. He’s just a friend. The giddiness that bubbles up from your heart to your throat begs to differ.

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juletheghoul · 2 years

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AN: I decided to test myself by creating a writing challenge for myself, and it turned into this. It also helped that House of the Dragon has put me into an Oberyn mood. Quick thank you to my girl @wheresarizona for the amazing moodboard and for her general awesomeness as well as my wifey @foli-vora for letting me bombard her with this. Hope you enjoy xox.

Pairing; coded as Oberyn Martell x f!reader - (no use of his name, this could be read as a choose your own character)

Warnings; piv sex (wrap it up), fingering, dirty talk, implied heartbreak, Creampie, pornographic photography, let me know if I missed anything

Word count; 3.8k

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist

----

He was intense, but not in an intentional way-it seemed to go way beyond that.

Maybe it was his gaze, the way you knew instinctively that he saw everything, saw your sad smile and your nervously fidgeting hands. He saw the spectre of heartbreak that curled around you like smoke, the invisible weight that on a bad day- affected your very posture.

“Feel free to make yourself comfortable, nothing will happen for now, I’d like to start by talking about what will happen today.” He gestured to the middle of his almost decadent space, the soft lilt in his voice reassuring. It was small, and filled with treasures, endless framed pictures and artworks hung in no discernible pattern on the emerald green wall. There was a massive rattan basket chair filled with cushions and plush blankets in a corner, the fading sunlight streaming in through the window would make the pictures taken there gorgeous.

“Sure, just anywhere?” You set down your bag and stood beside the chair, pausing to admire the lush plants in the space.

“In the chair would be wonderful, we’ll most likely begin there.” He had a table set up opposite the chair, on that table were a few cameras and lenses, what you imagined were boxes of film along with a stool he now moved to sit across from you. He paused before taking his seat- “Can I offer you something to drink? I have bottled water as well as a few different kinds of tea, I could make coffee?” He stood, head tilted.

“Um - water would be great, thank you.” You sank into the chair, slightly surprised at how comfortable it was.

I suppose it would have to be for this sort of thing.

“I uh- I’ve never done anything like this before.” You tried to laugh a bit, but it sounded disingenuous, instead resorting to a small smile when he handed you the water bottle.

“That’s okay- it’s a little unorthodox but my clients have been very happy with the results.” He sits finally, his body language conveying how comfortable he is. “I’ve booked you as my only appointment today so there’s no time limit, I pulled out quite a bit of film so don’t worry about running out or having to get the perfect shot, your only job today is to be yourself and forget about the camera.” He grabs a mug from a small table, it steams and the smell of jasmine fills the air. “For obvious reasons, I don’t use digital cameras. The pictures I take are only hard copy, any and all negatives you either take with you, or I keep in my private collection and you have my guarantee that they don’t end up anywhere but my portfolio. Now-” He smiles, his lively brown eyes bore into yours in a way that makes your heart race slightly. “-any questions for me?” He sips at his tea again, his attention solely focused on you.

“Oh-” You’d had a few questions on the way over but sitting there, in the plush chair opposite this handsome, comforting man they were hard to get a grasp of. You took a sip of the water to stall while you gathered your thoughts. “How long do these sessions usually take?”

“It varies, really depends on the person or people-” Your eyes widened and he smiled warmly. “You’d be surprised to know a lot of my clients are married or long term couples, people who want to document their intimacy, in a tasteful way. Professional more like, it’s hard to take nudes sometimes.” He laughs and you join. It made sense, an ex of yours had convinced you to record once and the whole experience had ended in laughter. “I also do regular portraits, I do regular boudoir shoots, intimacy shots, tasteful nudity and even some not so tasteful stuff. I capture whatever the client wants to capture and sometimes - I even join in. It’s all a matter of comfort.”

Your eyebrows rose into your hairline and all at once you imagined how he’d kiss, how his facial hair would feel on your face, on your breasts and on your thighs. You took a deep, steadying breath.

“Have you or one of your clients ever stopped a session?” You fiddled with the fringed edge of the cushion beside you.

“Yes, I’ve had a client say they wanted to stop because their heart wasn’t in it - they came back a few days later and the second shoot turned out noticeably better. I have had to stop a session with a couple because I wasn’t comfortable with what they wanted me to document. It happens, we’re only humans and I try not to judge anyone too harshly. I will check in with you constantly.” You nodded along, curious as to what could have made him cancel mid-appointment. “I feel like there is something you aren’t saying.”

“Am I that transparent?” His eyes had a way of holding your gaze, of drawing you in despite the heat crawling up your neck.

“I pride myself in my ability to read people, it makes me good at my job.” He smiled as he sat there, cross-legged and completely at ease.

“Well, you aren’t what I imagined, I mean to say- you aren’t what I pictured when we spoke over the phone.” And he wasn’t, he looked like some lost emperor, his face regal, his movements elegant. This was a man who was in total control of his body.

“Am I an improvement? Or a disappointment?” His voice was neutral, a twinkle in his eye- an understanding that he could read the answer in your fidgeting.

“I think you know.” A nervous laugh fills the room from both of you and suddenly you understand why clients would ask him to join.

“I think I do as well, but words are paramount- I need you to communicate with me if this will work.” He set his cup down and stood, reaching over for the first camera as he smiled. “Nothing will happen that you don’t want to happen- but if there is something you want, you must open that pretty mouth and say it out loud.” He slid some film into his camera before moving the stool away, his eyes back on you. “Shall we begin?” His eyes shine with mischief and you find yourself excited to start.

Here goes nothing.

“Yes I’m ready.” You do your best to make sure you’re presentable, your hands briefly fussing at your hair before they straighten out the simple dress you’d chosen while he goes about moving your bag out of the frame.

“Lovely. First I’m going to just have you get comfortable in that chair, your first instinct will be to pose and I want you to try to fight that, just make the space your own and I will find what I’m looking for.” He fluffs a few floor pillows as he speaks, moves some things around while you do your best to follow his instructions.

It was hard to ignore the camera though, hard not to think of how you’ll show up in the picture, what parts of your body will be highlighted and whether it’ll be flattering or not.

“Pretend you've come here at the end of the day. To this space to unwind. There is no rush, the hard part of the day is through.” His voice is so rich, so calming and you close your eyes to picture it. “Time to relax, to curl up with a good book and a glass of wine.” Your legs draw up close to your body, making yourself as small as you can. “Perfect, move blankets, move pillows, make yourself at home and I’ll adjust things. Keep your eyes closed and don’t mind my hands.” You feel them then, warm and soft on your thigh when he straightens the fabric of your dress.

The camera's shutter isn’t as loud as you’d imagined it would be - not as jarring as you’d thought it would be, instead you imagine yourself at home; imagine yourself in bed.

The soft pad of his thumb smooths your eyebrow slowly, smooths the worry out of your face silently before the soft shutter sounds again, closer now but it doesn’t matter. The camera isn’t there, instead you focus on your breathing, deep breaths in as well as out.

Soft fingertips trace the line of your jaw, tipping your face towards the window and it feels like his fingers are charged with something. A sparkling path burned into the places he brushes that bloom and spread throughout your person. He hums in approval, more shutters and it's so much easier than you would have thought.

One hand slides under your neck like silk for a moment before a pillow is placed underneath, shifting you half onto your back now and it raises your chest, opens you up to the light streaming in around you, calls to mind the classic paintings of the female form and if you hadn’t been so at ease with him you might have laughed.

“Lovely, let’s hold here a moment.” His voice has dropped into something smoky, something simmering under the skin; nothing in the world could let you disobey a voice like that.

More soft shutters.

“Beautiful.”

He’s moving, the sounds come from behind the chair and you try to imagine what it would look like for him, is he taking a picture through the rattan? Does the chair's shadow look like netting?

He’s in front of you again, your ears prickle and track his movements and your heart leaps to feel his hands slide up the soft skin of your thighs.

“May I see more of your skin?” His hands rest on your knees, you nod and a soft breath escapes when he pulls the fabric up to show more of your legs, when his fingers undo a button at your cleavage. “You’re doing wonderfully.” You take another deep, steadying breath and within a moment soft music fills the space, further alleviating the nerves keeping you stiff.

“Much better.” He says it almost to himself but you know he sees your body become more pliant, sees the stiffness in your limbs bleed out into the comfortable nest he's created, all of it infused with the scent of Jasmine and oud and bergamot -the smell of him.

Your lip slips between your teeth at the thought of his mouth tracing the same paths as his fingers-

“Wait, bite your lip for me once more.” His thumb presses at the plush of it, coaxing it slowly back into your mouth- your nipples harden to feel his thumb there, the soft shutters sounding before he’s moved his thumb away and the thought of it being captured makes your cunt ache. “Such a lovely sight my sweet.” There is a smile in his voice, you know he sees through you- sees your visceral reaction when he slides his fingers softly down the curve of your throat, down past your collarbones to rest where another button keeps you hidden.

He sees, and he waits, waits for the words he warned must come all the while the shutters continue to sound and he patiently documents your slow, curated descent into a lustful madness.

“Out loud.” His finger traces soft patterns at the base of your throat, waiting until you open your eyes and breathe out a yes.

He smiles and undoes a few more buttons, his focus now on the skin on display for him, the rise and fall of your chest, the goosebumps that raise in his wake and he moves again. Makes himself comfortable at your feet and your heart races in anticipation.

The camera dangles from his neck as his hands move slowly, tracing up your thighs until the fabric bunches and pools at your waist, until he sees the no-doubt noticeable damp spot between your legs. Your heartbeat races, thumping loudly in your ears as he pulls your legs apart, thrums steadily in your cunt the longer he stares and then he leaves you there - open to his gaze while the shutters sound and he takes pictures of your ruined underwear.

It’s hard not to tense up, hard not to scream from the tension thick enough to slice through permeating every inch of space between you.

“Very lovely - I could photograph you all day like this.” He fiddles with the lens before placing his hand onto the meat of your thigh, the sheer size of it makes you almost pant but you don’t, instead you take another deep breath, take a moment to yourself to calm down. But you can’t calm down, his proximity, his smell, his warm breath ghosting across your heated skin makes it impossible to do anything but melt and burn for him.

“What-” Your voice almost cracks but you steady yourself. “What do your clients usually say, when they ask you to join?” You feel the heat crawling up your neck when his gaze returns to your face, a knowing smile.

“They tell me exactly what they want me to do my sweet. If they want me to kiss them-” He dips his head and presses his lips to your knee and your mouth drops open. “If they want me to touch them-” His palm slides across your inner thigh and then he presses it against the whole of your cunt. “Is that what you want? You want me to touch you?” He doesn’t move, doesn’t alter his pressure and it feels like your body is vibrating with want.

“I can feel the heat coming off you.” He takes another picture and for a moment you can do nothing but swallow thickly. Your body is a live wire and it takes everything in you not to shake, all of it made harder still with your hands pressed into your thighs, the flesh of which spills through your fingers in your will to keep them open.

“Yes.” It comes out as almost a whisper and he doesn't react for a moment, instead he searches your face for something while your heart races and races. Finally he moves and pushes the damp fabric away to reveal your glistening heat.

Its his turn to bite his lip now, his focus solely on the slightly parted lips of your sex before moving the camera up to take another picture. His thumb breaches the seam of you to swipe through the arousal flowing freely, collecting it before moving it up to the ripe little berry of your clit.

It’s wanton the way he looks at you, deeply erotic and you’d be hard pressed to ever remember feeling this aroused- this desired. With every delicious swirl of his thumb your slick flows, the fire of arousal burning bright within every fibre of your being.

Shutters sound as he keeps up his assault, swirling swirling swirling until he dips into your heat again, wetting his thumb in you and all you can do is pant, hold your legs open and pray that he doesn’t stop.

“Look at you, ripe as a peach.” He pulls away and you almost cry, a whimper leaves your mouth as you watch him lick his thumb clean with an almost disrespectful gleam in his eye. “Bursting with honey for me.” A pained sigh escapes you now as he dips his thumb again and this time, he strokes with a purpose - tight circles until the coil snaps and you come with a cry. Again the shutters sound but he gives you no respite, two thick fingers spear into the fluttering clutch of your cunt, thick and scissoring you open for his eyes and his lense and it's so much you can barely think straight.

The orgasm only served to skyrocket your need for him, making you feel almost unhinged.

“I want you.” You reach out your hand and press your fingers to your clit, he smiles and focuses on where your hands almost touch. His splitting you open, your smaller one sweeping over your clit.

“I like this- show me how you like to touch yourself my sweet.” He crooks his fingers inside and touches something white hot while you obey. Your other hand pulls the last few buttons of your neckline open to pinch at a nipple and it’s so good you can barely hear anything over your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

“That's it, you’re doing so well, so wet.” The sounds coming from between your legs are obscene, the wet plunge of his fingers, the shutter of his camera and all too soon you're clenching around his fingers, pushing at them slightly when he doesn’t stop.

“Absolutely gorgeous.” He pressed another kiss to your thigh before licking you off his fingers.

He stands and turns from you, replacing the used film - a dreamy smile creeps onto your face to see him adjusting the sizeable bulge at his crotch. In that moment, as your skin tingles and your arousal flows you almost laugh at the thought of any and all trepidation you’d had over this appointment.

“How do you want me?” You sit up to rest on your elbows while he removes his soft linen shirt, grateful at the golden skin on display now. “Will there be a tripod or something?” You look around momentarily, wondering about the logistics.

“I don’t use them, the pictures are never the same but I would love to have you on your knees- if you’d like that.” He comes to stand before you - letting you decide how you want this to go.

“So you won’t be in the pictures?” You pout slightly before pulling the dress off completely.

“Parts of me will be, my hands, my cock, I want you to be the focus.” He brings his thumb up to swipe at your bottom lip, pressing into it softly, he smiles when you take it into your mouth and you hope your expression is sexy when he takes more pictures.

“So we won’t kiss?” You ask after letting go of his thumb with a pop.

“You want me to kiss you?” He pulls you up to stand in front of him so he can run his free hand up and down your arm, stopping briefly to undo your bra.

“Yes.” You stare at his mouth, his lower lip plump and begging to be bitten.

He brushes his nose against yours for a moment before pressing his mouth to yours, his kiss is chaste at first but it quickly turns. His tongue swiping at the seam of your lips begging for entrance which you gladly grant him. He licks into your mouth with purpose, pressing himself as close as he can with the camera hanging by his side. You sigh into his mouth when you feel his huge hand cup the back of your neck and all of a sudden his tongue is almost obscene in your mouth. It’s aggressive and it makes you drip, a frenzy coming through as he licks into your mouth before he's pulling away, leaving you almost drunk.

He places one last kiss on your neck before he guides you to the pillows and blankets set up on the floor.

The rustling of his clothes reaches your ears as he kneels behind you, his thighs pressed up against the backs of yours and before he touches you the shutters sound, they sound as his palm presses down on your back. They sound as he grabs a handful of your ass, as he pulls your panties down and off. Sounds still as the weeping head of his cock presses against the curve of your ass.

It’s a heady feeling, to feel him pressed up so close with your pussy dripping in anticipation while he takes his time framing his shots, capturing your desperation for him before you finally feel him coating his thick length in your liquid heat.

He groans as he splits you open on his dick in one smooth stroke, holding himself still as you both catch your breath. Your skin is burning up, arousal coursing through your veins like electricity, everything heightened ten times over as the shutters sound behind you.

He rocks slowly, gliding into your soaked cunt over and over, your slick drips out around him as he pulls you apart. You lift your head to stare back at him over your shoulder, seeing him photograph himself entering you and it pulls a throaty moan out of you. He points the camera at you, capturing the no doubt cockdumb expression on your face before he puts it down beside him.

His pace speeds up and it feels like he's battering against your womb, his hands slips around and he pulls you up close. Your back meets the solid wall of his chest and now he holds your breasts with both hands, nipples pinched gloriously between his fingers.

“I wish I could photograph you like this.” He spits the words out into your ear, his panting breath pushing you closer towards the release you're desperate for, the pressure of it blooming in your core.

“Make me come-“ Your fingers reach for him, threading through his fine black waves. “Please, please make me come.” He growls at your words and then his fingers are gliding against your clit. “Yes, right there-“ A truly filthy moan fills the air as you clench around his length.

“There you go sweetling, that’s good, gonna fill you to the brim-“ he grunts with the effort of his fucking into you, his pace growing eratic and after a handful more he seizes- pressing you both forward, he replaces his heavy thrusts with a deep grinding against the plush swell of your ass.

There is sweat beading in your hairline, heat radiating from your face where it's pressed against the crushed velvet of his pillow. He presses a few kisses to your spine before pulling out with a hiss and suddenly he's turning you over to lay on your back. He moves the pillows and blankets before opening your legs and raising your knees to inspect your still-fluttering pussy.

“Stay just like that my sweet, just like that, I want a picture of that gorgeous little cunt full of my come.” He moves pausing to press kisses to your neck on his journey south, again to lick at one stiffened nipple, then the second. He stares at you briefly, his gaze glued to where you can feel him slowly leaking out. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He grabs the camera and takes his pictures, some up close, others with his hand on your thigh and finally- with his fingers pushing into the wet clutch of your puffy, filled pussy.

“You'll have to come back for another session. So many other pictures I’d like to take.” He spreads his fingers inside, somehow making you ache for him again.

“I think we should take more right now.” You pull his fingers from between your legs, and stick them in your mouth - relishing the pained look on his face.

“Oh yes, we’re nowhere near done.”

Tag list: @frannyzooey @greeneyedblondie44 @lola4pedro @ezrasbirdie @221bshrlocked @artsymaddie @supernaturalgirl20 @sleep-tight1 @sherala007 @marydjarin @cannedsoupsucks @thirstworldproblemss @ilikechocolatemilkh @lori-tovar @freeshavocadoooo @hrk-fic-recs @greeneyedblondie44 @maxwell--lord @princessxkenobi @the-feckless-wonder @kirsteng42 @thisshipwillsail316 @feministfanboi @stevie75 @readsalot73 @pedrostories @tobealostwanderer @mandocrasis @elegantduckturtle @diogodxlot @alczysz17 @evyiione @absurdthirst @beskarboobs @just-here-for-the-moment @andruxx @littlemissoblivious @1800-fight-me @goldielocks2004 @maievdenoir @gracie7209 @omlwhatamidoinghere @hellovanessax @magikfanatic @frankiecatfish @mrs-ghuleh @pedritoispunk @studythoreauly @missswriter @pintsizemama @mswarriorbabe80 @a-trial-run-on-paper @la-le-lu @chickadee-djarin @dobbyjen @rosiefridayrogersunday @ajeff855 @johnsrevelation @the-witty-pen-name @zombiesnips-blog @quica-quica-quica @sarahjkl82-blog @fan-of-encouragement @queenofthecloudss @mandosmistress @deadhumourist @felicisimor @tuskens-mando @no-droids-on-sunday @sophiefatale2495 @toomanystoriessolittletime @what-iwish-you-knew @pedrostories @athalien @bi-thewayy @literallydontlook @pedrosbrat @gamingaquarius @localddreamers @luxmundee @iamafadedmoon @nakhudanyx @littlemisspascal @grogusmum @recklessworry @heyitmelexie @killyspinacoladas @gothicxbarbie @evildxad @dragonslarimar @spideysimpossiblegirl @chemtrail-mix @maievdenoir @kissasith @breezythesimp @altarsw @artooies-scream @staygolddindjarin @lorosette @softsweetedbeauty @littlemisspascal @yuiopiklmn @squidwell @allthatsleftbehind @just-blogging-around @bbyanarchist @girlofchaos @maddiedrmr @frasmotic @planetariumx @acourtofsnakes @buckybarneshairpullingkink @astoryisaloveaffair @harriedandharassed @swtaura @evelynseventyr @send-me-to-valhalla @shirks-all-responsibilities @androah @alwaysachorusgirl @dindjarinsmut @captain-jebi @gallowsjoker @ichigodjarin @oliviajdjarin

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flightlessangelwings · 4 months

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FlightlessAngelWings A Year of AUs 2024

Welcome to the theme of 2024: alternate universe!! Last year, I did the Year of Protectiveness which I loved doing but it was very typical and expected of me. This year, I wanted to do something different and get more creative and challenge myself to work out of my box a bit. Also this way the theme fics stand out from my other ones too!

To stay up to date on when I update, please follow my update blog and turn on post notifications @flightlessangelwings-updates

Follows, reblogs, comments and asks are always loved and very much appreciated 💖

My blog is strictly 18+ only! Minors please do not read or interact!

All fics will have what type of reader and all warnings on their post. List subject to change as the year goes on.

Bartender- tasm!Peter Parker

Mechanic- Santiago Garcia

Tattoo artist- Marcus Pike

Modern bodyguard- Axe Woves

Biker- Comandante Veracruz

Moulin Rouge- Javi Gutiérrez

Greek myth

Pirate

Vampire- Frank Castle

Royalty/knight

Fairy tale

Way of the House Husband- Din Djarin

#faw a year of aus #a year of creations #flightlessangelwings #userfaw #santiago garcia x reader #tasm!peter parker x reader #joel miller x reader #marcus pike x reader #axe woves x reader #frank castle x reader #comandante veracruz x reader

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 10 months

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Ready To Hope

1200 Words for 1200 Followers #2

A/N: Hi friends! Welcome to the 12-A-Palooza! This event is my way of saying thank you for sticking with me. Your support and kindness toward me and my writing is out of this world and I’m grateful for every last one of you! Rolling right along with the second piece - which is set in the same AU as Every Color Illuminates. This “color soulmates” trope has been really fun to play with, so it might be pretty easy to convince me to write more for them ;)

Warnings: Talk of past relationships, Teresa makes a tiny cameo

Requested by: @alraedesigns - Song: Shake It Out - Character Choice: Marcus Pike (Thank you so much for sending this, Alex! I know you love this sweet cinnamon roll man, so I hope you enjoy the continuation of this AU! 💚)

Summary: When Marcus contacts a renowned Art Gallery in hopes that a Color Ambassador can help him with some details for a case, he’s reminded of the fact that asking for help to see color hasn’t always worked out for him in the past. This time, though, things will be different.

“This might be a shot in the dark, but-” Marcus clamped his phone between his ear and shoulder so that he had both hands free to pay the coffee vendor. Mouthing a ‘thank you’ to the man, he took his beverage, dropping his change in the tip jar. “You don’t have a Graysight CA who can walk me through the exhibit, do you?”

He held his breath and readjusted the phone, gripping it with his right hand. I hope she says y-

“We do.” Michelle, the director of the National Gallery of Art responded. “Actually, our best Color Ambassador sees in Graysight. And you’re in luck, Agent Pike, because she’s here today.”

Marcus released his held breath in a relieved sigh, lips lifting into a smile. Amazing. “That’s great.”

Admitting that he - the regional head of the FBI’s Art Crimes division - needed a CA always gave Marcus a hint of anxiety. It wasn’t because he was embarrassed that he hadn’t found his match yet. It was because he knew that people made assumptions about him based on his position, and that sometimes when they found out that he couldn’t see in color, their assumptions turned to doubt in his ability to do his job. But here was a fellow professional within the art community telling him that the best person for the task at hand was someone just like him.

Clearing his throat, Marcus tilted his left hand, careful not to spill his coffee, so he could read the time on his wristwatch. It was just after 11. No time like the present, right? “Would it be too much trouble to meet with them this morning? I can be there in half an hour.”

“Of course not, Agent, anything we can do to help. There’s a group tour finishing with that section of the Gallery now, but once they’re done I’ll rope off the wing so that you won’t be disturbed while you’re here.”

She excused herself then, telling him that she needed to go speak with the CA who would be guiding him. Marcus thanked her and hung up the phone, sliding it into his jacket pocket. He let out another sigh, this one heftier and more satisfying as it left his lungs.

Finally, a break in this case that goes my way.

Heading away from the coffee cart and toward where his car was parked, he tried to keep the next thought from materializing. He failed.

It’s not just this case that I haven’t caught a break in. It’s been… everything.

Though it had been nearly eight months since he’d left Texas, the way things ended between him and Teresa still stung when he thought about it. The sting was made worse by the fact that if their roles were swapped, she wouldn’t need a CA to assist on the case, because she had matched and had lived with color for years.

Jane had been the one to let the spectrum into her life. It had given Marcus pause at first, when she told him. But Teresa had insisted that it was simply because they were such good friends - that they connected on a level that was purely platonic. Hers hadn’t been one of those sudden, blinding explosions of color that some people experienced, but a steady glow as she got to know the man. That, along with the fact that Jane had been able to see color before meeting Teresa - his match had been his first wife - had been enough to convince Marcus that a serious relationship with her was possible.

Not everyone matched with their partner. He knew that. It didn’t mean a relationship was doomed.

There were other signs though. He frowned as he sipped his coffee. Other things I ignored.

Like the time he asked Teresa to describe the colors of a sunset they watched together . “I don’t know, Marcus.” She looked at him as if he’d asked her to solve a complex mathematical equation instead of helping him to understand the world around him. “It’s orange.”

“Yeah,” he’d said, one arm wrapped around her to bring her closer to his side, his lips landing near her temple. “But what does that mean? What does it make you feel?”

She’d only stared at him, shaking her head. “Warm, I guess? I don’t know, I can’t explain it. Hopefully someday you’ll be able to see for yourself.”

That had been the end of that conversation. Marcus never tried to get her to describe colors to him again. He told himself that he didn’t want to put her on the spot. But if he was being honest, it was because he didn’t want to think about what it meant that she wasn’t even willing to try.

But I can’t think about that right now. I need to… Need to think about this case. And I need to let go of what happened in Texas if I want to have any hope of finding something real.

Reaching his car, he got in and entered the address of the Gallery into his GPS. The automated voice and the gray arrow on the screen helped him concentrate, and before long he was pulling into the visitor parking lot.

Alright, Pike. He took a long swig of his coffee to drain it, setting the empty cup - one that he was told was brown with green stripes but only saw as light gray with darker gray lines - into the holder in the center console. Time to focus.

As promised, Michelle had roped off the Rothko exhibit, a security guard leading him there after Marcus showed the man his badge. As he waited in the room, he walked around and looked closely at the various color-blocked paintings on display - squares and lines and rectangles that all appeared to be in grayscale.

I can’t even imagine what it would be like to see these. Really see them.

Before he could get too lost in his fantasy, he heard a pair of footsteps getting closer. Turning, he saw you and began closing the distance.

“Agent Marcus Pike,” he introduced himself, holding his hand out to you with a smile.

You returned the smile and the introduction, fingers wrapping around his hand to bring your palms together. The moment you did, the room erupted in hues he didn’t have names for. The paintings that surrounded him seemed to glow, their colors radiating from the frames to shine directly on you. He sucked in a breath, a rush of emotion coursing through his chest.

I… I can see. It’s her.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off of you. Not even to glance around at the heavily saturated works he was there to study.

“Marcus?” Your voice came out as a whisper, and he saw the wonder in your expression, noticed the way that your breath came quickly and unevenly. He noticed the way that he felt relaxed and calm as blue and green shimmered in the corners of his vision and a soft tingle spread along his spine. “I… I don’t think you need me to-”

“No. I do.” He said your name again, smiling around it, letting it roll off his tongue. “I definitely do.”

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be added to or removed from the tag list, please feel free to let me know. You can also fill out the form on my Masterlist! :)

Tags: @something-tofightfor @littlemisspascal @mishasminion360 @nyctophiliiiiaaa @alraedesigns @practicalghost @tanzthompson @amb11 @haylzcyon @harriedandharassed @woodlandmouth @swtaura @thescarletfang @trickstersp8 @princessxkenobi @imtryingmybeskar @wildmoonflower @mswarriorbabe80 @theredwritingwitch @silverstarsandsuns @pedro-pedrito-pascalito @jedi-in-crocs @hannahkatharinee

#12 a palooza!#1200 followers 1200 words #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x female reader #pedrostories #marcus pike x you #soulmate au #marcus pike the mentalist #marcus pike fic #pedro pascal character #ready to hope

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thetriumphantpanda · 3 months

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LOST IN OUR VICES | TWO

Chapter Summary | A proper date has Marcus falling even further into his lie about who he is, but when you're as beautiful as you are, he can't find it in himself to care all that much.

Pairing | Professor!Marcus Pike x Student F!Reader

Word Count | 4.7K

Chapter Warnings | Dubious ethical relationship between a professor & student, Marcus continues to go along with a lie, art gallery date (I know nothing about art so go easy on me), romantic rain kisses, a dinner date featuring food and alcohol, two idiots slowly falling in love. Explicit smut - oral sex (f&m), a smattering of exhibitionism, unprotected PiV sex, creampie, some light somno (Marcus wakes you up eating you out), absolutely filthy talk, finger sucking, cumplay and I think that covers everything!

Authors Note | This..... well, what can I say. It simply fell out of me once I got into the swing of things - I wanted to make Professor Pike filthy and I think I've managed it. I'd love to know your thoughts, so feel free to comment, reblog or send me asks about this! As always, a huge thank you to @undercoverpena for reading this over and to @saradika for the beautiful divider.

Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs for writing updates.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Marcus is stood at the bottom of the steps to the National Gallery, easy to spot in the crowd. He’d not really left your mind for the entire week, your lips still holding the ghost of his, the feel of his palm against your ass still branded onto your skin. You’d talked almost every day, texts back and forth, the usual thing when you were getting to know someone, but when he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, and then flashing that smile at you, he’s even more gorgeous than you’d remembered.

He grasps your hand in his own and leads you up the steps and into the gallery. He picks one of the free maps up and grabs a pen from his back pocket, telling you to circle three rooms. You’ve been here before and know exactly the paintings you want to see so it’s an easy task. He does the same, citing that if you wander aimlessly, you’ll be here all day, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but he’s got dinner reservations you have to keep.

Marcus picks Sunflowers by Van Gogh first, the bright yellow flowers bring you joy whenever you see them, especially so in these dark, winter months when life is so scarce. You insist on seeing The Fighting Temeraire because it reminds you of your grandfather, the reason you love art so much.

“I remember coming here with him when I was very small,” You explain, stood in front of the painting, “We stood here for so long, and I just remember thinking I wanted to learn more about it all.”

The rest of the afternoon slips by like that, showing each other paintings until you’ve run out. You’re stood in front of Marcus’ last pick, The Garden of Love. Somewhere along the afternoon, he’s taken hold of your hand, fingers entwined with yours.

“You can see the brush strokes,” He muses, pulling you in front of him, your back dangerously close to his front, his free hand pointing over your shoulder, “Lean forward, you can see them, I promise.”

And he’s right, his back pressed to yours to push you forward so you can see them. His mouth right by your ear as he talks you through what you can see, the stray brush hairs and the way the grass has been painted to give it movement. There are goosebumps flowing across your skin, before he remembers when you are and moves away from you slightly, letting your heartbeat return to normal.

There’s a moment where he checks his watch, then he takes hold of your hand and starts dragging you from the gallery - paintings blurring as you have to run a little to keep up with the pace. When you reach the front entrance, you hear it before you see it, the downpour of rain, fat droplets hitting the ground, forming puddles. You curse the fact you hadn’t properly checked the weather before leaving.

You look to Marcus, who holds up a finger, drops your hand slightly, then steps over to the side where a burly security guard nods his head toward Marcus and takes a step out of the way. There’s a small umbrella stand behind him and you watch as Marcus reaches over and plucks one of the umbrellas from it.

“Thanks, Mike, see you next week buddy.”

Mike tips his hat to Marcus, and then at you when he clutches your hand in his once more, adding a wink and a knowing smirk towards you like he knows exactly what's going to happen for the rest of the day.

You step into the downpour, letting Marcus hover the umbrella over the two of you. He stops, lets you take in the surroundings - Trafalgar Square bathed in darkness and soft light from the streetlamp’s. You crane your neck to look up at Nelson’s column.

“I remember coming here when I was younger, with one of my friends, and trying to take a picture of me touching the top of it from down there,” You point your finger down towards Whitehall, you know exactly where you stood all those years ago, “Hold on,” You say, fishing your phone out of your pocket, opening up the camera roll and scrolling as far back as you can, to find the exact photo you’re talking about, holding it in front of him, Marcus laughs, because the tip of your finger is nowhere near the top of the column, “Not my best attempt, I must say.”

Pocketing your phone, you take a few steps to the left, starting off to your dinner reservation, when you feel the warmth of Marcus’ palm slip around your wrist, turning you around so you’re stood in front of him, toe-to-toe, your face tilted up at him.

He brings his free hand, the one not holding the umbrella, up to your cheek, and you feel his thumb brush over the skin there, ever-so gently, before he’s leaning down, lips across yours in a soft press. You step forward, moving close enough to him to wrap your arms around his neck - droplets of water from the edge of the umbrella dripping onto his jacket as he kisses you.

You can hear the rushing of the traffic around you, splashing through pools of water, and the chatter of people around you, locals and tourists alike, but none of it matters. Not when there’s that low pool of butterflies churning in your stomach, and certainly not when he pulls away, tip of his nose pressed to yours as you bite your lip a little, none of it matters except him.

“So, what does next week have in store for you?” Marcus asks, sipping on his glass of wine.

“Outside of trying to hit my weekly word count, I'm going to a public lecture that professor Pike is giving at UCL on Thursday.”

Marcus is mid-sip, choking slightly on it as he swallows, covering his mouth with his napkin to try and keep whatever this is under control.

“Are you alright?” You ask, concern dripping from your voice.

“Yeah,” He says, holding up a hand, coughing a little to clear his throat, “Sorry, swallowed wrong,” There’s another pause as he sips from his water, “That sounds interesting though, what is he lecturing on?”

“He’s lecturing on counterfeit art,” You explain, knife cutting through your steak, “He used to work for the FBI and I think the lecture supplements the release of his new book.”

“I had no idea he was an ex-agent,” Marcus shrugs, “Sounds interesting though, you’ll have to give me the rundown next time we meet.”

“You could always come with me?” You offer.

He smiles and lets out a little chuckle, “What time is it?”

“It starts at 6:30.”

You watch as he chews on his food, thinking for a moment, “I might be able to make it, I’ll have to let you know how teaching goes that day, but it definitely sounds interesting,” You pick up your wine to sip at it, “But if I can’t make it, we can certainly do something next weekend, okay?”

He politely insists on going back to your place once the meal is over. Apparently not expecting this was to go so well, he hadn’t tidied and didn’t want you to think bad of him when your eyes glanced over the mess. It’s endearing to you, and you’re only more than welcome to have him over. The bed needs christening anyway.

Marcus holds you hand this time on the walk from the station. It’s dark and cold but thankfully the rain has stopped. He pulls you away from the edge of the pavement when a car threatens to splash you as it passes you, then insists that you walk on the inside so you don’t get wet. It’s those small things that make you smile, that make your tummy flutter, makes you realise he knows how to treat someone.

It makes you think about the last person who had been in his position - never getting this far, mainly due to the fact that on the second date he insisted that you made him feel stupid when you spoke about your research. You wanted to tell him that was because he was, but you held your tongue, let him pay for dinner and then told him you didn’t see things working out.

When you let the two of you into your apartment, you flick on some of the lamps instead of the big light and watch as he walks to the long windows that look out onto the garden. You’re a few floors up, looking down on the garden from a height and you can see a few people milling around, illuminated in the dark by the orange glow of the lounge lights from the ground floor.

“Nice place.” Marcus murmurs, hands in his pockets as he looks out of the window.

“Yeah, I can’t deny it,” You smile, “Do you want a drink?”

He turns to face you, “Not really.” He speaks with a smirk.

He holds out a hand, palm upright to the ceiling. You wander over to him and let your own hand slip into this, relishing the feeling of his hand closing over yours, gently dragging you towards him. The way his other arm slips around the small of your back is effortless, as is the way he pulls your entire body to his, mouth slanting over yours in a soft kiss.

It’s over too quickly for your liking, but then he’s bringing both is his hands up to your face, clutching your cheeks in his palms, “You look beautiful in this light.” He murmurs, looking at you, warm. orange glow from your lamps illuminating you perfectly.

“So do you.” You almost whisper, letting your hands grip at the edges of his jacket, smiling as he lets you push it off his body.

“What do you want?” He asks softly, “Tell me what you want, baby.”

Looking up at him, bringing your hands to the collar of his shirt, you undo the first two of his buttons, “What do you think I want?”

“I wouldn’t want to assume,” He speaks back, the zip of your jacket caught between his thumb and pointer finger, slowly dragging it down, inch-by-inch, “I want to hear it.”

You bring your hand up to cover his then, slowly pushing it down until your jacket it fully unzipped, “I want you to take my clothes off,” You say with a flutter of your eyelashes, “And then I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk straight.”

Your hand lets go of his, letting his shove your jacket off your shoulders to fall to the floor. That hand sinks down his chest until your palm runs across the front of his jeans, bulge evident as you press more firmly, biting your lip as he gasps.

“You’ve got a filthy mouth.” He groans, running his thumb over your bottom lip.

“You haven’t seen anything yet, Marcus.” You wink, slowly falling to your knees in front of him.

He tangles a hand in the hair at the back of your neck and pulls gently, making you look up at him, “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Marcus doesn’t protest again, just looks down at you, sitting pretty on your knees, and raises his eyebrows as if to tell you that if you want it, you can take it. Your fingers work his belt open, pull it through the loops of his trousers, before it’s added to the pile of discarded clothes so far. You work the button open, and slowly drag his zipper down, before you hook your fingers into the waistband, dragging his trousers and his underwear down to his knees in one go.

It takes all of your willpower to ignore the gentle bob of his cock right in front of your face. He’s big, probably the biggest you’ve ever seen. You wrap your hand around the base of his cock, pumping your fist slowly, as you bring your lip to every inch of skin around his cock, pressing hot, wet open-mouth kisses all along the small swell of his belly, until you can hear his laboured breathing and his hand is tightly fisted in your hair.

You pull back, finally dragging your hand all the way up the length of his cock, letting your thumb trace gently over the head, swiping the pearly bead of precum that sits there, swirling it over the head. Then, you lean forward, eyes strained to keep them locked on his own, as you press a single kiss to the weeping head of his cock, tongue darting out just a little to taste him.

“Jesus Christ,” You can hear Marcus mutter from above you, “Darling you’ve got to put me out of my misery.”

Looking into his pleading eyes, those brown orbs glossed over with wet, practically begging you to stop teasing him are too much, so you do indeed put him out of his misery. Opening your mouth, letting the head of his cock rest there just a moment, letting your tongue tease the underside of him just a little, before you wrap your lips around him and hollow out your cheeks, letting your mouth slide down his length as much as possible until he hits the back of your throat, the length you cannot fit into your mouth still has your fist working it.

His back is to the window, the streetlights and the glow from the apartment building across the garden is bathing him in an angelic light. He leans back, letting his back rest against the pristine glass as you move your mouth up and down his cock, letting him hit the back of your throat, the free hand that isn’t pumping at the rest of his length coming up to cup his balls, gently massaging them.

You can feel his hands scoop your hair up, gather it at the back of your head so he can look down and see your face as his cock disappears into the wet cavern of your mouth. It’s sloppy, there’s saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, and when you pull off him to catch your breath, running your fist along his length, it’s soaked - line of saliva connecting him to your mouth.

“You getting it nice and wet, baby?” He asks, voice strained, “Getting it nice and wet so it slips into your pussy nice and easy?”

You’re about to put your mouth back on him when he brings one of his hands to clutch at your chin, shaking his head. He pulls you up to your feet, turns himself around so you’re the one in front of the window. His hands on your waist move you so you’re facing outward, looking at the darkness of the garden below.

Marcus reaches around your body, chin resting on your shoulder so he can see what he’s doing as he undoes each of the buttons of your shirt. He pulls it off your shoulders, discards it to be forgotten on the floor.

He trails his hands up the exposed skin of your ribcage, letting his palms rest over the cups of your bra. He squeezes gently once, then again with a tighter grip, then he’s trailing his fingers around your back to the clasp, where he manages to undo it without any trouble, letting that fall to the ground too.

You’re acutely aware that if anyone was to look up from the ground below, they would be able to see exactly what was going on, but when his warm hands come up to cup the weight of your tits in his palms, fingers rolling your nipples into stiff peaks, you can’t find it in yourself to care, you only tip your head back onto his shoulder and sigh in pleasure as his hot mouth starts sucking at the skin of your neck.

One of his hands wanders, skimming down the skin of your belly, past the waistband of your skirt and tights, until his hand is cupping your sex, hot through the cotton of your underwear. His fingers trail down, right to where your aching cunt is leaking for him, wet patch clearly evident on the material.

“Fuck me,” He groans, pushing himself into you, the hardness of his cock grinding against the material covering your ass, “You’re fucking soaked for me baby.”

You can feel him drag his hand back up, just slightly, until it’s slipping under the material this time. Finally his hand is right where you want it. You can feel his fingers slipping between your folds, inching down until they’re mixing in the pool of slick, dragging upwards until his finger finds your clit. He presses gently, circling slowly but it still makes your knees buckle. Marcus steadies you with one hand around your waist.

“Careful, baby,” He whispers into your ear, teeth nipping at the lobe, “Don’t want you to fall.”

You’d have a smart retort if his fingers hadn’t rendered you silent. You close your eyes, let yourself focus on those precise circles of his fingers, moving your hips in time to his movements. You bring an arm up, wrap it around his neck and turn your face, feeling his lips find your own, mouth open and tongue melding with yours.

Marcus lets his fingers move from your clit and you let out a whine of protest, until you feel him slip two of them straight into your cunt, as far as he can fit them, curling them gently against that spot inside you that has you falling forward, palms against the glass of the window.

You feel his spare hand grip at the hem of your skirt, shoving it up to bunch at your lower back, that hand then falling to grip your ass through the dark material of your tights. His fingers are tight against your skin, gripping you, spreading you, as his fingers continue to work inside you. He pressed just perfectly into one spot, making you cry out. You can feel the tightening in your core, feel your pussy flutter around his fingers.

“Oh baby,” He coos, “Are you going to come?” You nod your head, “Tell me,” He demands, hand moving up to tear your tights down and over your ass, “Tell me how good it feels.”

“Marcus,” You whine, moving your hips down in time to the upwards movements of his fingers into your cunt, the slick there causing a lewd squelch each time he does it, “Fuck, please, it feels so good.”

“Please?” He chuckles, dragging your body back up from it’s slouched position, “Please what?”

“Make me come.”

And so he does. He curls his fingers, sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and works your body perfectly, until you’re whining and wiggling against him. He drags his fingers from your pussy, drags them back up to your clit, circles it maybe three or four times and then he’s flinging you over the edge, tight coil snapping in your tummy, pleasure blooming everywhere as those fingers work you through every second of your climax.

You’re boneless now, pussy throbbing, sweaty skin sticking to the skin he’s got on show, as he moves you gently towards your bed. He lies you down on your back, strips you of everything else you’re still wearing, and then steps back, taking off each item of his clothing that he still has on. You watch him unwrap himself in front of you, your hand drifting between your legs, spread for him and on show. It doesn’t matter that you’re sensitive, you let your fingers dance lightly across your clit, spreading yourself open for him.

“Like a work of fucking art, baby. ” He murmurs, knees sinking into the bed as he settles between your thighs.

He swats your hand away from your cunt, leans forward to kiss you as he gently slips two of his fingers back inside your pussy. He pulls back, brings his slicked fingers to his mouth and makes a show of sucking them clean, just inches from your face.

“Taste so good baby,” He speaks, letting those two fingers find your aching hole, pressing inside once more, and you think he’s going to do it again, but this time, when he drags those fingers from you, he grips your chin, making your mouth fall ope, “Taste yourself.” He orders, watching you as your tongue slips out, inviting his fingers in.

You make just as much of a show as he did, sucking his two fingers into your mouth, tongue dipping between them to suck them clean. When he’s satisfied, he kisses you again, lets his tongue mix with yours, not just his taste now, but the taste of your cunt on his tongue too - musky but sweet.

“I want to fuck you so bad, baby.” He murmurs into your ear, settling himself into a position where you can feel his cock dragging through your wet folds.

“Please,” You beg, “I want you so badly.”

“Do you have a condom?” He asks, nose nuzzling at the delicate skin behind your ear.

“I do,” You say, “But I take the pill and I’m clean.”

He pushes back, body resting over yours, chest pressed against your tits, “You want me to fuck you bare?”

“I want you to fuck me bare, Marcus,” You whisper, hands cupping his face, “I want you to fill me up.”

“You’re something else.” He speaks softly, one of his hands reaching between you to guide his cock down, head nudging at your aching cunt.

He doesn’t say anything else, he just presses himself into you, feeding you every inch of his cock as slowly as he can manage. With every inch, your head tips back, until he’s fully inside of you, tip of his cock kissing at your cervix, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” He groans, burying his face into the crook of your neck, “You’re tight as a fucking fist baby girl.”

“So big,” Is all you manage to choke out as he starts moving, slowly dragging his cock out of you to push back in, “I’m so full.”

“That’s right baby,” He agrees, pushing himself up onto his palms that are planted on either side of your face, “So full of my cock, right?”

This position allows him a little more freedom to move his hips, which he does, dragging out of you and then pushing his cock back into you with a little more force and it makes you fucking sing. He feels so good, cock brushing at all the right spots inside you as he speeds up a little. You look down between your bodies, watching his length spear into your pussy, watching it disappear inside you with every thrust.

“I won’t…” Marcus sighs, “I’m not gonna last long baby.”

“I don’t care,” You sigh, “I wanna feel you.”

Marcus picks a rhythm - rough thrusts of his hips that have his cock hitting at the depths of you, his head dipping down to take one of your nipples into his mouth - worrying at it with his teeth and then soothing it with his tongue. You’re so close, you can feel another orgasm right there on the cusp, so close that you can feel tears forming at the corners of your eyes. When you close them, you feel a trail of tear drip down and settle in pools in your ears.

“No need to cry baby,” Marcus soothes, letting his mouth lick at the trails of tears from your eyes, “I got you, I can feel you, come for me again baby, it’s okay.”

He shifts positions slightly, dragging your legs up to rest on his shoulders, then he presses forward, folding you practically in half and then picks up his pace.

You’ve never felt like this, no-one has ever rendered you into such a wet, squealing mess before. Your nails are digging into his arms, leaving half-moon patterns there. Every punch of his cock inside you is pleasure mixed with a pang of pain. You can’t breathe, but you don’t care, because with each stroke of his cock you’re falling further and further, until you close your eyes, tip your head back and see starts as your second orgasm tears through you. You hear yourself scream for him, mouth dropped open as he loses whatever control he had before. It’s hard and it’s fast, and it’s all fucking worth it when he drops your legs and goes still.

Your name is falling from his lips like a chant, like a prayer at church as you feel his cock throb inside you, white hot cum painting every inch of the inside of you. He manages to keep his weight from collapsing onto you, pushing himself back on his knees instead, letting his cock slip from your tight heat.

You watch him as he holds your legs spread, watching his cum seep out of you. It’s performative and entirely unnecessary, but you dip a hand between your legs, use two of your fingers to spread yourself open and push lightly, letting him watch his cum pool at your hole, dripping down between the cheeks of your ass. You feel one of his fingers follow the trail, scooping it back up to press back inside your pussy, then, that fingers is slipped into your mouth.

“How do we taste baby?”

“Pretty good.”

In the moments that follow, once you’ve used the bathroom, the two of you settle under your sheets. Marcus on his back with you draped over his chest. He’s drawing shapes on your back, pressing kisses to the crown of your head as you slowly drift in and out of sleep.

When you wake, it’s still dark, the moon is high in the sky, and his face his buried between your thighs, leisurely eating at your cunt like he’s got all the time in the world. Your let your fingers tangle in his brown curls as he slowly works you up, tongue lapping at your clit softly until you’re writhing and twisting in the sheets as he makes you come for the third time that night.

He kisses you as he settles back down next to you. He turns you over so he’s pressed against your back, holds on of your legs up so he can push his cock into you again. You’re sore and spend and every muscle in your body aches, but he’s soft this time, rocking his hips into you from behind, slowly fucking you with his arms wrapped around you, both of you looking out into the darkness beyond the windows. He comes inside you for the second time that night, but neither of you make time to move. His cock slotted perfectly inside you, his cum leaking out slowly around him and down your thighs as you both fall asleep again.

In the morning, the storm has cleared and the low winter light wakes you up. The bed is empty, but still warm when you move onto your back, eyes adjusting to the light. Marcus is at the foot of the bed, doing up the last buttons on his shirt.

“I have to go.” He says simply, but with a tone that says he’d rather do nothing more than crawl back into bed with you.

“That’s okay,” You say, pushing yourself up, holding up the sheets to cover yourself, “Will you come back later?”

“Do you want me to come back later?” He asks, sitting on the side of the bed to slip his shoes on.

You shift slightly, moving so you can tuck a particularly unruly curl behind his ear, “I do.”

He turns, smiles at you, then kisses you softly, “Then yes, I’ll come back later.”

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