#The Mentalist Fanfiction

[thetriumphantpanda]

I'll Crawl Home To Her | Marcus Pike

Fic Summary | Marcus Pike had been the man of your dreams until a promotion tore your away from him. Four years later, a wedding brings you back together, but it the bubble you've built over this one weekend going to crash and burn just like it did before?

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Bridesmaid F!Reader

Fic Warnings | Explicit. Exes to Lovers, themes of second chance love, references to food and alcohol, descriptions of a wedding, Marcus Pike being a dirty talking menace, talk of contraception, unprotected PiV sex, creampie, semi-public sex, oral sex (F), overstimulation if you squint, allusions to oral sex (M) and mentions of a facial cumshot, mutual pining, flirting, two idiots in love, a touch of angst, basically two idiots who never got over each other have a lot of sex over a weekend.

Word Count | 7.9K (I can only apologise lmfao)

Authors Note | So, two weekends ago I was a bridesmaid and spent the entire time messaging @undercoverpena about how I wished Marcus Pike would whisk me away to the bathroom, tell me how pretty I was and give me a good time.... and this is what's come of this. Entirely self-indulgent but we love that for me sometimes. If you enjoy this, please consider commenting or reblogging - I'd love to know what you think of it! And if you'd like to support me further, you can donate to my Ko-Fi.

Moodboard is for aesthetic purposes only - reader is a blank slate. Although if you're interested in the dress I chose for her - it's this.

Divider by the amazing @saradika

Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs for writing updates.

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi.

“I’m sorry, Mike,” Marcus is still out of breath as he clutches the champagne flute in his hand, chest heaving as his sucks in air to his lungs, “I didn’t mean to be so late.”

“Marcus, buddy, it’s fine,” His friend puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, he knows Marcus gets anxious when things outside of his control happen, like the delay to his flight from D.C. to London, and then the delay in getting from London to the wedding venue, “You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

Marcus nods, chugging down half the champagne in one go, hoping it’ll calm his anxiety a little. He had cursed Mike and Cassie for choosing to have their wedding in England, but Mike’s family, most of them ageing now and unable to make the long trip to D.C. had insisted on it. As he looks around the large reception room, he muses internally to himself that it was beautiful. A huge room, semi-decorated for tomorrow’s reception and dinner. It’s a smaller affair tonight, immediate family and friends for the rehearsal dinner, but he can imagine that tomorrow, once all is said and done, it’ll be the perfect backdrop for their wedding.

“Where’s Cassie?” Marcus asks, looking around the room, finding a distinct lack of the bride and the bridal party Mike hadn’t shut up about over the last few months.

“She’s just sorting the last of the decorations for the ceremony room,” Mike explains, waving a hand to the waitress currently doing the round with a refilled tray of champagne, “She’ll be here soon.” He finished with a wink, which, although is odd, Marcus doesn’t question, just picks up another glass of champagne and stands talking to his friend and whoever is milling around offering their congratulations.

There’s a flurry of conversation that has Marcus turning around a few minutes later, he can see Cassie and her mother, who are pulled to the side by someone from the venue holding up two different types of ribbon, asking which one they want to drape around the columns and which one to tie around the chair backs. It’s not Cassie that Marcus is interested in though, it’s the bridesmaid that follows behind her.

He can feel his throat constrict, a small pit opening in his stomach that’s somewhere between the feeling of dread and excitement. He can feel the palms of his hands starting to get clammy, so he drains his glass and sets it down on the nearest table to avoid an accident. Then, he thinks he might actually pass out when you finally look at him, eyes searching his face and then the glimmer of recognition that you know exactly who he is, remember exactly the last time you’d seen him, and exactly what had happened when you had.

Your leg is bouncing underneath the dining table, food somewhat eaten regardless of the fact that it’s your favourite. You’ve dug half-moon shapes into the palms of your hands and bitten the inside of your mouth enough to taste blood.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” It’s Marcus, sitting across from you, plate cleared, completely oblivious as to what’s about to come.

“I got offered a promotion.” You tell him simply, running one hand up and down your opposite arm in an attempt to soothe yourself.

“Darling!” He exclaims, “That’s amazing!” He doesn’t move to get up, but reaches his hand out, palm up for you to take, which you do, letting his hand softly clasp yours in his own, “Why are you so upset then?”

Taking a deep breath in, biting your bottom lip, you decide it’s best to rip the band-aid off sooner rather than later, “It’s not here, Marcus,” You sigh, “The job is in D.C.”

The smile, the light of his eyes, everything on his face that had just seconds ago been showing joy, had faltered. Much like you imagine your face would have when you’d been offered the job. A significant pay rise, governmental opportunities, bigger clients, a shot at being a proper lawyer for once, but with the caveat that you had to uproot your comfortable Austin life for D.C. and with it, Marcus Pike.

“I don’t have to go,” You follow up with, “I haven’t accepted yet, I’ve got some time to think.”

You feel him squeeze your hand, his other palm coming out to rest on your wrist, slowly tracing the blue veins he can see there, “Look at me,” He asks softly, which you do, the tears that had been forming in your own eyes starting to spill down your cheeks when you find Marcus’ eyes glassed over too, “Baby, this is such an amazing opportunity, you can’t say no because of me.”

Because that’s what you would be doing. Marcus, brilliant, funny, intelligent Marcus, wouldn’t be able to follow you to D.C. There had been some talk about his work in the Art Crimes team with the higher ups, people who were impressed at his success rate, people who wanted to keep him here, send him off to California even. He was at too much of a crossroads to be able to follow you to D.C.

“I don’t want to lose you though,” You sniff, free hand coming to wipe away some of the tears that are falling from your eyes, “I love you.”

Marcus hums, finally pushes himself off his chair, letting the legs scrape across his kitchen floor, until he’s sat right in front of you, knees touching, his palms on the tops of your thighs, warm and soothing, “I love you too,” He says, bringing one hand up to cup your cheek, making sure you’re looking at him, “But this is what you’ve wanted, you’ve been working so hard baby and I’m not going to let you stay here just because of me.”

It’s killing you inside, because you want so badly to ask him to follow you. To drop everything and come to D.C. You’ve been together two years, you’re comfortable together, he makes you so happy, you’ve talked about moving in together, starting a life together, but you know deep down you’re asking him to do something unfair.

“So, I guess your stance on long-distance relationships hasn’t changed?” You ask, tone soft and sad, tears falling down your cheeks.

You watch him as his own tears fall, his hands clutching your own so tightly as he gives you a soft smile, “Baby, I wish I could say yes, I wish I could drop it all and follow you, or promise you we’d talk on the phone every day and see each other every weekend, but you know we can’t do it.”

Biting at your lip, you nod, because you know he’s right. You’re a lawyer, you barely have free time as it is - weekends more often than not spent sat on the couch with him, tapping away at your laptop whilst he looks over case files. It would never work.

Marcus leans forward, presses a kiss to your forehead, then pulls you into a hug. You clutch your hands to his back, inhaling the smell of him on his shirt , watching the light blue turn darker as it catches your tears.

“When do you go?” He asks quietly into the crook of your neck, soft kiss placed to the skin right after.

“A few weeks, probably.”

“Well, let’s enjoy them while we still can, hey?” You nod silently, “And maybe one day, we’ll find each other again.”

“And maybe one day, we’ll find each other again.”

Those words still echo in your ears four year later, like they have at various different points since you last saw Marcus Pike. Leaving had been hard. He’d helped you pack everything up, driven you to the airport, kissed you before security and promised he wouldn’t forget you. You’d text a for a few weeks before life dragged you in one direction and him in another. No-one had quite been able to live up to him either. Sure, you’d tried dating, seen people for a few months before deciding they weren’t quite the man who had almost been able to give you everything you ever wanted.

And now here he is, standing in front of you, pale as a ghost as if he’s about to keel over and have a heart attack. You want to run to him, to fling yourself into his arms and make sure he’s real. You want to press your lips to his, let him kiss you like he always used to, to clutch you to his body and whisper sweet things into your ear, but you have no idea what he’s been doing these past four years - for all you know, you could get closer and find a wedding band across his left finger.

It’s a blessing when Cassie’s hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you over to the side.

“Do you prefer the dusky rose or the blush pink?” She asks, holding up two ribbons that look identical to your eye.

You want to tell her does it really matter, they both look exactly the same. You want to tear your wrist away from her and go to Marcus, but instead you settle for a warm smile and “It’s your wedding Cass, you choose what you want.”

And when you turn around, looking back over to Mike, Marcus Pike is nowhere to be found. Like he was a mirage. A figment of your hopeful imagination. Something conjured up after your mother had set you down at the airport and said, “Bridesmaid’s always get lucky at weddings, you might find your own husband.”

When everyone is called to sit down for the rehearsal dinner, you jump at the opportunity to let Cassie sit down and eat, whilst you get pulled away by the staff to advise on which candles to use for the ceremony room and where exactly to place the flower arch for the best photos tomorrow. When you make it back, everyone is standing, milling around, getting drinks from the bar, which you decide you desperately need.

“A negroni, please.” You ask for after taking a few seconds to peruse the cocktail menu set out. The stronger the better.

“I see your tastes haven’t changed in the last few years.”

You’re pretty sure that if there was a mirror in front of you, the look of shock on your face would be comical, as Marcus Pike sidles up to the bar next to you. Up close, he’s just as handsome as he always had been, except now, he’s got a beard and more fine lines in the corners of his eyes, which means he’s been happy, smiling, whilst you’ve been gone. It makes your heart swell that he’s been happy.

“I wonder if yours have.” You counter, tilting your head towards the bartender who is waiting for him to order.

“Just a beer for now.” He smiles, but at you, not the bartender.

“That’ll be a no then.”

There’s a moment of silence between the both of you as you sip the cocktail given to you, and Marcus takes a swig of his beer. His left hand is wrapped around the bottle, no sign of the wedding ring you were convinced you’d find. You want to say something, anything, but when you go to open your mouth, he beats you to it.

“You look well.”

You can’t help but chuckle. Of all the things he could have chosen to say to you, you hadn't thought it would be that.

“So do you.” You compliment back.

There’s another silence, the two of you just looking at each other. You’re soaking him up, committing him to memory to replace the old Marcus you knew so well.

“Are you here alone?” You ask, playing with the glass in your hand.

You watch as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, “Are you?”

“I asked you first, Agent Pike.”

He tilts his head towards his shoulder in a movement that says he’ll give you that one, “I’m here alone.”

You can’t help but smile a little, biting at your bottom lip to try and hide how pleased you are, “So am I.”

Looking up at him through your lashes, you notice the exact moment those brown eyes that you’re so used to getting lost in darken, watching you as you sip your drink, tip of your tongue jutting out to catch a drop from your bottom lip.

“Is your room completely over the top?” You ask, watching as he swallows deeply, “Because mine is, I’d love to know what the honeymoon suite must be like.”

“Depends what you mean by completely over the top?” He quirks an eyebrow.

“Do you want me to show you?”

He doesn’t even respond. He sets his half-finished beer down on the bar, takes your almost-empty negroni from your hand and does the same. Then he’s taking hold of your hand, lacing your fingers together like he always did, dragging you out of the room. You turn to find Cassie and Mike, looking at you both as you have to jog to keep up with Marcus’ pace. Both of them are winking, smiling, and Mike even throws a thumbs up your way. You can feel heat rising on your cheeks as you turn your head away from them.

“Which floor?” Marcus asks then you reach the grand staircase in the lobby.

“Second.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand, but takes the stairs two at a time, meaning by the time you reach the second floor, you’re out of breath from running behind him, trying to keep up.

“Which room?”

It’s your turn to lead him now, stepping in front of him to walk down the hallway to room 212. You fish the keycard from the back pocket of your jeans, wasting no time in pushing the door open when the tiny light turns green.

It’s dark inside, but you don’t care. Marcus Pike pins you against the wall, his thigh between your legs, both hands on your waist, and then his lips are on yours. The way he kisses hasn’t changed a bit. His mouth slants over yours, softly at first, but when you open your lips against his, hands clutching at the collar of his shirt, it’s just like you remember from all those years ago. He tastes the same, mint from the gum he always chews, the tang of the beer on his tongue, and that distinct taste that’s just him.

He swallows a groan from you as your pitch your hips down, denim rubbing on denim as he devours your mouth. His hands on your waist trail down just a little, finding the top of your jeans, floating under your shirt just a little to touch the bare skin underneath. His hands are warm and strong as they start guiding you to move against his thigh as his tongue works against yours.

Marcus pulls away from your mouth just as a particularly breathy moan leaves your mouth. It makes you both stop. Stand still. Eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room as you both realise exactly what’s happening. You know you should stop, talk about what’s clearly about to happen, but when did talking ever help anything.

“Don’t think about it,” Marcus sighs, leaning down to trail kisses along your jaw, “We talk after.”

“We talk after.” You say, mainly to the room more than anything else.

Your hands are still clutching at his shirt when his fingers find the button on your jeans. Still as adept at it as he’d always been, he pops the button open and pulls down the zipper, letting his hand trail down, settling across the lace of your underwear, cupping your pussy, letting his fingers trace along skin through lace.

A hiss leaves your mouth as you work your body in time with the slow, teasing movements of Marcus’ hand, “You’ve changed,” You manage to breathe out, your hand coming to the back of his neck to pull his mouth nearer to yours, “When you were desperate for me you’d never tease.”

You can feel his lips smile against the skin of your neck where he’s tracing wet kisses along the skin, hand still feather-light between your legs, “I’ve learnt to be more patient, honey.”

“And if I asked you not to?”

“In all the years I knew you, never once did you beg for it.” He pulls back, your eyes now accustomed to the dark, able to see him better, his voice is low, “Unless you’ve changed, you’ll have to put up with it.”

You grasp his cheeks in your palms, his hand still teasing you, pull his attention to you fully, “Marcus Pike, I swear to all that is holy that if you do not spread me out on my bed and fuck me in the next five minutes, I will die.”

He makes a ‘tsk’ sound, his head shaking in your hands, “That’s not begging for it honey,” He coos, “You gotta ask nicely for it.”

You let out a grumble of frustration, but you have to admit, this new version of the man you knew so well before is enticing. You can feel the way wetness is settling between your thighs, you’re sure if he dipped his fingers down he’d have some smart comment about how soaked you were for him already.

So you swallow your pride, you know it’ll be worth it in the end, “Please.”

“Good girl.”

It all happens in a flurry. One moment you’re against the wall, the next your back is against the mattress, Marcus’ hips pressed to yours as his hands work to push your shirt up and off your body. Your back hits the mattress again and his mouth is on you almost instantly, his lips trailing down your sternum, between the valley of your breasts. Pushing himself back on his knees, he brings his hands to the cups of your bra, pulling them down. Your nipples pebbling against the cold of the air.

His lips are back on you almost immediately, nipple enveloped into the warmth of his mouth, tip of his tongue flicking at it, making your back arch off the bed, pressing further into his mouth. Your hand comes to tangle in the curls at the back of his head, anchoring him to your body. As his mouth works across your chest, you can’t quite believe what’s happening to you. The man of your dreams, the person you always thought you were destined for, back, right here between your thighs, the bulge in the front of his jeans all too familiar to you.

Head tipped back in pleasure, you breathe out into the air, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

He tears off your breast with a wet pop, looking up at you through his lashes, mouth kissing down your body, across the soft of your tummy, he taps at your sides, lifting your hips up to drag your jeans and underwear down your legs, flung behind him and forgotten when you plant the flat of your feet onto the bed and let your knees fall open.

Marcus isn’t a religious man, he never has been, but knelt between your thighs, hands flying to rid himself of his clothes, watching as you gingerly trail your hand between your thighs, eyes on him as you play with your clit, he thinks he might have to start believing. As he stands to take the last of his clothes off, standing at the foot of the bed, naked with his cock in his hand, watching your face, he thanks the Lord for whatever mischief they had to concoct to get you back here with him.

He crawls back up your body, kissing from ankle to thigh, settling himself between your thighs, cock sliding through your slick folds as he lays his body down against yours, one of his hands slipping under your neck, cradling the back of your head, the other cupping your cheek, moving your face to look right into his eyes. He’s so fucking close to you, lips barely a hairs breadth from your own.

“I have to be inside you,” He pants against your mouth, “I promise I'll spend hours between your thighs later baby, but I have to be inside you.”

He doesn’t give you any time to respond, just shifts his hips a little, sinking himself into your aching cunt. You arch up into him, moaning against his mouth as he stills. The hand clutching at your cheek trails down your neck, thumb flicking against your nipple as it travels to rest on your hip.

“Stop squirming,” He pleads, “Please.. Just stay still a minute.”

He feels so right, nestled inside your pussy. The weight of his body pressed against yours takes you right back to all the nights before, locked away in his Austin apartment in the dead of night, making each other feel good, making promises at the height of your combined pleasure to each other that never materialised. You can feel tears settle in your eyes as he starts moving, pulling himself out of you slowly, pushing back in even slower.

Marcus leans down, kissing the salty tears from your cheeks, shushing you, “Don’t cry baby,” He whispers into your ear, “I’ve got you now.”

Your hands are clutching at his shoulders, nails digging small, half-moon shapes into his skin there. He feels just as incredible moving inside you as he always did, but there’s something settling in your tummy, the feeling that you knew so well with him, that you’ve only really known with yourself since.

“I can feel you baby,” Marcus groans into your ear as the thrusts of his cock get a little faster, a little harder, “Clenching all perfectly around me,” He takes hold of one of your wrists, dragging it between the both of you, resting it right where you need it, “I won’t last baby,” He admits, “Touch yourself and we’ll do it together?”

So you do, you rub tight, precise circles over your clit as Marcus pushes himself up, takes your thighs in his palms, pushing your legs back as far as he can. The change in angle makes you cry out as he really starts fucking you now. The only sounds in the room are the slapping of his skin against yours, your whimpers and his groans. You can feel the tightening coil across your abdomen, breath hitching in your throat, you’re so fucking close to coming undone on him.

“Marcus,” You whine, “I’m gonna-” You trail off as he shifts a little more, pressing your legs further back, cock hitting that unholy sweet spot inside you, “Gonna come.”

“Go on baby,” He encourages, “I’ll be right behind you.”

And that’s how it ends. Eyes shut so tightly you can feel tears pooling at the corners, cunt clenching around his cock as you cry out his name. It’s so familiar, the way it feels, the way he sounds, like no time has passed at all and you’re exactly the same as you’d both been four years ago. He’s pounding into you as your body convulses underneath, thighs shaking and toes curling as his hips start to stutter.

“Where?” He manages to choke out, his tone reminiscent of all those times before when he was holding on, teetering on the edge, wanting to know what you wanted.

“I’m s-safe,” You manage to choke out, head reeling from your own orgasm, “The pill.”

He doesn’t need to hear anymore, finally giving in, knowing you’ve fallen apart for him, he’s groaning your name into the dark, you can feel him spilling into you, claiming you, marking you as his own in a way only the two of you could ever understand. He lets go of your thighs, letting your legs drop back into comfort as he slowly drags himself from you, collapsing onto the bed next to you.

There’s a few moments of silence. Your arm is draped across your face, chest rising and falling as you try to suck in enough air to calm your breathing, Marcus doing the same across the bed. You roll over, putting yourself on your side so you can look at him. He’s led on his back, head turned to look at you in the dull light of the room - the moonlight through the window the only thing illuminating the two of you. He reaches out, traces your face with his hand.

“I can't believe you’re real.” He speaks softly, rolling over to face you, pulling your warm body to his.

“I know we said we’d talk after,” You whisper, hand trailing over his waist to rest across his back, “But can we just stay like this for a while?” It’s a soft plead, you don’t want to be reminded that this was probably a bad idea, you want to hold this man in front of you and forget that in a few short days it’ll all be over, he’ll go back to wherever he is now, and you’ll go back to D.C. lonelier than ever.

“I’ll stay here as long as you’ll let me, honey.”

Marcus, against his better judgement, stays with you all night. You don’t talk. You curl up into his side, settle against his body as he wraps his arms around you. It’s inevitable that he casts his mind back to how things used to be. To the history you share with each other. He still, to this day, hasn’t stopped thinking about you, about what would have been if you’d stayed. Would you be married? Probably, he thinks. He’d thought of it often towards the end, before your promotion. Stopped outside jewellery shops, tried to imagine which kind of ring you’d want – he’d even slipped one of your rings onto his own finger, figuring out where it stopped so he could pick the right size when the time came. Would you have children? He isn’t sure, neither of you had ever spoken about it, you’d never expressed a want to have them, but he’s certain if you’d have asked, he’d have given them to you.

He falls asleep, waking up hours later, darkness still pervading. He turns on his side, spooning his front to your back. You’re half-awake when you press yourself back into him, bring your hand up to clutch at his head as he slips inside you once more, his hand holding your thigh up. He breathes into your ear, whispers filth to you as he rocks his hips against you. When you feel his teeth trail over your shoulder, he chuckles when you tell him off.

“I can’t walk down the aisle with bruises on my shoulders, Marcus.”

It’s soft, and he tips you over the edge, feeling you clench around him as his fingers trace circles over your clit, following just behind you, filling you up once more. He doesn’t pull away from you, just settles your thigh back down, resting himself inside of you as you both fall back to sleep.

Then, he’s awake before your alarm. He wakes you with a kiss to your forehead, tells you to go back to sleep when you protest and try and coax him back to the warmth of your sheets. He has to shower he says, has to help Mike get ready, but he’ll be waiting for you, watching you all day. Marcus smiles, really smiles, when you curl over back onto your side, soft breaths and mumbles as you fall back to sleep, and as he walks to his own room and stands waiting for the shower to warm, there’s a feeling of content that spreads through him – should he have fucked you last night? Probably not. Should he have encouraged you to talk more? Probably yes. He knows he’s got his cards hidden, he’s not letting on that this might not have to just exist here, but he’ll keep that to himself for just a little longer.

“So,” Cassie smirks from her place in the make-up chair, artist flitting around her, pressing all number of products into her face, “You and the groomsman?”

“Shut up,” You mutter to her, trying not to scratch at your face, make-up already settling uncomfortably across your skin, “A momentary lapse of judgement.”

She hums, and then moves her focus back to the make-up artist who is tilting her face to put on some blush, “You don’t have to lie to me, you know,” She says to you as you pass her a mimosa, “I know that was Marcus. The Marcus.”

There’s a moment where you feel like a deer in headlights, like you’ve been caught being up to no good, even though you know that’s not the case. Then you turn slowly to her, eyebrow raised, and see her smirking, much to the chagrin of the make-up artist who urgently wants to get her lipstick on her so she can move onto the final bridesmaid.

“He’s Mike’s friend, they went to school together, see each other quite often these days – apparently he always talks about a girl from Austin, no-one could ever compare, he’s tried moving on, done this, done that, but always came back to thinking about the one who got away,” She stops talking to take a drink, “Which sounded oddly familiar to someone else I know.”

She’s not wrong really – Cassie had been a lifeline when you’d moved to D.C. a work colleague turned best friend, who has been the shoulder to cry on whenever dates had gone badly, or even when they’d been good, but you just couldn’t get Marcus Pike off your brain. She told you, like most good friends would, that it would take time, you’d find someone right for you, someone who would take your mind right off Marcus, but it never happened.

“You did this on purpose!” You accuse, but its friendly, because really, her and her soon-to-be husband have only done what you had always wanted to do yourself, pick up the phone, no matter how long it has been and tell the man you still loved him.

“Of course we did,” She chuckles, “Don’t think about it too much,” She adds, “Just enjoy this today and most of all, behave yourself.”

When Cassie walks down the aisle, it’s not her that Marcus is looking at – it’s you. He hadn’t thought it possible for him to find you more beautiful than he had before, but in your dark green dress, slit cut into the fabric to show off one of your legs as you walk, dress cut perfectly to sit on all the curves of your body that he always did love, he can’t deny you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He spends the entire ceremony making eyes at you, smirking when you meet his gaze. He wants to tell you how lovely you look, lean down and plant a kiss to your lips in front of everyone, but he doesn’t get a chance until cocktail hour, once you’ve had your pictures taken and Cassie has insisted on you finally having a drink and enjoying your day instead of flapping about whether she needs anything from you.

“Has anyone told you how beautiful you look today?” He asks, hand settling on your waist as you lean against the bar waiting for your drink.

“Funnily enough, it’s not me most people have been looking at.” You quip back, taking the margarita from the bartender when it’s handed to you.

“I’ve been looking at you.”

“I know,” You smirk, “Pretty sure I ruined my panties stood at the top of the aisle.”

“Because the ceremony moved you so much?”

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about your face between my thighs, actually.”

He looks exactly like he always used to when you flirt with him like this. Eyes low and dark, mouth slightly ajar like he can’t quite believe you’ve just been so forward. He’s not thinking straight anymore, and much like he had done last night, he grips around your wrist and starts dragging you from the reception room, this time there are considerably more people so you manage to slip out unnoticed.

Instead of heading up the stairs, taking you to your room or his, he turns left down a hallway, tearing open the door to one of the bathrooms. It’s a single stall, lock clicking behind him. You press your back against the wall, setting your drink down on the sink.

Marcus takes three steps towards you, hand slipping around your waist, pulling you flush against his body, lips so close that you can feel his breath on your skin.

“Do you know how sinful you’ve looked all day?” He asks, “Walking around looking all innocent, but I know you’ve been begging to get fucked all day, haven’t you?” You whine at him in response, trying to chase his mouth as he pulls back, “Don’t think I didn’t see you rubbing your thighs together during the ceremony.”

“It’s only because you wouldn’t stop looking at me.”

His hand finds the skin of your thigh, the slit of your dress making it easy for him to trail up to the hem of your panties.

“If I put my fingers on you,” He breathes, “Will you be wet?”

“Why don’t you find out?” You cock your head to the side, biting your lip as you look at him, his hand pulling your panties to the side, thick fingers slipping between your folds.

“Baby,” He moans, finally taking your bottom lip between his, nipping your skin with his teeth a little before he pulls away, fingers slipping inside you, pulling a groan from your throat, “Soaked for me?”

“Always, Marcus.”

He drags his fingers from you, spins you around, and reaches down to bring your palms up to rest against the wall in front you. He puts his hands on your hips, dragging your ass backwards until you can feel him through his trousers. His hands shuck your dress up to your waist and instead of tearing your panties off, he pushes them to the side. You look over your shoulder at him, as much as you can, and watch as he undoes his belt, pulls the zipper of his trousers down and reaches in, pulling his cock out. His trousers are pushed down just enough to let him free himself, and you don’t think you’ve seen such a beautiful sight in your life, than Marcus Pike with his fist around his cock, running his hand up and down himself as he moves to nudge the head of his cock at your soaked core.

Unlike last night, he isn’t gentle when he pushes into you. He’s buried inside your cunt in seconds, setting a pace that punches the air from your lungs. You know that even though you’re locked in here, away from the party, there’s still every chance someone is going to walk past, try the door handle, and hear exactly what’s going on in here, so you’re trying your best to keep the noise to a minimum.

“Needed you so badly, baby,” Marcus chokes out behind you, hands gripping your hips hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have his fingerprints embedded onto your skin, “Always so pretty for me, aren’t you?”

He’s hitting that sweet spot inside you, over and over again, and you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from crying out. You feel one of his hands trail up your spine through the material of your dress, coming to rest with a grip around the nape of your neck, his fingers itching to slide up into your hair and grip it.

“You can’t,” You plead, “Don’t mess my hair up.”

“I won’t baby.” He pants out from behind you, trailing his hand down just a little so he’s not tempted to take a fistful of it to pull you back, arch you into him even more.

It’s fast and it’s hard, everything Marcus never really used to be. He liked to take his time, spread you out and have you crying for him before he slipped inside you, slowly, watching every contort of pleasure on your face. You think you like this new version of him, the one so desperate to have you he couldn’t make it up the stairs, couldn’t even pull your panties down your legs.

“Marcus,” You moan out, “Please.”

“What’s that, baby?” He asked, mouth right by your ear, “You begging for something?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“What do you want?”

“Make me come?”

You think maybe he might try and tease you some more, but mercifully he takes the hand he’s got resting on your hip and snakes it down your body, letting his fingers find your clit - he had always been good at that. He drags the gathered slick where he can, cock still moving into you, pulling whimpers and moans whenever you feel his skin slap against yours, circles your clit quickly with the pad of his finger. You can feel your walls tightening around him, your thighs starting to shake as he continues doing exactly what he’s doing.

It’s no secret to either of you that making you come always took time. He’d never shamed you for it, always been more than happy to do whatever it took, for as long as it took, to get you there. But the mix of desperation for him, elation that he’s waltzed right back into your life, and the fact he’s fucking you in a public bathroom, have that coil tightening inside you quicker than ever.

“Can feel you getting tight around me baby,” He groans into your ear, “You gonna let go for me?”

You don’t have time to tell him yes. The tight coil snaps inside you, your eyes closed so tightly you’re sure the make-up around your eyes is dragging down your cheeks on tears. You can keep your voice down now as you flutter around his cock, you cry out his name, feeling his hands holding onto your hips to keep you steady as your legs threaten to fall out from underneath you.

You’re only half aware of him speaking into your ear, telling you he’s close. You can feel him start to pull himself out of you, so you reach behind you quickly, fingernails digging into the part of his thigh you can reach to keep him inside you.

“I swear to god if you get cum on my dress Pike, I’ll kill you.”

He lets out a deep, throaty chuckle behind you, slams himself back into you, “You just want an excuse for me to come inside you, don’t you?” He hisses into your ear, teeth nipping at the skin behind your ear, “You just have to ask nicely for it.”

“Please, Marcus, please.”

Never one to deny you, he does, having held out as long as he could, he thrusts once, twice and then he’s moaning your name into your ear. You can feel him spilling inside of you, filling you up, then you can feel him dripping down your thigh when Marcus starts pulling away from you, not quite quick enough to put your panties back on. He tells you to keep still, fumbling behind him for some paper he can use to clean your thighs up.

He speaks to you as he lets the material of your dress fall back down over your legs, “Walking around full of me for the rest of the night.” He coos as you turn around, reaching out to pull his mouth to yours in a chaste kiss.

You stay like that for a moment, both attempting to fix the others clothes. Marcus brings his thumb to his mouth, letting his tongue jut out to wet it, before he drags it under your eye, getting rid of the worst of the black marks he’s caused.

You reach behind him, unlock the door, but take hold of his hand as you push the door open. Thankfully there’s no-one waiting outside to use the bathroom as you drag him back down towards the party.

It’s late. Or early depending on how you look at it. Marcus had dragged you from the dance floor at midnight, walked you slowly up to his room instead of yours. He’d helped you out of your dress, let you shower and wash yourself clean, then, before you could put your robe on and insist on going to sleep, he’d taken your hand, led you to the chair near the balcony doors and he’d made good on his promise of last night to spend hours with his face between your legs.

“I can’t,” You whine, Marcus hand’s pinning your legs open, his tongue flicking against your clit, “It’s too much.”

He pulls off you just enough to speak, “Believe in yourself baby,” He says, sinking two fingers into you, curling them upwards, “I know you can, just one more for me.”

Your whole body feels like its on fire. You’ve lost count of the amount of times he’s made you come tonight. There had been a small reprieve when you’d begged to suck his cock, Marcus obliging, painting your face and your tongue, before he settled right back to his knees. It’s almost as if he thinks if he stops you’ll disappear.

Your fingers are tangled in his hair, battling between tugging his face closer and pulling it away as he sucks your clit into his mouth, the added pressure along with the flicking of his tongue setting your skin on fire even more than before. Your hair is sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck, rivulets of sweat gathering at various points across your body as Marcus tips you over the edge once more.

Your mouth drops open in a silent scream, body feeling boneless as your whole body convulses at his touch. Almost like he knows, he pulls himself away from you gently, knowing that any more would be too much, saving you the need to beg him to stop. He presses soft kisses to the skin of your tummy, kissing up your body until he’s sitting up on his knees, kissing into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him.

Marcus clambers to his feet, takes hold of your hand and pulls you to your feet, guiding you over to the bed to settle you under the sheets, the air peppering your sweaty skin with goosebumps. It’s a sad realisation that you have to go home tomorrow, that the bubble you’ve caught yourself up in over the past few days is about to burst. You think this might break your heart even more than the first time around.

“What are we going to do?” You ask against the skin of his chest as he pulls you into him.

“What do you mean?” He asks back, kiss pressed lightly to your forehead.

“With us, after this?” Your fingers are tracing over his skin, trying to map the feeling of him before he leaves.

“Well, I thought maybe we could go for dinner sometime?”

You look up at him, face contorted in confusion, “You’re going to come all the way from Austin to take me for dinner?”

“No baby,” He chuckles a little, “I don’t live in Austin anymore, I live in D.C.”

You push yourself up in bed, one hand on the mattress to keep yourself upright, looking down at Marcus, who reaches up to cup your cheek in his hand, thumb rubbing soft lines across your skin, “Since when?”

“Two years?” He offers, “I would have-” He trails off a little, “I would have told you but I wasn’t in a great place when I first moved, had no idea what your life would have even looked like either, I didn’t just want to turn up out of the blue if you’d moved on, found someone else.”

Your hand comes up to clutch at the wrist of the arm cradling your face, “I’ve waited so long for you,” You sigh, “I tried, tried to find someone else, but none of them were ever you Marcus.”

“I tried too,” He admits, because Lord knows he did, and for what? “I promise I’ll tell you everything one day, but right now, I want to fall asleep with you right here.”

You settle back down in bed, curling up against his side, arm draped over his waist, “Where in the city do you live?” You ask, sleep starting to make your eyes heavy.

“I’m on 4th street, in Petworth.”

You can’t help but laugh, because of course he fucking does. Marcus Pike has been living four streets over from you for the past two fucking years.

“You’ve been living four streets over from me for two years, Marcus.”

He runs his hands up and down your spine, gently, soothing you, “Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it?” He asks softly, “I can be at your front door in five minutes.”

“You want to be my booty call, Marcus Pike?”

“If that’s what you want,” He speaks, “I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

“What are you doing Wednesday night?”

“Nothing, as far as I’m aware.”

“How about you take me on a first date?” You offer, “Let’s learn each other all over again and take things from there?”

Marcus colts your chin up to his face with a finger, leaning down and giving you the softest kiss you think you’ve ever received, “I would love nothing more.”

#Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike Smut #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x you #marcus pike fanfiction #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x F!reader #Marcus Pike fic #Marcus Pike fanfic #the mentalist #the mental illness is winning #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #Pedro pascal #marcus pike fluff #Marcus Pike angst #Marcus Pike Pedro Pascal #Marcus Pike The mentalist

[pedroscurls]

second chances | pt. 1

Character(s): Marcus Pike x fem!Reader Summary: After a stressful past couple of days at work, Marcus is ready to spend his day off relaxing. Until he gets a new neighbor asking for his help. Word count: 1.3k  A/N: I've become a Marcus Pike girlie and I can't go back now. Don't even get me started on Lisbon... So, I decided that Marcus Pike deserves a happy ending. Stay tuned and enjoy! Warning: None.  SERIES MASTERLIST - ultimate masterlist

Since moving to Washington DC – alone – Marcus has busied himself with work. Long hours in the office. Late nights. Barely any sleep. It was his way of distracting himself from the fact that Lisbon had chosen Jane over him. Marcus wasn’t a jealous man, but he was filled with frustration at himself for seeing a future with someone who was so obviously in love with someone else. 

Marcus was never going to be the one Lisbon chose. 

And he should have known better. 

Now, after six months of being in DC, Marcus’s colleagues finally convinced him to take the next couple of days off. Each day was getting better and better, but the pain still lingered. 

He wakes that morning to the sound of a knock at his door. Marcus looks at the time; he’s usually awake and out of the door by six, but with today being his first day off, he had decided to sleep in a little bit. It’s only eight in the morning and Marcus wonders if he just stays in bed that maybe the person knocking on his door would just leave and after a few minutes, the knocking stops. 

With a relieved sigh, Marcus sits up from bed and decides to get ready for the day. He isn’t yet sure what he has planned, but he does know that he wants to keep to himself, to minimize the amount of people he would need to talk to as much as possible. He stands from his bed and stretches his arms above his head, dressed in a white v-neck and plaid boxers. 

“Coffee,” he mumbles to himself. “First thing’s first, need coffee.” Marcus runs a hand over his hair and walks out of his bedroom to the kitchen, beginning to make a pot of coffee for himself. 

He looks around and lets out a sigh. He had imagined that his life in DC would be different, that he’d be with Lisbon, that she’d give more life into this home, but instead, he’s standing alone in a very bland and basic apartment. It has a nice view, but how nice could it be if you can’t share it with anyone else?

He walks to his patio and opens the sliding door. Marcus can hear the sounds of cars – honking and speeding – as it passes below him. He glances over to his right and Marcus can hear the chatter from his neighbor. He doesn’t remember someone living next to him, so he just assumes that it’s someone new moving in. Marcus just hopes that this new neighbor of his won’t keep him up at night. 

His mind drifts to Lisbon and Marcus wonders what she’s doing. Her green eyes and smile had captured his attention from the moment he laid eyes on her. Marcus was sure that what he had with her was real, that it would be his second chance at love after his failed marriage, and for a while, Marcus believed that his life would be different when Lisbon agreed to move in with him to DC, then agreed to marry him. 

Marcus never wanted to let her go. 

His thoughts are interrupted when the coffee pot goes off and the knocking on his door begins again. Marcus figures that the person wouldn’t leave until he answers, so he walks towards his door and opens it. His eyes soften instantly at the sight of you and he’s now become so aware of what he’s wearing. 

“Um–”

“Hi, I’m so sorry. I know it’s early and you’re probably getting ready for work, but I’m having trouble with moving my bed through the door and I just–” you take a deep breath, realizing that you must be rambling and that you’re asking a complete stranger to help you move. 

“Let me start over,” you say. “Hi. Good morning. I’m your new next door neighbor,” you laugh nervously and then tell him your name. 

The corner of Marcus’s lips lifts upwards and he nods, looking over your shoulder at the large bed that’s leaning against the wall. “Nice to meet you. I’m Marcus.” Then, he points to your bed. “You sure that’s gonna fit?” 

“A bit too late for that, I think.” You blush. “I should have just hired movers, but I thought I could do this myself.”

“You’re in luck,” he chuckles. “It’s my day off and I have no plans whatsoever, so I’m happy to give you a hand. Let me just get dressed and I’ll be right out.” 

Then, you look down at his frame and realize what he’s wearing. Your eyes slightly widen and the blush on your cheeks redden even further. “Oh right! I’m so sorry. I’ll just–” you clear your throat and point over your shoulder, turning on your heel and tripping over your feet. “See you in a bit.”

Marcus quietly chuckles to himself. He finds your clumsiness cute and he gives you one more glance before he shuts his door. He walks back into his bedroom and slips into a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Marcus walks back into his kitchen and grabs two mugs, pouring the coffee he made into each cup before he walks out of his apartment. When he looks up at you, he smiles when he sees you trying to make the bed fit into the door all by yourself. 

Eager, he thinks to himself. And independent. 

“Hey,” Marcus calls out softly. “Here, take a break.” He hands you a mug of coffee. 

You look up at him and smile, taking the mug from his hand and leaning against the wall with a sigh. “You’re amazing, thank you.” 

“So, it’s just you moving in?” Marcus asks, sipping his cup of coffee.

“Yeah. I got a new job teaching kindergarten at a nearby private school, so…” You take a careful sip of the coffee and look down at your feet. 

“Well, welcome to the club. I just moved here about six months ago.” 

“From where?” 

“Texas, you?” 

“California.” Then, you raise your mug and gently tap it with his, smiling up at him. “Cheers to us newbies here in DC.” 

Marcus chuckles. “Cheers to that.” 

You drink about half of the coffee before you set it down. You then clasp your hands together and look up at him with a hopeful look in your eyes. “You ready?” 

He smiles to himself. “That was barely a break.”

“It was five minutes, that was enough.” 

Marcus chuckles. He finds that it’s easy to talk to you and he’s beginning to enjoy being around you, even if he just met you ten minutes ago. “Alright, you’re the boss.” 

It takes you and Marcus the next half hour to bring your king-sized bed into your apartment and then into your bedroom. Your apartment is a bit smaller than his, but it might also be because of the amount of boxes scattered around. Once you and Marcus set your bed the way you want it to in your bedroom, you lead him back outside to your living room and plops down onto the couch. 

“So, uh, I should get going and–” 

“Wanna grab breakfast?” you interrupt him. “Sorry. If you have something to do, that’s okay. I appreciate all your help, Marcus.” 

Marcus wants so badly to say yes, to get to know more about you, but he has to remind himself that this is what happened last time with Lisbon. He’s sure that love and being in a relationship is no longer something he’s interested in. 

“I actually have to go into the office,” Marcus lies. “But rain check?” 

You nod and stand from the couch to walk him out of your apartment. You smile up at him and then reach down to grab the two mugs that were left in the hallway. You hand it over to him and stare into his eyes. “Next time, I’ll bring coffee to you.” 

Marcus smiles and takes the two mugs. “Sounds like a plan.” 

“Thank you again, Marcus.”

Marcus nods and then begins walking towards his apartment before he turns around and faces you. He’s a few feet away from you and you’re about to walk into your apartment before he stops you and says, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

—

next.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #marcus pike #the mentalist #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #the mentalist fanfic #marcus pike x fem!reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x reader #story: second chances

[undercoverpena]

can you ever really know?

Marcus Pike x F!Reader

summary: marcus hadn’t intended to meet someone, never mind begin seeing them.

word count: 3k warnings: smut, marcus eating you out on a table (f!recieving). dedication: this is a dual dedication, both to @perotovar who i adore and has spurned me on, and to @psychedelic-ink who whooped so hard when i said i wanted to write this, that i finished it for her 9k celebration

"Is this what we do then? Just two strangers who buy each other drinks?" Dipping his chin, he half-laughs, trying to see the scribbled name on your cup. "Well, we don't have to be strangers." "Oh, nice. Very smooth." "Too much?" Shaking your head, you turn the cup—allowing him to see your name. "No, I liked it." "Yeah?" Nodding, you begin grinning, before hiding it with a sip of your drink.

Marcus hadn’t intended to meet someone, never mind begin seeing them.

It was accidental. A chance encounter. An event that had wholly thrown him off his game as he stood in line at the coffee shop, soul prickly, from the day he was having.

On some level—the practical part of him, the one that deals in facts and statistics—he suspected it was why it was then you’d stepped into his world. Not even hovering in his peripheral, but front and centre in front of him in the queue. Your phone nervously tapping in your palm—eyes looking over your shoulder, not at him, but not through him.

You’d bought him his drink first. A pay it forward thing—or so he was told when he’d finally chosen his drink.

A gesture that stuck with him remained embedded somewhere in his head, rotting away.

Marcus never expected to see you again. The chances were slim, the odds so low it wasn’t worth thinking—but then he did. Same time, same place. 

You were in front of him again as he pulled open the heavy glass door and was confronted with the back of you he’d been trying not to think about in his downtime. This time, your attire was different, more casual—less ‘on the way to work’ and more out doing errands. But, unlike before, you kept your head down, barely even a sound over a whisper when you ordered your drink.

It etched a place in him that stuck around until the next time.

By then, he’d wrongly assumed that your timings matched his. But, when he walked into the coffee shop, his stomach fell to his feet—disappointment blooming where his organ once was because you weren’t there.

Typically ahead of him, arriving a few minutes before. 

Marcus trying to swallow back how frustrated he felt that he’d made progress, felt good, almost ready to even say a hello to you and then… you weren’t even here. His feet dragging, plastering on a smile as he walked up to the barista, shoulders sinking, until he heard the door open.

Somehow, before he even looked, he knew it was you. 

Your voice cut in over the distorted music, covering the cheap speaker and the grinding of beans as you said goodbye to whoever you spoke to on the phone. And he knew he had one chance—one.

So, Marcus bought you a coffee.

Quickly coming up with an excuse, a reason—if it went wrong, he’d say he was simply paying the kindness back. 

But you hadn’t asked him why. Instead, your reply was as bold as he wished he was.

It’s how he found himself across from you in the coffee shop, spending the remainder of that drink learning all he could—half-tempted to buy another so the two of you didn’t have to part.

Instead, he asked for the same time next week. Your smile stuck with him for the next six days and twenty-three hours until he could see you again. 

And it was better than the first.

“You going to ask me out, Marcus?”

Sipping his coffee, he licked his lips. “Thought I already did.”

Shrugging, you leaned closer. “Guess I’ll do it then. You fancy getting dinner with me?”

That’s how he found himself at a red tablecloth with a flickering candle. You sitting in a similar position as you had been in the coffee shop when you’d handed him your name on your cup, and he’d given you his with a shake of his hand—all careful, wrapped in softness, a sweet bow on the top perfectly positioned by a smile.

It going well—too well.

A part of him screaming to slow down, already feeling, already wanting—

“I need to tell you…”

Leaning over the table, you smile. “I knew it. You had to have a flaw—you don’t actually like coffee, do you?”

It happens slowly, and flows in stages: First, a smile, one which grows into a grin. Then, he laughs. Before finally, his body leans closer, fingers ghosting over, almost touching yours.

The part of him still wounded, sore, the only thing stopping him from taking your hand in his.

“No. I—I, um, have quite an unhealthy addition to that.”

Smirking, you glide your tongue across your lips, sliding your hand to your glass, eyes holding his—waiting, giving him the floor.

“I just wanted to tell you that I really like getting to know you.” Your face flickers, ever so slightly. Perfectly in time with the dancing candle, almost could be blamed on the trick of the light—but he isn’t anyone. He’s trained, all able to read people. “But, I… my last relationship didn’t end so well. And while I’m over it—over her—I... I don’t want to rush this.”

Your smile sweetens, lips rolling as you sigh, ever so softly. “I like getting to know you too, Marcus,” you reply, fingers sliding across the base of your glass—a smile, hanging so kindly on your face. “We can just… see what happens. Take it easy, like we have been.”

Beaming, he licks his lips. Slowly grinning—letting the words “see what happens” around on his tongue before he laughs. A gentle one, his hand running along his beard.

“Yeah. That’ll be… nice.”

Casual, you follow up with as his knee abuts yours under the table, watching as your chin rests on one of your hands, as the other scoops up your glass, smirking against it as you take a sip.

He felt it then, the sparkle—the crackle in the air.

His eyes could not tear themselves away from you—just like he hadn’t in the coffee shop. He was enamoured, fully taken in. Marcus hung off each word and studied each expression on your face. 

He blames that for the reason he finds himself pushing your back against your front door, the keys jingling in your hand, the evening very much far from over. His mouth on yours, searing, almost bruisingly kissing you.

It isn’t until your breath is ghosting over his, lips ever so close, his body flush with yours, that you speak, your eyes flicking from his to his lips and back again. “I thought you wanted to—”

“I’m seeing what happens…”

Your lips curl. “You sure you want to do that, Agent Pike?”

He has to swallow a moan. The way you let his name fall from your lips so velvety, makes his trousers even tighter. The hand on your waist tightens, clutching you more so, before his mouth spells all the words he wants to say against yours—kissing away any doubt that he doesn’t want this, you.

“Open the door,” he says, kissing it to your lips. “Please.” 

Thank fuck you do.

Guiding you in, walking you backwards. Hand sliding up to your cheek, wrist resting against your jaw as he traces his tongue over your bottom lip, easing you against a wall, hearing your door click shut—

“I just… I just need a minute,” you whisper. A hand on his chest, not pushing, but just there—fingers stroking his shirt, nodding. “Just one minute.”

Nodding, he gives you another kiss. Stepping back, brushing the strands of hair that had fallen from his forehead as you held up a finger, another sign of promise, just a minute, and he smiles, doing as you instruct when you tell him to get comfortable.

Your place is nice—cosy.

The windows are all tall and long, the sheer curtains barely able to put up much of a fight against the city’s lights. He suspects you chose it for the light. Something about you screams light and airy, easy and inviting—a thing which is embedded into everything you do. From the initial greeting to now.

The only light casting over your place is the one from the city—it illuminates your table, the one in the centre of the space, glass, pretty fabric chairs around it. No marks, not a single fingerprint. His mind quickly imagines you eating at it most mornings. The flirty text messages the two of you have been exchanging between the coffee date and tonight, all beginning here, until he joins you on your commute to work.

A thought, all dangerous and unwilling to go, pops up. There’s no pin able to burst it, not as it grows—it expanding, filling the expanse of his head and ridding him of all other thoughts—

“Nice table,” he announces, following the sound of you joining him.

Not needing sight to know where you are, already in tune with you—even if he’s told himself to slow down. To not fall as quickly, take his time—breathe.

“Oh, yeah? I-It’s new.”

His throat tightens, the thought pushing further against his skull—knowing if there were even a flicker from a candle, you’d be able to see how lustful his eyes were.

“How new?”

His question burns in the air. Sizzling. The air thickens. The only sound coming from a neighbour above walking around in what sounded like heels. But, all he’s focused on is that you’re beside him—shoulder against his arm, eyes forward, staring out at the view. As though you don’t get to marvel at it each day, as though you haven’t had your fill of it.

Not that he can blame you. He’s had plenty of chances to take you in—taking all he can get—and he still doesn’t feel he’s committed you all to memory.

“Barely eaten at it myself, never mind anyone else—if that answers your question.”

It does.

“We should change that.”

“Why? You hungry?” you ask, meeting his eyes—and he wonders if you can feel it then.

Wonders if you’ve caught on and can hear it rolling around his mind, banging around, nothing able to stop it.

Smirking, you must suddenly arrive at his way of thinking. Your body turns towards him, arm looping around his waist, as his hand cups your cheek.

“S’not too late to tell me to leave,” he whispers.

Your lips curl, but only smooth out into a smile. “I don’t want you anywhere else, Marcus.”

He’s quick, intent—crashing his mouth to yours so you know he feels the same. His other hand sliding around your waist, a groan emitting from your throat, travelling up and kissing his tongue.

And he can’t quiet the voice, the bubble that bounces from one side of his skull to the other. It’s why it escapes through a kiss, muffled, but not enough not to be discernible:

Get on the table, baby.

It’s branded into the air, burnt there. Hanging as your lips halt in their movements against his. Hand hovering, poised, eyes lashes opening to coat him in momentary confusion.

His lips slide into a smirk, your eyes flicking to it, before lifting back up. “Nice glass table like this,” he continues, voice low, husky, “Someone should eat at it.”

Watching as you swallow, your fingers brush against his cheek, against the beard on his cheek. “That so?”

Nodding, he presses a kiss to you. ”Yes,” he groans, nose butting yours. Briefly catching you shudder, “Think you can let me taste you on your nice table?”

Marcus takes the moan as a yes—takes the way you try to position yourself, as another.

His fingers move to your trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping with ease until they’re gliding down your legs, unveiling them inch by inch to him—lit up in the glow from the world outside. Sliding the fabric from your skin with ease, before he helps you, guiding you, positioning you like he would if he were making a table arrangement.

Your legs close, eyes looking at him through your lashes. 

Cupping your cheeks with his palms, he pulls your eyes to his.  “You okay?”

Nodding, rolling your lips. “Yeah… just like you, is all.” 

Fuck, you’re pretty. Beautiful. Stunning. More so when he aids you in removing your other clothes, leaving only the fabric between your thighs while he stares at you. Takes you in because—

You’re a wonder. A sight for sore eyes and an image that should be studied in a gallery. He’d thieve you, would abandon all of his morals and prize you from a wall, let your captured eyes solder holes into him forever.

But he doesn’t need to.

You’re already doing so without him having to do much. They leave a mark, scratching against him.

“I like you too. S’ why I wanna make you feel good, baby. Okay?” 

A hand drops, sliding over the fabric between your legs. Feeling it, how much you want this. Him. Tonight. He even hears it as you whimper before he teases your underwear down your legs—the little wet patch quickly caught by his gaze, before he throws them in a similar vein to your other clothes.

“Wanna taste you, baby. Want you to come against my tongue. Will you? Can I?”

His hand continues to clutch your cheek, thumbs swiping a line back and forth as his words register and your breath hitches. But your thighs part, all for him. One hand drops to your leg, fingers drawing shapes, teasing, climbing higher and higher until his other hand mirrors his on your other leg, basking in the way you stare at him, holding onto his sight with every teasing touch.

Not begging. Not asking.

Waiting, ever so patiently.

Perfect. Oh, so fucking perfect.

Sliding around the back of your thighs, his fingers dig, pressing little half-moons into the underside of you, as he parts your legs further—eyes dropping, marvelling, ever thankful for the glow so he can see the way you glisten, the way you need and want him, it all evidenced, able to be captured.

“So wet for me already.”

“Marcus,” you moan.

His name elongated, special. It hits the air—and his ears—in a way that licks heat up his spine. The flames smother his bones when he spreads you with a finger, it circling, coating up to the knuckle in your desire.

Then, he dives.

All tongue flat to your core as the sound of ‘oh fuck’ punches the air. A sound he wants to collect, and earn—licking a stripe before he spells letters against your bundle of nerves, sucking and flicking the tip as your nails grasp his hair.

You make sounds that make him feel holy, that could bring him to his goddamn knees. He wants to pull them all from you, more so when his name begins to join them—when you’re panting, pleading, please, Marcus, fuck right there, Marcus.

He grins against you, tasting and flicking his tongue over the bundle of nerves that has your hips arching into his face. But Marcus continues, placing a hand on your stomach, pinning you down, giving and giving—

Then he pauses. Purposefully stops, just blowing a cool breath to earn a whimper.

Your eyes steam him. Narrowed, eyebrows dropped to shape them. Your breath ragged, body thrumming, vibrating with how close you were.

Shooting you another grin, he plunges his tongue inside you—relishing how your walls tighten around him. Enjoying the way you taste, the way your fingers have found a home in his hair, tugging and pulling, nails all against his scalp.

The air is smeared in gasps, moans. A chorus of his name. All of it falling into the air around him and you, becoming a song, all instrumental, rising to a crest, ready to crash.

Fuck, he wants nothing more. Marcus wants to be travelling home and still be able to taste how sweet you are, to hear the noises you make because they’re sliced somewhere in his brain.

“You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna make sure I can taste you when I’m in bed alone tonight.”

You whimper.

His tongue continues to lap, to take everything you’ll give him as he slides two fingers in. Your walls tightening, gripping him—all vice-like and needy. And Marcus is pleading, if only internally, for you to scorch him, singe and sear yourself into him.

“S-so close, M-Marcus—”

He knows. “I know. Let go for me. Be good for me.”

And you do.

You really fucking do.

He feels you tighten, and tense, before his tongue is flooded, your legs shake, and your toes curl. His movements continue, brutally guiding you over the edge, pushing and pushing until he feels you loosen your hold on his hair—trying to wiggle from his mouth.

Marcus isn’t sure he’s ever felt so good.

Positioning himself so he’s stood at full height, staring down at you, trying to capture your breath—lit up by the star-filled sky and sparkling city. You’re beautiful, he thinks for the billionth time tonight.

“You’re everything,” he whispers, watching your eyes open, landing on him, taking him in.

Your lips spread into a lust-filled smile, tinged with exhaustion, but there’s a spark there, too. Something having been awoken, ready, riling itself up.

He suspects he won’t be going home tonight, not that he really wanted to.

"Not to rush you, but we'll be late for the movie." Your lips press to his cheek when he steps into your space, apology stitched there—usually so punctual, on time. "I just need to grab a jacket if that's okay?" He grins, bites the inside of his cheek as he nods, hearing you dart off—taking the few short steps further into your place, spotting the table, walking to it. Immediately, memories knock into him. Loitering, pacing. Until his eyes land on the fingerprints, his thumb ghosting over it—finding it the perfect match. All knowing, and realising. It makes his throat dry as heat licks up his spine as you emerge, fiddling with your jacket. "You're... um, not cleaned your table." "I've cleaned up where you... you know, but not your handprints. No." He huffs out a laugh, tracing his bottom lip with his thumb. "Why's that?" You smirk, bashfully, trying to disguise it by biting the inside of your cheek. "Guess I like the memory of you being here." "And, what I did to you." "Very astute, Agent Pike. You wanna head out or do you wanna see if my pillow still smells like your hair product?" He slaps you on the ass for that.

AN: first time writing marcus. this was supposed to be 1k, the original was 6k. but i felt happier with this 🙈 pls be nice.

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x female reader #marcus pike x reader smut #marcus pike x you #pedro pascal characters x reader #pedrostories #the mentalist fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #marcus pike smut

[dancingtotuyo]

Sage (Marcus Pike Drabble)

Rating: PG

Summary: You and Marcus can't agree on anything.

Tags/Warnings: fluff, mentions of alcohol

Notes: The challenge: write a drabble in 30ish minutes with the assigned Pedro boy for the prompt "finally, something we can agree on." Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the lovely dividers! No beta we die like my soul working 40+ hours a week.

Words: 452

Author Master List | Marcus Pike Master List | Daily Clicks for Palestine

“We should go out sometime,” Marcus says, a charming smile painted on his face as he leans against your desk.

You move your eyes up toward him and then pull them back to the case file in front of you. “No.”

“It’ll be fun. I know this great Mexican place just around the corner-”

“I don’t date coworkers, Marcus.” You look through the case file like it’s the most riveting piece of literature you’ve ever read. 

“Oh, Bob was gonna come too.” He points to the desk right behind you. 

You spin around and Bob waves at you with a smile. Marcus returns the gesture to your coworker. “See you at 7? I’ll text you the address.”

He’s gone before you can protest.

You laugh at something Marcus says as you finish off your margarita. Bob left an hour ago, but you and Marcus haven’t moved. They kick you out at closing. 

“Wanna come to mine? It’s just around the corner.”

“I told you I don’t-”

“Who said anything about a date?” 

“You told your mom about me?” 

“No.” Marcus scratches the back of his neck. 

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Not intentionally,” He says weakly. “She really wants to meet you.”

“No,” You say as Marcus’s doorbell rings. 

“You want Pizza or Chicken for dinner?”

“Pasta.” You bite back a smile.

Marcus looks at you with a half-annoyed look. 

“I love you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“You just think you do. I have that effect on people.”

“You’re just being difficult. 

Marcus burrows his head into the crook of your neck, leaving soft kisses on your skin. Your legs stretch out under the covers as you blink away the sleep haze. 

“Good morning.” His voice is soft and husky. 

“Good morning.” You smile.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Never a good thing.”

“Why don’t you move in with me?”

“I like having my own space.”

“You can have the spare bedroom.”

“Beige or charcoal?” Marcus asks.

“Sage.”

“That wasn’t an option.”

“It’s a better one.”

“Silver or gold?’

“You should know the answer to that.”

“Humor me.”

“Figure it out, Mr. FBI.”

“Marry me?” He’s on his knee in front of you, a diamond ring set in the correct metal in a velvet box. 

You’re wide-eyed, not expecting it tonight. He’s looking at you with nothing but big heart eyes and a hopeful smile. It makes your heart melt. This is your man. He’s all yours. Your Marcus.

“Yes,” It falls from your lips as you meet him on the ground, pressing your lips to his. He laughs, arms wrapping around your waist 

“Had me worried you were gonna fight me on this too,” he teases. 

“Shut up.” 

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #marcus pike fanfiction #pedro pascal #ppcu fanfiction #pedro stories #pedrostories #drabble

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Spring Fling

(gif by @pedropascalsx. I've given up using Tumblr gif search)

Pairing: Marcus Pike x virgin f!Reader

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 19,228. Oops.

Warnings: Significant age gap (almost 20 years), college-age reader, sexual tension, mentions of: strained familial relationships, divorce, unhealthy breakups, stalker(ish) behavior (PAST), therapy. Virgin/inexperienced reader, fingering, oral sex (f! receiving), unprotected PIV sex and a lot of it, comeplay if you squint, Marcus’s filthy filthy mouth, happy ending

Summary: When you and your friend, fellow pre-Law student Emma, plan to go to Washington DC for spring break instead of the typical beach destination, she makes plans for the two of you to stay with her estranged father for the week to save money on lodging. You never expected Emma’s father, a man she says she’s barely seen throughout the years, to be so sweet, so troubled, and so unfairly pretty. Neither did you expect for what you'd thought was a one-sided attraction to turn into a spring fling... or maybe something more.

A/N: I got an ask asking about 'Best Friend's Dad' Marcus Pike, so I now post a question to you, dear reader: What if Marcus Pike had a college-age kid from his first marriage, one that he'd entered into at a very young age because of an unplanned pregnancy? Anyway to find out the answer read this almost 20k fic LOL

Masterlist

"We should go somewhere for spring break."

Your friend and fellow pre-Law student at the University of Texas, Emma, laughs. "Go somewhere? Like what, the fucking beach? And with what money?"

"No, no beaches. Somewhere cool. Somewhere unusual."

"Like what?" Emma asks, shoving another handful of chips in her mouth.

"I've never been to Washington, DC," you comment thoughtfully.

"I thought every public school in the entire country went to DC at some point," Emma remarks. 

"I had the chickenpox."

"Ew."

"Do you think that would be fun? Going to the Capitol for break?" you ask.

"I guess," Emma shrugs. "It's better than going to writhe on the beach with fifty thousand wasted twentysomethings."

"There's still the issue of how to pay for a trip. For any trip. I think I could cover airfare, but a DC hotel? Ugh," you say with a groan. 

"I could put the hotel on my credit card and work a bunch of extra shifts at Pizza Express afterward to make up for it," Emma says. "But that would pretty much max out my card."

"I can look up the cheapest spots outside the city," you suggest. "And we can take the metro in."

"Outside the city isn't going to be much better," Emma remarks. "We could… nah."

You look up, curious. "We could… what?"

"Well, my uh, my dad actually lives in DC."

"Your dad?" you repeat incredulously. "You've literally never mentioned your dad. I thought he and your mom were estranged?"

"Sorta," Emma says. "The official story is that they married too young and eventually separated."

"...And the unofficial story?"

"My mom found out she was pregnant at nineteen, and my dad wanted to do the right thing, so he married her. But I guess they weren't right for each other, because they were already divorced by the time I was two."

"Do you see him much?" you ask.

"I used to," Emma says quietly. "But my mom was never really enthusiastic about spending much time together, so it wasn’t very often. And then he moved to DC when I was a junior in high school, and I haven't seen him since. He always sends me cards on my birthday and Christmas, though. And…" she suddenly blushes, looking down and away.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What, Em?"

"He pays for my tuition."

"What?!"

"Yeah, I've barely had to take out any loans. It's just for housing and stuff."

"You ass, you never told me that!"

"It's not common knowledge," Emma mumbles. "Besides, no one wants to admit they've got an absent, divorced father paying the bills."

"But you'd want to contact him for this? For a place to crash over spring break for a week?"

"He's nice," Emma says quietly. "I always got the feeling that he wanted to do his best by us."

"I mean, if you're cool with it, it kinda sounds fun," you admit. "Better than Galveston, anyway."

Emma laughs. "Yeah, way better than Galveston."

"Holy shit, Em, you can see the Capitol from here." 

The two of you had emerged from the underground tunnel of the metro station, trailing suitcases behind you, into what feels like the middle of the city itself. The busy street is flanked with large condominiums on both sides, with--unbelievably--a view of the Capitol building in the distance.

"I think it's this one," Emma says, squinting at the address on her phone and back up at one of the buildings. 

"How do we get in?" you ask. 

"He just said to text him," Emma answers. "Hang on." She taps out a message on her phone before sliding it back into her pocket. "And now we wait."

You barely have time to check your email before the front door opens and a man emerges, striding quickly toward the two of you. You think he's about to envelop your friend into a crushing hug, but he stops short, eyes wavering with uncertainty as he looks his daughter up and down. His hand reaches toward her arm, but he hesitates just short of touching.

"Emma," the man breathes, the emotion evident in his voice making you want to duck your head and turn away from the scene. 

"Hey, uh, Dad," Emma says, giving him a sheepish smile. "Been a while."

"It's been six years," the man says emphatically. 

"Yeah."

You watch as Emma's father's fingers twitch toward her. "C-Can I–" 

Emma shrugs. "'Course."

The man carefully steps forward and wraps his arms around her, pulling her to his chest. His eyes close, his eyebrows pull upward to reveal a deep crease in between them as he holds his daughter for apparently the first time in six years. This time, you do look away from what feels like surprisingly tender and private moment. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for your graduation," you hear him say softly. "I was undercover for a case, and… Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm sorry. You don't know how badly I wanted to be there."

"S'okay," Emma says cooly. She steps back, and, for the first time, her father seems to notice you. 

"Hi," he says brightly, and his pained, heartfelt expression melts into an easy smile as he extends his hand to you. "Marcus." 

You don't know what you had been expecting. Maybe someone older. Maybe someone less… attractive. Not this frankly gorgeous man, with his boyish smile, pretty eyes that crinkle around the edges, slightly mussed brown hair that falls over his forehead, and the light smattering of facial hair that only seems to soften his features further. Not that he needed any help, in that respect. Slightly stunned, you step forward and take the man’s hand, trying not to trip over the syllables of your own name.

Marcus’s smile widens, and he repeats your name, which does nothing to quell the sudden burst of butterflies in your stomach–and are your palms sweating?

"Thank you for allowing us to stay for the week," you say politely, forcing yourself out of the trance.

"Not a problem," Marcus answers. "What a great destination for spring break! Whose idea was that?"

"Mine," you say with a little laugh. 

"My kind of girl," Marcus jokes. "Keeping my daughter out of trouble."

"Dad," Emma groans. "I'm not a kid."

"Well, last time I saw you, you were fifteen," Marcus says pointedly. "You're gonna have to let my brain do a little catch-up, here."

"Well, to start with, I'm not a beach party kind of person," Emma says. "I'm a nerd–y'know, being pre-Law and all."

Emma's father beams. "So I've heard. Well, I'm happy to host two nerds while they do a little sightseeing in the nation's Capitol. I can even," he adds with a conspiratorial smile, "give you a tour of the J. Edgar Hoover building. If–If you want," he finishes awkwardly, appearing hesitant and unsure again.

"Oh, cool!" you exclaim automatically, without thinking.

Marcus grins widely at your enthusiasm, and you find yourself staring at your shoes, biting your lip as you flounder under his attention. You're being weird. Stop it. 

"Y-Yeah," Emma adds, nodding hesitantly. "That would be nice... Dad. Thanks."

“C’mon,” Marcus says, grabbing both Emma’s bag and, before you can protest, yours. “Come on up. I ordered some pizza for everyone. You can get settled tonight and… go do whatever you two want to do in the morning.”

The two of you follow Marcus through the lobby and into the elevator. You can’t help but keep stealing little glances at him–the way his shoulders fill out the maroon henley he’s wearing over jeans, the way those shoulders taper down to narrow hips, the way he’s got the top two buttons of his shirt casually undone, showing you a hint of collarbone that has you damn-near salivating. Snap out of it. Oh, God, snap out of it. You’ve known the man for five minutes, and you feel like you’re losing your mind. It’s gonna be a long week if you don’t pull it together. 

Marcus opens the front door and gestures the two of you in before him. You stand awkwardly in the living room, looking around at the furniture and at the decor on the walls, looking anywhere but at your best friend’s dad, whose very presence seems to fluster you beyond all reason.

“I just have one spare room, hopefully you two don’t mind sharing…?” Marcus asks.

“That’s fine,” Emma says good-naturedly. 

“It’s just through here,” he says, walking past you. “I’ll set your bags down in there and show you around.”

The room is clearly his workspace–there’s a desk and a chair shoved into a corner to make room for a comfortable-looking guest bed. The side wall is covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and you subconsciously step toward them, eager to see what titles this man keeps on his shelves.

“Sorry, it’s kind of an… all-purpose room,” Marcus says sheepishly. “Bit cluttered.”

“I like it,” you murmur absentmindedly, still scanning the spines.

“‘Gardner’s Art Through the Ages’” Emma reads, crinkling her nose. “How many editions of this book do you have?”

Her father laughs. “It’s work stuff, mostly. Although there’s a few thrillers here and there. And some classics.” He approaches the shelves as well, and you can feel the hair on the back of your neck start to stand up on end at the sensation of his body hovering just behind you. You’re so… aware of him. You don’t know if it’s because Marcus seems to naturally command every space he’s in or if there’s something electric that’s pulling you toward him, but either way, your entire body feels as though it’s on high alert.

A sharp buzzing makes you jump comically, making Emma snort.

“That’ll be the pizza,” Marcus announces. “Be right back.”

You glance over at Emma, who is still staring disinterestedly at the bookshelves. “It’s a nice place,” you say conversationally. 

“Mmmhm.”

“You okay?” you ask softly.

“Oh, yeah,” Emma scoffs, waving her hand. “Just been a while. It’s weird. You know.”

“He seems nice,” you say.

“He is,” she remarks. “I told you he was. I just… don’t know him very well. Like he said, I haven’t seen him in six years.”

“Maybe this will be good, then,” you suggest. “Get to know him now that you’re an adult and all that.”

Emma shrugs. “Maybe.”

You look back at the shelves. Emma was right; Marcus does have an alarmingly large number of editions of Art Through the Ages. You furrow your brow.

“What does your dad do in DC?”

“Oh, did I not tell you? He’s in the FBI.”

You feel as though you’ve swallowed your tongue, but before you can garble out a response–something like, “Mmmgnnbbllgffnhh?”–you hear Marcus coming back.

“Get it while it’s hot!” he says cheerfully. “You guys must be hungry after traveling all day.”

“Oh wow, Dad, that’s… a lot of pizza for three people,” Emma says, her eyebrows raising in surprise and confusion.

She’s right–there are five boxes sitting on the small kitchen island, along with several options of drink.

“I had no idea what either of you liked,” Marcus reasoned. “So I got a few different options. Cheese, pepperoni, supreme, hawaiian, and some kind of vegan thing, just in case.”

“You know, you could have just texted,” Emma remarks, at the same time that you whisper, “Thank you.”

Marcus looks sheepish. “Wanted to surprise you. Anyway, dig in–there’s obviously a lot.” He laughs quietly to himself, grabbing three plates and setting them down on the counter. You grab three different kinds–supreme, hawaiian, and the vegan option, out of curiosity–and sit on one of the barstools opposite Marcus. Emma grabs two cheeses and sits down next to you.

“So,” he says after a few minutes of surprisingly companionable silence. “I know Emma is pre-Law. Are you pre-Law too?” he asks, looking at you with a friendly, curious smile. 

“Mmmhmm,” you nod, tight-lipped. You hate this conversation–the college-age version of ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ Everyone asks the question with good intent, but it always leaves you in an anxiety spiral, an existential crisis, because no matter how many times you’re asked, you have absofuckinglutely no idea. 

“What kind of law do you want to go into?” This question is addressed more to Emma, who immediately launches into an explanation of Environmental Law and the impact of climate change on public health. Marcus nods eagerly, giving Emma his full attention as she talks, watching her with a small smile. 

“What about you?” he asks when she’s done, turning to you.

You gulp. 

“I don’t—I don’t really know. Not yet, anyways.” You brace yourself for the judgmental eyebrow raise, the well-meaning advice.

“That’s okay,” Marcus says, smiling. “No one says you have to have it figured out at… how old are you?”

“T-Twenty,” you mumble, feeling more naive and inexperienced than you ever have before.

“Nah,” Marcus says, shaking his head playfully. “No one has it figured out at twenty. And the people who think they do? They change.”

His eyes go far away for a split-second, and you wonder what he must have been like at twenty. Did he already have Emma at that point? Did he just find out that his girlfriend was pregnant? Was he panicking, trying to figure out how to make things work? You wonder what it was that he had wanted to do, and what he had sacrificed for Emma and her mom. You wonder if he had wanted the divorce, or if she had been the one to suggest it.

“Anyway,” Marcus says, casually waving a slice of pepperoni as he talks, “I mostly work with criminal lawyers. If that’s something you’re interested in, I could arrange a chat with someone this week.”

“Oh,” you say, too stunned to say anything else. “Yeah, maybe.”

Marcus shrugs good-naturedly. “Think about it,” he says, giving you another crooked grin. His eyes crinkle around the edges when he smiles, and it makes your stomach do somersaults. 

“Yeah,” you say again, a little breathlessly. Your next bite of pizza misses your mouth entirely, and you manage to stab yourself in the cheek with your slice, transferring a glob of tomato sauce onto your face in the process.

Emma laughs, and Marcus’s eyes glitter with amusement as you frantically reach for a napkin. 

“So you do, um… FBI stuff?” you ask him clumsily, trying to break the silence.

“Yep. FBI Stuff. Says it on my badge and everything.”

“Why do you have a bunch of art books?”

“I lead an international task force dealing with art crimes,” he answers patiently. 

“What constitutes an art crime?” Emma asks, her mouth full.

“Theft,” Marcus lists, “forgeries, black market sales, dealing in antiquities, looting of archaeological sites…”

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, a dopey smile on your face. Emma shoots you a funny look.

“So it’s like, nerdy FBI stuff,” she says.

“The nerdiest,” Marcus agrees, smiling.

“Do you still have a gun and stuff?”

“I do,” Marcus says carefully, frowning slightly. “It’s in the safe for the week, though, while you’re here.”

Your stomach flip-flops at the mental image of Emma’s dad holding a gun, those warm brown eyes dark with focus as he stares down… an art thief. Or something. 

“Enough about your old man,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “What are you two looking to do tomorrow on your first day in DC?”

“Think we’ll hit the museums,” Emma says. “Get them out of the way first. We want to see the Library of Congress, obviously. Plus walking around to all the monuments and stuff. Oh, and the zoo!”

“Do you want my advice?” Marcus asks, and you both nod. “It’s supposed to be unseasonably warm tomorrow, and sunny. I’d do the monument tour or the zoo tomorrow if I were you. Save the indoor stuff for the end of the week, because it’s supposed to rain.”

“Monuments it is!” Emma exclaims. “Hey, can I… can I use your shower? I feel kinda gross from the travel day.”

“Absolutely.” Marcus hops up, leading Emma over to the guest bathroom. You listen as he points out a stack of towels intended for the two of you during your stay, the extra shampoo he’d bought, the spare toothbrushes just in case… Eventually he returns, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking hesitant again.

“Thank you,” you say again. “You went through a lot of trouble, and–”

“It’s no trouble,” Marcus says quickly. “No trouble at all. I–I have to admit I was surprised when Em–when she called, but I’m–I’m more than happy to host you two for the week. It’s no trouble at all,” he repeats.

“Okay,” you say dumbly. You’re staring again, unable to help the way your eyes are drawn to the way his arms fill out the shirt he's wearing when his hands are in his pockets like that. 

"You alright?" 

Your eyes flit up to his at the question. He's looking back at you, his head cocked to the side as he watches you. And suddenly, you can just tell–you can tell that he knows how flustered you are in front of him. 

You nod rapidly up and down in response, not trusting yourself to answer.  

"Good. Had enough pizza?"

"Mmhmm."

"Anything else to drink?" he asks. 

"Got any beer?" you ask with a quirk of your eyebrow.

"You told me you were twenty," Marcus reminds you. 

"Oh."

"And I work for law enforcement," he says gravely. 

Oh. 

"Oh, f-fuck, I um… I was kidding. Holy shit. I'm sorry. Seriously, I'm not a-a bad… student, or anything. I swear, I–"

As you continue to frantically backtrack, you realize that Marcus’s shoulders are shaking with laughter. 

"Oh, you're funny. Real funny. Ha. Ha."

"Next you'll be saying I should quit my day job," he says, his eyes sparkling. 

"I'm not sure what kind of art… crime… solver… you are, but I have to believe you're a better agent than you are a comedian," you deadpan. 

"You can come to my stand-up show on Tuesday and see for yourself."

Your jaw drops before you realize Marcus's lips are quivering with the effort of keeping a straight face. 

"You're on fire, tonight," you say, rolling your eyes. 

"You'll have to forgive me," he says, a gentle, more wistful smile gracing his lips. "I don't have company often, and it's been even longer since I've seen–" his eyes flick to the bathroom door, and he looks troubled for a moment. 

"Strictly off the record, if you do want a beer, I happen to have some," he says, changing the subject and smiling back at you again. 

"Nah, I'll save that favor for later in the week," you tell him.

"Noted," Marcus replies. He's looking at you again, still. He seems to be one of those people who gives all of his focus to someone when they speak, and the attention is starting to overwhelm you. 

"Hey!" Emma calls from the guest bedroom. "I wanna get started early tomorrow. Those monuments aren't gonna monument themselves."

You laugh and roll your eyes. "That's my cue," you say with a little smile. "Gonna grab a shower myself and call it a night."

"If you need anything, I'm a room away," Marcus says, but it only serves to remind you that this man will be sleeping in the next room.

"Got it," you say, nodding thickly. "Um, good night."

"Good night," he answers softly. 

When you reach the bathroom door, you turn around again–you can't help yourself. 

He's still looking at you. 

"Get up!

"Get up!"

"GET–"

"Okay!" you whine, throwing an extra pillow in the general direction of Emma's voice. "Fuck. I'm up."

You throw on a pair of jeans and a faded tee, scrubbing your hands over your face as you stumble out of the guest room and into the kitchen, where Marcus hands you a cup of coffee, which you accept with a grunt.

"Emma warned me that you weren't a morning person," he says. 

"God, it's both of you, isn't it?" you grumble. "Morning people."

"I guess we turned out alike after all," Marcus says with a soft smile, watching as you take a grateful sip from the mug. "What's the first stop on the list?"

"I dunno, she's got it all planned out," you murmur. "Of like, seeing the farthest place first and working our way back."

"Sounds like a plan," Marcus says. "You two have fun."

"What are you doing today?" Emma interjects, coming into the kitchen, grabbing a bagel off of the counter, and stuffing it into her mouth. 

"Well, it's Sunday, so… grocery shopping," Marcus says. "Any special requests?"

"Filet mignon," Emma says. 

"You got it. Want some lobster tails as well?"

"Mmhmm."

"I was thinking more along the lines of spaghetti and meatballs. Anything else you ladies would like?"

Emma shuffles her feet, and you frown slightly. You've never known her not to immediately say what's on her mind–and clearly, something is. 

"What is it, Emmie?" Marcus asks softly.

"Do you remember that one time that we came to your family's for Christmas–I think I was maybe twelve?–and you made…"

"...Tamales?" Marcus asks, his eyebrows shooting upward. 

"Yeah," Emma answers, her voice smaller than you've ever heard it. "I still remember those. They were really good."

"Jesus, I haven't made those in…" he shakes his head. "I don't even know. But uh, sure. We can do that. Tamale night. It's a deal."

"Thanks," Emma says, smiling. "And… really? 'Emmie?' Dad, I'm not seven anymore."

"My mistake," Marcus says with a playful wink in your direction–which might make your heart stop. "You girls stay safe. Text if you need anything."

Marcus was right–the weather is beautiful today. It’s perfect for walking endlessly from monument to monument, which you do all morning. You try to stay focused–thoughtfully reading the names on the Vietnam War Memorial and not thinking about Emma’s dad, in the plain white t-shirt he had been wearing this morning, in the produce section picking out apples. Even worse, you try not to imagine the sight of him cooking tonight.

He’s becoming a bit of an obsession for you, you can admit it. You want to know everything about him–what his job is like, what he does on the weekends, what he likes to read, what he did in the past to alienate the mother of his child enough that he’s barely seen his daughter–who he very clearly cares deeply for…

As you walk around the Washington Monument, you can’t stand it any longer. 

“Sooooo. It seems like things are going well between you and your dad,” you say conversationally.

“How do you mean?” 

“Less awkward, I guess.”

“It’s not that we don’t get along,” Emma says with a shrug. “We always used to. Like I said, I always thought he was nice. My mom…” 

“She didn’t like him?”

“She didn’t want to be around him. I don’t know why. They tried to protect me from the messy parts of divorce, but part of that means that I have no idea what their history is. She never talked about it. Neither did he.”

“Huh.” You stare in silence at the large white obelisk. “I wonder what happened.”

“I thought about asking my mom,” Emma says. “Lots of times, but I never got up the courage.”

“You should ask him,” you say quietly. “I get the feeling he needs to tell the story.”

Emma gives you a funny look. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

You shrug. “I’m weird.”

“Fair.”

The two of you walk until it feels as though your feet are going to fall off. 

“My feet are going to fall off,” you announce. “Surely there are no more monuments in the entirety of Washington, DC.”

“We’ve still got the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”

“Uggghhhh, how important can he be? He’s unknown.”

“This was your idea,” Emma points out. “Go to DC for spring break! Stay with my best friend’s estranged dad! Walk around and see all the monuments and shit!”

“Too many steps,” you groan. “They should all be concentrated in one square mile of land.”

“One more,” Emma promises. “And then spaghetti.”

“And laying on the couch watching TV,” you counter.

“And laying on the couch watching TV,” Emma agrees. “...And tomorrow we go to the zoo.”

“No!”

Marcus chuckles as you stumble into his condo just after six. You immediately collapse onto the couch with an exaggerated groan.

“I’m staying right here for the rest of the week,” you announce.

“It’s been one day,” Marcus points out. 

“My phone’s step counter measures over thirty thousand steps,” you mumble. “I’m done.”

“That’s a lot,” Marcus concedes. “Hopefully that means the two of you are hungry this evening.”

“Fucking starving,” Emma agrees, crashing onto the couch herself and nearly colliding with you as she does so. 

“Well, since everyone is so tired,” Marcus says, the playfulness evident in his voice, “I’ll make spaghetti and meatballs tonight. Tamales are a group effort, so you two better be ready to work for your food.”

“I shall endeavor to do so,” Emma remarks with an exaggerated accent, causing you to laugh giddily. 

While Emma’s eyes are closed, you take advantage, watching Marcus–still with that same fitted white shirt–in the kitchen, boiling water, heating the sauce, and adding the meatballs. He must sense your gaze, because he turns, a characteristic crooked smile on his lips as he acknowledges you. 

“I know they’re frozen,” he admits, speaking of the meatballs, “but they always taste the same to me anyway.”

“I can’t wait,” you say, truthfully. “It’s been a long day.”

As if to demonstrate the fact, a loud snore emanates from the body next to you, making you grin.

“I’m glad you guys came,” Marcus says softly. “I don’t often have the opportunity to cook for… more than one.”

“No girlfriend?” you ask conversationally. 

Marcus laughs. “I’m… in between things, I suppose.”

“In between,” you parrot with a laugh. “How long have you been ‘in between?’”

He huffs. “Too long,” he murmurs. 

“How come?” you ask quietly.

Marcus frowns, thinking. “I dunno. No one recently has been… exactly what I’m looking for.”

“And what are you looking for?” you ask breathlessly.

“Spaghetti,” Emma mumbles from the couch.

“Spaghetti,” Marcus repeats, giving me a slightly melancholy smile. “Exactly. Come and get it, you two.”

Emma stirs, stumbling into the kitchen where two giant bowls of spaghetti and meatballs are awaiting the two of you.

“Holy shit,” she remarks. “Thanks for this.”

“Of course,” Marcus says. “I would never agree for you to stay and then not…” he trails off, unsure of himself.

You’re starting to realize that the bulk of Marcus’s most emotional statements go unsaid. I would ever agree for you to stay and then not take care of you, is what he hadn’t said. 

“Still doing the zoo tomorrow?” he asks, changing the subject, as always.

“Yup,” Emma answers.

He huffs, smiling wistfully. “Been ages since I’ve been to a zoo.”

“D’you wanna go?” you ask, before you can determine that it’s a bad idea.

Marcus looks at you, indecisive for a few seconds before he seemingly comes to his senses. “Nah,” he says, grinning. “You two have fun.”

“Are you sure?” Emma asks. “Apparently there’s a new panda baby.”

“That’s a hard bargain,” he admits.

“You should come with,” Emma decides. “It could be fun.”

“All right,” Marcus agrees hesitantly.

“It’s Monday,” you point out. “Don’t you have to work?”

“I’ll call off,” he answers quickly. “Not everyday one’s daughter is in town for an impromptu zoo trip.”

“Look at the little lad,” Emma gushes. 

“The what?” Marcus asks. 

The three of you are staring at the panda enclosure, watching the newest addition to the zoo cause chaos.

“The chonky boi,” you agree.

“I have no idea what you two are saying,” Marcus admits. 

“The baby panda is cute,” Emma offers. 

“That I can agree on,” he decides.

The three of you, you’ve decided, make a good team. You try not to think about how your heart burns whenever Marcus looks at you, how your stomach does flips whenever he laughs. If you’re going to be a good friend to Emma–and you are–you’re going to have to put this silly crush aside and accept the fact that he’s a package deal with your best friend. 

That doesn’t stop the way the man looks at you, though. 

You think you’re imagining it, at first. After all, Marcus seems to be the type of person who focuses completely on whatever anyone has to say. The more you’re with him, though, it’s hard to deny that he seems to look at you just a tiny bit longer.

You start to notice it all day–when you’re looking at the exhibits, Marcus is looking at you. 

He’s watching your reaction to them–smiling when you smile, laughing when you laugh. You can’t parse out the meaning behind his actions–does it mean something? If so, what? What does it mean? 

You can’t admit the truth to yourself until you’re in the insect house. Emma is giddy with interest, and you… are trying. 

“Are you okay?” Marcus asks softly in your ear–and you try not to shiver.

“Great,” you squeak. “Just don’t love the bird-eating spider.”

“I don’t like them either,” he confesses with a smile. “Do you need to leave?”

“Idunno,” you mumble, slurring the words together. 

“Emmie,” Marcus announces, “we’re going to take a little break, okay?”

“Mmm.” 

You and Marcus escape into the bright sunshine, and you let out an awkward laugh. “I can���t believe they have some of them loose in there–without glass or anything!”

“I’m not going back in that building,” Marcus agrees, laughing with you. “The giant orb weaver was the last straw.”

“That was awful,” you say, nodding.

“Come to think of it, I might be more of a baby panda guy, myself.”

“I’ll take the snakes over this,” you agree.

You sit down on a nearby bench, still giggling together as you wait for Emma.

“Is it weird if I say I’m glad you came?” you ask quietly.

“I’m glad I came, too,” Marcus says beside you.

“I think–” you begin, but Emma emerges from the insect house, grinning ear to ear.

“You think… what?” Marcus asks, but you shake your head and shrug.

“I dunno,” you mumble. “I just… think.”

“Hey, wimps,” Emma shouts. “They let me touch the tarantula.”

Marcus takes the two of you out to dinner at a casual burger spot near his place. While the tension between him and Emma has lessened significantly since the first day, it feels as though it’s been replaced by a thick cloud of tension between the two of you. 

There’s something about the man that speaks to you, something within him that seems to vibrate on the same frequency as something within you. Twin souls, you’d say, if you were in a mind to be romantic, except… it can’t be. He must be nearly forty–and almost twice your age. There’s nothing you have that he would want–nothing you could offer a man who has his entire life together while yours has barely started.

Still, the way Marcus laughs at your jokes and gives you knowing glances–as if the two of you are sharing some type of inside joke that you’ve had for years–keeps you flustered and breathless throughout most of the evening.

The glass of wine he offers when you arrive home doesn’t help, either. You watch the red liquid swirl in your glass and wonder how it would taste from his lips, instead. And, when you’ve reached the bottom of your glass, the fuzzy-headed feeling you get from the alcohol combined with the way your stomach swoops in its place every time Marcus’s eyes meet yours has you feeling dizzy and enraptured in equal parts. 

When he locks eyes with you over the rim of his own glass as he drains the last sip, you freeze, afraid that you’d been caught out–that he can read every dumbstruck expression on your face and knows exactly what he does to you.

But all he does is shoot you a little smile, announce that he’s going to bed– “Back to work for me, tomorrow”–and leaves you in the living room alone with Emma, trying not to look as though you’re checking out her dad’s butt as he leaves the room. 

The next day, you and Emma spend most of the day at the Library of Congress while Marcus is at work. As a result, neither of you are too tired to help when Marcus suggests making the tamales tonight. 

“I’m going to preface this by saying I’m not very good at making these,” he says with a laugh as he struggles with the dough. “My grandma only made these on special occasions, and I’ve done it myself approximately two times without her.”

“Well, the good news is that I’ve got no frame of reference,” you tell him. “So as long as they’re edible, they’ll be the best tamales I’ve ever had.”

Marcus chuckles and ducks his head; you can see the pink tinge on the tips of his ears as he continues to stir the mixture.

“Emmie, do you want to do the dough or the filling?” he asks. 

“Filling.”

“That leaves you with the fun part,” Marcus says to you with a playful wink. “You get to spread the dough out on the corn husks like this–” he frowns as a glob of dough gets stuck to the spatula. “I told you I’m not very good at this. But you get the idea.”

You really don’t; cooking has never been your strong suit. You do your best to spread the dough out, but after just a couple of repetitions, your fingers, your shirt, and the counter around you are sticky with dough. 

“This is not going very well,” you mumble. 

Marcus looks up from the tamale he’s currently folding and laughs joyfully. “That’s part of the process.”

“I really don’t feel like it is,” you shoot back. “It’s sticking to everything but the corn husks.”

“Here,” Marcus chuckles. And suddenly, he’s right behind you, his chest nearly touching your back as he reaches around you to gently guide your hands himself. “Like this.”

You can’t possibly focus on your task, not when you have to remind your body to keep breathing while Marcus’s hands are on you. Your eyes stare unseeingly down at the corn husk until he releases you. 

“Better?” he asks.

“Mmhm,” you hum, abnormally high-pitched.

“You’ve got some on your cheek,” he remarks with a soft smile. His thumb gently swipes across it, catching the stray dough and wiping it on a towel. 

In the end, the tamales are hideous, but they taste incredible. They might be the best meal you’ve ever had–or maybe it’s just the way Marcus had smiled proudly at you when your technique improved after his intervention.

After dinner, the three of you sit on the small couch and watch a movie.

“It’s in black and white,” Emma remarks, wrinkling her nose.

“Double Indemnity? It’s a classic!” Marcus protests.

“Old movies are always so boring,” Emma says. 

“It’s not boring,” he pouts. “The unhappy wife of a wealthy oil baron starts a dangerous, illicit love affair with an insurance salesman, and they hatch a plot to murder her husband and collect the insurance money.”

“That’s wild,” you laugh. “How have you seen this before?”

“I’ve always been told I’m an old soul.”

“Are you sure you’re not just old?” Emma teases.

“Hush. Watch the movie.”

The film is engaging, but all of the walking around of the past few days starts to catch up with you about halfway through. Before you know it, your eyes are drooping, and your head tips back on the couch cushion as you start to doze off. When you wake, the credits are rolling, and you’re no longer upright on the back of the couch.

You’re drooling on Marcus’s shoulder.

You startle, sitting back up with a frantic gasp and wiping your mouth in horror.

“Shh,” Marcus whispers, placing a calming hand on your forearm. “Emma fell asleep, too.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” you babble, taking in the little wet spot on his shirt.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he assures softly. “You’re tired. You needed the sleep.”

“Still,” you say. “I didn’t mean to…” you trail off awkwardly. 

“It’s okay,” Marcus repeats, even quieter still. His hand still rests on your forearm, his thumb subtly moving back and forth across your skin. 

Neither of you speak for what seems like an eternity, until finally, he breaks the spell.

“Should go to bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll wake up Emma. Go get some rest.”

“Marcus,” you whisper shakily.

“Go,” he whispers back. 

He squeezes your arm once, then releases you, and you reluctantly get up from the couch and cross to the guest bedroom door. You turn again, watching as Marcus gently smooths Emma’s hair back from her forehead as he rouses her from the couch. There’s so much tenderness in his eyes, and you wonder how much different he might be if Emma had been a more constant presence in his life. He seems so lonely–does he have friends outside of work, you wonder? Does he ever date? 

Emma sits up blearily and pads across the living room, walking past you and collapsing on the bed. You take one last look at Marcus, and follow her. 

The next morning, you feel as though you could cut the tension between you and Marcus with a knife. There’s something there–and you both know it. He seems to be doing his best to ignore it, avoiding eye contact with you, and busying himself with pouring a thermos of coffee and messing with his tie absentmindedly as he gets ready to leave for work. 

“Where are you off to today?” he comments lightly.

“Smithsonian,” Emma answers. 

“Sounds fun. I’ve got a deposition this afternoon that’s probably going to run late, so go ahead and grab something for dinner while you’re out. I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”

The only time Marcus’s eyes fall on you is in the moment just before he steps through the front door. He pauses, hand on the doorknob, and glances back in your direction, dark eyes watching you for a moment before he nods subtly and leaves.

It’s funny how just a simple, seconds-long moment of eye contact with this man can turn your insides to jelly. Your breath stutters as the door clicks shut, and you try to gather yourself again.

“What’s first?” Emma asks. “Natural History or Air and Space?”

You put Marcus out of your mind for most of the day, although he’s never far away; you’re able to call up the feel of his hand on your forearm at any given moment. You can imagine the burn of his eyes even as you walk through exhibit after exhibit.

True to his word, he’s not home for dinner. You and Emma grab sandwiches from a shop around the corner and eat them in the living room in front of the TV. It’s nearly seven when Marcus finally gets home, opening the door and greeting the two of you with a tired smile and a heavy sigh.

“How did it go?” Emma asks.

“Shit,” he answers, shooting her a crooked grin. “But I’ve got leftover tamales to look forward to, so the day is looking up.”

You watch another movie–Emma’s choice this time, and something a bit more current. You don’t fall asleep this time; you can’t, not with the way your body feels on high alert tonight. Marcus is sitting beside you again, as he was the night before, and all you can think about is how much you want to sink into his arms again–and this time, intentionally. You want to lay on his chest and have him wrap his arms around you; you want him to slowly turn and press you down on the cushions, to feel the weight of him on top of you, the light scrape of his beard on your neck, his breath in your ear.

A wave of arousal washes over you, heating your skin and sending a little trickle of damp into your underwear. You wonder if Marcus can feel it–feel the elevated warmth of your skin from where he’s sitting. You wonder if he can tell how much he affects you. 

When the movie ends, you can barely meet his eyes as you bid him goodnight, following Emma to your room. You can’t turn around to see if he’s watching you; you can’t stand another glance at that deep, burning gaze of his. 

Sleep evades you. You’re too hot, so you kick off the covers. Then you’re too cold, so you cover up again. You flip over the pillow, turn from your back to your stomach, and back again. The fantasy plays once more in your head: Marcus’s hand cradling the back of your neck as he kisses a path down your neck and to your chest. You want to feel the weight of him between your thighs, feel him pressing against your core. You’re dripping for him, and he doesn’t even know it. 

No one has ever done this to you, but he has. And he hasn’t even touched you. 

You wonder if he’d be bothered by the fact that you aren’t exactly sure what you’re doing in that department. You wonder if he’d be put off by your inexperience, or if he’d be happy to guide you in the act of pleasure. 

You’ve had a couple of fumbling encounters, rushed, frenzied moments as a teenager with boys who haphazardly stuffed a finger or two into you, but it didn’t feel like anything to you. Not really. No one has ever made you cum–just you, in the safety of your own bed at night, your fingers seeking relief that no one else has been able to provide.

Could he give it to you?

Your past experiences have been with boys; and Marcus is a man. 

Your legs shift, rubbing your thighs against each other as you try to find a more comfortable position.

You can’t find one.

Eventually, you give up–getting out of bed with a sigh. Maybe if you grab a drink of water and sit on the couch for a while, sleep will win out in the end. You pad into the kitchen, filling a cup in the sink and taking a few long sips. The cool water is a relief, so you run your hand underneath the water next and scrub it over your face. Finally sated, you set the cup down by the sink and turn.

To see Marcus sitting on the couch, dimly lit by the glow of his laptop screen.

You nearly double over with shock, the unexpected sight causing a spike of adrenaline to course through your body.

“Sorry,” he says apologetically. “Couldn’t sleep, so I was… catching up on work.”

The mirror image of a popular news site reflects through the glass picture frame behind the couch, exposing the tiny lie.

“Yeah, me neither,” you admit quietly. “Thought I’d sit out here for a while and see if that helps, but… sorry, I’ll leave you to it.” You make to turn back, to retreat to the room again, but Marcus speaks softly behind you.

“Come sit,” he says. “I don’t mind.”

Breath caught somewhere in your throat, you hesitantly sink down on the couch beside him. Marcus closes his laptop and sets it down on the coffee table, and the silence stretches out between you. 

“So, are you liking DC so far?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you answer eagerly. “I’m having a great time. I’ll… I’ll be sad to leave,” you admit. “Is that weird?”

“It’s weird if you’re talking about missing the Washington Monument,” Marcus teases. “Or the traffic.”

“I’m talking about the metro, obviously,” you joke. “The rest of the country could stand for some public transit options.”

“I’m not sure they should be taking their cues from DC,” he chuckles. 

“Pssh, I like it.”

“The novelty wears off, believe me.”

You lapse into silence again. You’re sitting close enough to Marcus that you can feel the warmth from his skin, even though you aren’t touching. You want to sink into him, to have him envelop you, consume you.

You feel yourself unconsciously shifting closer to him. 

Is it just your imagination, or did Marcus subtly lean closer to you?

The pull is inevitable; your eyes flick up to his, and you can almost feel the point of no return pass the two of you by. 

You lick your lips, and his breath catches in his throat.

“I wasn’t talking about the metro,” you say breathlessly. 

“I know.”

And suddenly, his lips are on yours. 

It’s not fast, not rushed or frantic; he doesn’t surge forward to take you. It’s simply that the two of you are close enough that at one moment, Marcus Pike is not kissing you, and then the next moment, he is. 

As with everything this man does, the kiss is soft and tender. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and he gently tits his head as his lips move against yours. His mouth opens ever so slightly, and you feel a wave of pure want rush through you at the light flick of his tongue against your lower lip.

You make a ragged sound in your chest as your lips part for him, and your tongues slide against each other for far too short of a time before Marcus pulls back, suddenly, his eyes full of worry.

“Oh, shit,” he murmurs. “Shit, we… we shouldn’t.”

This time, you kiss him back. The neck of his soft t-shirt crumples in your fist as you pull him closer, opening your mouth to him, and his protests die at the feel of your lips on his. Instead, it seems to light a fire within him; one hand curls around the back of your neck and the other grips your hip and you gasp softly into his mouth at the feel of his hands on your body. 

Marcus breaks the kiss again, but instead of pulling back to give you more reasons why you can’t, this time he kisses a path across your cheek and down your neck. You’ve imagined the way his light beard would feel against your skin so many times over the last couple of days, but nothing compares to the reality of having him gently scrape his teeth against your neck as you arch your back to him. 

“Fuck,” Marcus whispers. “So sweet, honey.”

You whimper at the term of endearment as Marcus gently starts to shift positions, turning and guiding you down onto the couch, just as you’d imagined. 

Now that you’re horizontal, the kisses that started out tender and sweet start to grow more and more lascivious. You can feel the weight of him between your legs and his hot length pressing against you, his hips rocking slightly as he lazily explores you with his hands and his mouth. 

One hand creeps up your inner thigh and slips under your thin sleep shorts and underwear, gently grazing your folds and feeling the obscene amount of slick that’s already gathered there. 

“Shit,” Marcus hisses softly, reverently. “You’re so wet. How are you so wet?”

“You,” you answer earnestly, staring up at him with wide eyes. 

He laughs breathlessly in response, his eyes raking up and down your body, taking in your nipples peeking through the threadbare material of your tank top. His finger explores deeper, slipping inside your tight channel and immediately finding… something… that makes you gasp raggedly. 

“So responsive,” he murmurs playfully. “I’ve barely touched you.” He starts to slowly pump his finger in and out, his thumb pressing on your clit as he rubs against that little spot inside of you every time, and all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and cling to him as this one little movement threatens to take you apart. 

“Honey,” he whispers disbelievingly as he feels you start to tighten around him. “Already?”

“I–” 

Whatever you had been about to say dies on your lips as you suddenly fall over the edge, shaking as the pleasure overtakes you. Marcus soothes you through it, whispering in your ear as you come down from your high.

“Wow,” you murmur. “Holy shit, that was amazing.”

Marcus pulls back and gives you a funny look. “What’s going on?” he asks, frowning slightly.

“Heh–you’re going to laugh,” you say, giving him an awkward grimace. 

He raises his eyebrow, waiting for you to continue. 

“I’ve–kind of never done this before,” you admit, pressing your lips together sheepishly. 

“Oh shit,” Marcus breathes, sitting up fully as his eyes frantically sweep over you. “Oh, honey–no. I can’t–we can’t do this.”

“Why?” you ask, wincing internally at how whiny it comes out.

“It can’t–it shouldn’t be me,” he says softly. “That’s more than I deserve to take.”

“You’re not taking anything,” you protest. “I–I want it to be you.”

Marcus shakes his head again, but you can see the cracks in his resolve, the way his eyes are searching you, devouring you with his gaze.

“I don’t want it to be some boy at a frat party back home,” you tell him. “I want you. I want it to feel good. Please?”

Marcus’s expression is inscrutable as his eyes rake over your form, disheveled and sated, underneath him. Your heart sinks when he stands up, shame sinking down into the pit of your stomach, but then he extends his hand to you, and you look up at him, questioning. 

“I’m not going to let your first time be a quick fuck on my couch,” he says quietly and resolute. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to bed.”

Wordlessly, you accept his hand and allow him to pull you to your feet. You wobble slightly, still shaky from the orgasm, and Marcus draws you into his side, steadying you. He guides you forward, keeping you close as the two of you walk to his bedroom. 

Despite the fact that you were more than ready to let this man take you right there on the couch, the change in venue has your heart hammering in your chest. Now, it feels real. It feels intentional. 

“C’mere, beautiful,” Marcus murmurs when he feels your steps falter. His hand slides up your arm and across your shoulder until it curls gently around your neck, causing goosebumps to rise to the surface of your skin. He presses a couple of soft, chaste kisses across your opposite shoulder, and your lips part of their own accord. 

“I need you to tell me if you don’t want to do this,” he says softly in your ear.

“I want–”

“I know, I know,” Marcus interrupts. “I want you to tell me if that changes.”

He gently guides you onto his bed, one hand on the small of your back to keep you from going too fast. 

“I wanna know what you like,” he murmurs as he hovers over you again, his hand coming up underneath the thin material of your top. “I wanna know what you don’t like.” 

“I–I don’t really know–”

“I know,” Marcus grins wolfishly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “That’s the idea.”

He starts to push the material of your shirt up, up, up, until your nipples are pebbling in the cool air of his bedroom. He gently pulls it over your head and casts it aside, looking down at you with undisguised hunger. He trails the backs of his fingers down the side of one breast and underneath. “I get to find out what you like,” he says. He circles one areola with the tip of his finger, making you shiver. “And I get to be the first to do it.”

He gently drags the pad of his finger across the little bud of your nipple, and you gasp for him as if you’d hit a live wire. 

“I’m gonna take a guess and say you liked that,” he teases. 

“Marcus,” you whine. 

“Shh,” he whispers again, just before his mouth engulfs your nipple. Your hand darts out unconsciously, tangling in the hair on the back of Marcus’s neck as you squirm under his hot tongue. You can’t tell whether you want to pull away or push toward him, but in reality all you do is whine and take what he gives you. He switches to the other one; lathing and flicking his tongue and pressing down until you whimper.

“So… fucking… responsive,” Marcus murmurs in between kisses as he starts to mouth his way down your belly to the band of your sleep shorts. His fingers dip underneath, poised to pull them down over your hips, but he waits–eyes flicking up to yours to gauge your reaction. 

“Can I taste you?” he asks quietly.

“I-If you want,” you laugh shakily. 

“If I want?” he parrots disbelievingly. “You’re saying that like it’s not a given–like I haven’t been thinking of burying my tongue in that sweet little pussy all night. If I want,” he chuckles to himself again, slowly dragging your shorts and underwear down your legs. “I need to taste you. I need to feel you fall apart on my tongue. The first one was kind of a surprise, and all I want is to feel you shaking again.”

You’re bare before him, but you don’t have any time to be self-conscious, because Marcus is laying back down on the bed, his face inches away from your pussy. He gently guides your legs over his shoulders before lowering his mouth to you. 

You aren’t sure who groans louder at the first touch of his tongue through your folds. 

Marcus makes a pained noise in his throat before murmuring, “So sweet, honey–fuck, you’re so sweet.”

His tongue is delicate, but precise; he flicks it back and forth against your clit, then dips down to lap at your entrance until you’re trembling for him. He’s tireless and patient, cataloging every whimper and moan he pulls from you as the pleasure slowly builds inside of you. In no time at all, you’re dangling on the precipice, your hips locking into place as you start to reach the point of no return. 

“I–I–” you stammer, trying to warn him.

Marcus hums enthusiastically in agreement, concentrating his efforts on your clit until you fall apart with a gasp.

He groans again, licking you through each little aftershock of pleasure until you’re boneless. 

“You squeeze me so hard,” he croons. “Can you feel that? You’re so tight around my tongue.”

“Shit…” you murmur. You’re too fucked-out to say anything else. 

“Gonna have to open you up a bit with my fingers,” he says softly. “So I don’t hurt you.”

You look up at him with half-lidded eyes. He’s still clothed–wearing sweatpants and a shirt, while you’re completely naked, and you frown slightly at the disparity.

“Everything okay?” Marcus asks, seeing your expression. 

“Can–Can I see you? You’re so… clothed,” you say with a little pout. 

He laughs, smiling widely so that the corners of his eyes crinkle, and your heart soars. 

“Of course,” he agrees, stripping off his shirt. “Of course.”

You raise up on one elbow, gazing up at Marcus’s broad chest, the light smattering of hair, and the soft swell of his belly. You can’t help but reach up and touch him, pressing your palm to his sternum and trailing down, tracing the little path of hair until it disappears under the band of his sweatpants. Your fingers curl underneath the band, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“These, too?” he asks with a teasing chuckle, smiling wider when you nod eagerly. 

His cock bobs free as he pushes his pants down his hips, and your eyes widen at the sight of him, thick and hard and heavy with want. Curiously, you wrap your hand around him, and you’re rewarded with a little ‘hnnngg’ of pleasure and surprise as you touch him. 

You gently trace the little ridges on his shaft, traveling up to the flushed, purple head, where the skin is even softer, and back down again.

“F-Fuck,” Marcus muttters. “Can’t do that too much, honey, or I’m gonna lose it before we even get started.”

“I like it,” you say with a little giggle. “I never realized they were so… soft.”

Marcus makes a broken, choked sound. “Jesus. You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

He falls onto one elbow, giving you a messy, passionate kiss before sucking his fingers into his mouth and gently sinking one finger into you again. His lips stay close to yours, noses almost touching, his eyes watching your face intently as he slowly opens you up. His fingers are so thick, and just like before, he seems to know exactly where to press up inside you to make the pleasure spark inside of you. He adds a second finger, and you whimper–you're already so full. 

"Little bit more," Marcus murmurs. "Doing so well for me–fuck–so tight."

He gently starts to slide a third into you, the heel of his hand pressing against your clit to offer some relief.

“Is it greedy if I say I want you to cum for me again?” he asks softly. “I want to feel it again. Can you do that for me?”

You nod dazedly–wanting to do anything, everything this man asks as long as he keeps making you feel like this. 

His fingers press up against your walls again, and you sob loudly into the room.

Marcus immediately muffles the sound with a kiss, swallowing your whimpers and cries in an attempt to keep the sound from carrying across the apartment. 

“Gotta stay quiet for me,” he whispers against your lips. 

“S-Sorry.”

“No, shh, don’t be sorry,” he murmurs. “I wish you could be loud. Wish I could make you scream for me. Just–fuck, honey, you’re right there, aren’t you? I can feel you squeezing me–fuck, you get so wet. Give me one more. One more, and I’ll give you my cock. That’s it, that’s–yes–” 

Marcus breaks off on a groan as you clamp down on his fingers. It’s so much, you’re so full, and you buck against his hand, your lower back rising up off of the bed as he pulls it from you. 

You slump back down, breathing heavily, as he carefully withdraws his fingers. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, trying to get your attention. “Hey, I should have asked this sooner, but–are you on birth control? Do you want me to use a condom?”

“I-I’m on the pill,” you tell him. “If you… you know, if you didn’t want to. That would be–I’d like that.”

“That’s perfect,” he whispers, giving you a tender kiss. “I’d like that, too.” He pauses, and mutters a soft curse under his breath. “I wish I had some lube,” he remarks. “Just to be sure I don’t hurt you.”

You watch as he spits on his cock and takes himself in hand. 

“This will have to do, though,” he says as he slicks it over his cock and crawls over you. “And I’ll just go slow.”

He cups the back of your neck with one hand as he lines himself up with the other. His lips are inches from yours, but he doesn’t lean down to kiss you–no, he seems to want to watch your reaction as the tip of his cock notches at your entrance. 

“Don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers again.

“You could never hurt me,” you say confidently, and you watch as his lips part in surprise. “Marcus–” you add, as you shift your hips impatiently. “–just do it.”

Your eyes widen as you feel him push into you, his girth splitting you open. It can’t be much bigger than three of his thick fingers, but still, it just feels like more. It’s longer, certainly; he keeps pushing in, and even when you’re sure he’s reached the end, there’s still more. 

“Oh wow,” you hear yourself murmuring again and again. “Oh, Marcus.” 

“I know,” he returns, kissing your cheekbone, your forehead, your nose, and then finally, your lips. “I know, honey.”

He starts to rock his hips, slowly undulating them, letting his cock drag back and forth against your walls. It feels incredible–you never imagined how fucking good this would feel–and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s because it’s him. It’s Marcus–a man you’ve admittedly only known for a few days, but you feel as though you know him already–and you trust him completely. 

“Does it hurt at all?” he rumbles softly in your ear.

“No,” you answer emphatically. “It feels–holy shit.”

Marcus laughs breathlessly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Can–can we do this again?”

He chuckles. “We’re currently doing this.”

“I already want it again.”

He starts to go a little harder, his thrusts a little deeper. His hand grips your hip for leverage, the other still cradling the back of your neck. He kisses you, a deep, messy, passionate thing, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and sucking a gentle mark into your skin.

“Feels so good,” he murmurs. “I’m not gonna last, not when you feel like this.”

“Like how?” you ask, smiling widely. 

“So fucking tight,” Marcus groans. “And wet, and hot, and–” he brings his thumb to your clit and starts to rub little circles around it. “I need you to cum again,” he says. “Fuck, you–you feel too good, honey, I’m not gonna last.”

“I—I don’t know if I can,” you murmur. 

“Please,” he says, a hint of desperation in his tone. “Please, baby, you’ve gotta do this one last thing for me. Let me feel it, let me make you feel good. Let me–let me–”

Your mouth falls open as you feel it wash over you. This is better than anything you’ve ever felt before, any relief you’ve been able to seek with your fingers–the drag of his cock along your walls only serves to prolong your pleasure, making each little aftershock feel like a new wave of pleasure. 

“Oh, fuck,” Marcus groans. “Fuck.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck as he shoves his hips into you one more time, emptying himself within you with a deep groan. 

The aftermath is quiet. After gently, tenderly cleaning you up with a damp cloth, Marcus collapses on the pillows and pulls you to him, wrapping his arms around you as you settle with your head resting on his shoulder.

“Was this a bad idea?” you ask quietly as you trace little shapes on his chest.

Marcus huffs a laugh. “Probably,” he answers.

“I don’t care,” you say resolutely, causing his hold on you to tighten. “...Do you regret it?” you ask, feeling unsure of yourself again.

“No,” Marcus says immediately. “No. I was drawn to you from the beginning. I’m sorry, I–I should have tried harder to prevent this, but…”

“I felt it, too,” you murmur. “Maybe we weren’t meant to prevent it.”

The two of you bask in the afterglow, reveling in the feel of your bodies pressed together. You can’t help but think of how tender, how loving he is–not just with you, but with Emma.

“Can I ask a personal question?” you ask, breaking the silence.

Marcus shrugs. “Sure.”

“This is probably weird to be thinking about right now, but… why does Emma’s mom not want you around?”

 Marcus sighs, his lips pressing into your forehead–not really a kiss, just a caress of your hairline with his mouth.

“That story doesn’t exactly paint me in the best light.”

“I want to know. I just… don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand?” he asks.

“You’re… you’re such a good dad–a good man. I don’t understand how her mom wanted nothing to do with you. I just don’t get it.”

Marcus nods, pressing his lips together. “I wasn’t always a good man,” he says quietly. “I tried to do the best I could for the both of them–for Emma and her mom–but I’m afraid I fell very short, in the beginning.”

“What happened?”

“We were in college when we found out she was pregnant,” Marcus says with a sigh. “She was nineteen, I was almost twenty-one. We hadn’t been together long; maybe a couple of months. She was terrified, of course–and so was I, but never told her that. I asked her to marry me because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Did you love her?”

“I cared for her, very much so. And even if we weren’t quite right for each other, knowing–” Marcus swallows thickly, “–knowing our child, my child, was growing inside of her made me feel deeply connected. If you had asked me at twenty-one, I would have sworn up and down that I was in love.”

“But not now?”

Marcus huffs softly. “I know a little better, now.”

“What happened?” you ask, tracing the line of his collarbone with the tip of your finger. “What did you do?”

“Well, the first thing I did was drop out of art school,” he says with a little laugh. “Didn’t think it would pay the bills, especially not with a wife and a baby.”

“You were an artist?” you ask, surprised.

“Wanted to be,” he chuckled. “At least at that time. So instead, I applied for the FBI. Joined the Art Crimes division. And shortly after I completed training… Emma was born.” His eyes are far away, a small smile on his face as he remembers. “And she was perfect. And I remember thinking, all the struggling, all the hardship, all the times Denise and I didn’t get along… it would be worth it, in the end. No matter what happened; because I had her.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “What went wrong?”

“Nothing in particular, at first. We struggled to make ends meet. We were two young parents with no idea what we were doing, and even though I might have known deep down that we weren’t right for each other, I just wanted it to go right. I wanted us to be happy, but in the end we were just too different. We didn’t work–and while I might have been blind to it at the time, Denise wasn’t. When Emma was barely even two, she filed for divorce, and I–” he sighs heavily again. “I went a little off the rails.”

You tilt your head and look up at Marcus. His eyes are stormy, and you can see the remorse etched into the lines of his face. You don’t ask how, you just wait patiently for him to continue.

“I didn’t want to be divorced at twenty-three. This wasn’t–it wasn’t the life I had expected for myself, not what I would have chosen, but because I had Emma, I didn’t want anything else. I always knew I would want a family, and so what if it happened… a little out of order?”

“What did you do?” you whispered.

“I tried to convince her to change her mind. She took Emma and went to live with her parents, and I’d call them every day, asking to talk to her. I wanted to persuade her–I thought that if she could just see that we had plenty of time, we could raise Emma and be good parents and still… still have time for whatever we wanted. That we could still build lives.

“When she never returned my calls, I started stopping by,” he confesses, his voice even quieter. “They’d always tell me she was out, so I started showing up at odd hours, trying to… trying to just catch her one time–I thought if I explained that she could do whatever she wanted, as long as we could just stay together and raise Emma, she’d agree. But the more I tried to contact her, the more she pulled away, and rightly so, honestly. I was badgering her. I tried to justify it at the time, said I was doing it all for Emma, but I, uh… It took me until much later to admit I was actually doing it for me. I was so scared of being a failure, and scared to be alone.

“Anyway, the court didn’t look very kindly on what looked to everyone involved like stalking behavior, and Denise was afforded full custody.”

“M-Marcus,” you murmur, unable to help the water gathering at the corners of your eyes. 

“Broke my heart,” he whispers, his voice full of emotion. “And I was angry about it for a while, but when it comes down to it, I was just angry with myself. It was my actions that lost me my daughter, and… well, I’ve had twenty years to come to terms with that, now.”

“How did you finally… come to face all of that?” you ask quietly.

“Therapy,” Marcus says with a genuine laugh. “And that is another story for another time.”

“God, what else happened to you?”

“Nothing,” he chuckles, “just another relationship that I fought way too hard for.” He playfully runs his finger down the bridge of your nose before tilting your chin upward for a soft kiss. “And you,” he murmurs, “need to go back to bed.”

Your emotions still running on high alert after Marcus’s emotional confession of his past, you surge forward and throw your arms around his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

“I’m okay,” he promises. “It was a long time ago.”

“You should tell Emma,” you say softly. “She never knew why her mom didn’t want you around.”

“Not really something you want to tell your daughter,” he says with a sad smile. “That you basically stalked her mom.”

“She’s grown up. She’s older than her mom was when–”

“Believe me, I know,” Marcus groans. “Don’t remind me; it makes this feel very… wrong.” He gestured between the two of you.

“Just trust me,” you murmur. “She’d want to know.” With herculean effort, you extricate yourself from his arms, grab your clothes, and redress. Feeling unsure in the way the conversation ended, you tell yourself not to turn around again when your hand lands on the doorknob.

“Honey,” Marcus calls out softly from the bed. “Good night.”

“Good night,” you whisper back, and then you’re gone.

“Where are you two off to, today?” Marcus asks conversationally over coffee. He’s made it stronger than usual today, and it makes warmth pool deep in your stomach at the reminder of your very sleepless night last night. You’re grateful for the extra boost of caffeine as well, of course–the morning seemed to come far too early after being up half of the night. Sleep had still been hard to come by when you finally returned to the guest room, after all; the conversation about Marcus’s past was still swirling around in your head, and every time you closed your eyes, you could still feel his hands on you. 

You never knew it could feel like this, never knew how good it could be with someone who really knew what they were doing. Someone so giving, so gentle and yet so ruthless in pursuing your pleasure. Someone brimming with passion, capable of both the softest prase and the most depraved filth in the same sentence.

If you had thought your thirst would be sated after finally getting what you’d fantasized about and more, you were a fool. The flame burns hotter than ever this morning, and the sight of Marcus in a suit with not a hair out of place only makes you think about how he had looked between your legs last night–that devilish smirk as he teased about wanting to taste you.

You wonder if you’ll ever see him that way again, or if last night was a fluke. 

Had he noticed when your fingers had trembled around the coffee cup he handed you? 

He had given you a soft, tender stare when you had first entered the kitchen, but that’s the only evidence you can find so far that Marcus is even half as affected as you feel. You can still feel him this morning, a subtle ache between your legs when you sit down, and you wish you could see some outward sign on him that this actually happened.

“Not really sure,” Emma answers Marcus’s question. “Kind of ran out of stuff to see.”

“Impossible,” Marcus chuckles. “Well, you can hang out here if you want, or if you're really looking for a distraction, you can come to the office with me.”

“The fucking FBI office?” Emma asks. “Are we allowed?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t you be?” Marcus shrugs. “Plus, I might be able to set up some time for you to talk to someone in Legal,” he says to you. “Are you still interested in that?”

“Oh wow,” you breathe. “Really?”

“‘Course,” he replies. “I said I would.”

You nod, smiling up at him beatifically. “I’d like that a lot.”

“Perfect,” he grins. “Well, if you’re coming, we’re going to need to leave soon. Are you almost ready?”

“I’m ready,” Emma announces, shouldering her bag.

“Yeah, me too.”

Marcus winks at you, and you try not to let yourself react to it.

“Let’s go, then.”

You had assumed that you’d spend most of your day at the FBI holed up in Marcus’s office, doing nothing. You had imagined that, out of necessity, you’d be barred from attending any meetings or hearing about his department’s day-to-day activities, but when you arrive, his team seems enthusiastic to have you and Emma there. Much to your surprise, they even let the two of you sit in the back of the room while Marcus conducts a briefing. 

You listen, enthralled, as he discusses a recent forgery case that the team is working on. His demeanor, as it is at home, is good-natured and easygoing. He’s easy to smile, and engaging when he talks, and as a result, he utterly commands the room. His style of quiet, unassuming authority has you subtly squirming in your chair. Even though you have no idea what’s being discussed, you can tell simply by listening to his cadence of speech that he’s incredibly knowledgeable, and fucking good at his job. It’s clear he loves the work–and when you think back to the night before and his whispered confession that he had once dreamed of being an artist, you find yourself beaming with happiness that he’s clearly found something he loves to do. 

“People change.”

You suddenly recall his words the very first night you were there–his assurance that it didn’t matter that you had no idea what you wanted to do at your age, because there’s no promise that you’ll still want the same things in ten years. After last night, you realize that he was talking about himself in that moment.

You hope he’s happy and fulfilled.

He deserves it.

You watch him wrap up the meeting–delegating work to each member of the team and asking for updates–and every so often, as his eyes sweep around the room, they always seem to land on you.

As he promised, Marcus introduces you to Kimberley Alexander, the lawyer that his department works with most of the time. You’re nervous at first–you aren’t sure what you’re going to talk about, but you end up staying in her office through lunch, spending almost an hour and a half longer than you had intended, talking about potential jobs with the FBI.

Not because you suddenly have the desire to return to Washington, DC as soon as you can, nope. It does interest you–quite a bit, actually–but you can’t pretend that you aren’t excited at the prospect of living in the same city as Marcus. Would he want to see you again? Is he really interested in you, or is it just the forced proximity–because you’re convenient and available? If you had your own life here, would he be interested in a place in it?

When you find Emma and her dad again, they’ve clearly just come back from lunch. Emma thrusts a container into your hands, which you discover, with an exaggerated moan of satisfaction, is pad Thai.

“Must have been a good talk,” Marcus remarks. 

“Yeah, you were there for two hours,” Emma adds.

“It was good,” you nod. “Talked about, y’know, internships and stuff.”

“You wanna live here?” Emma asks, looking surprised and curious.

You try to shrug noncommittally. “Sure,” you say lightly. “It’s as good a place as any, and it would be kind of fun to work for the FBI, right?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you an unbiased answer to that,” Marcus says with a wry smile, “but I think you’d be a great fit.”

Your heart swells at his words. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” he says earnestly. “And I hate to do this, but I’ve gotta run to do a witness interview, and you guys have to stay behind this time.”

You watch as Marcus gives Emma a quick kiss on the forehead, and your eyebrows raise in surprise at the action. They’ve gotten more comfortable around each other in the time you’ve been here, but neither of them had seemed to be very comfortable with physical affection. Marcus, for his part, is always so hesitant–wanting to reach out, but seemingly afraid that he doesn’t deserve it, or worse, that it won’t be received well. You still remember the first day you saw him–when his hand twitched toward his daughter, seemingly desperate to wrap her in a hug, but he hadn’t allowed himself to do it.

What changed?

Marcus glances at you, and gives you a slightly awkward, stiff nod before leaving for his meeting.

You busy yourself with eating lunch, digging into the container they brought you.

“Tomorrow’s the last day, huh?” Emma says conversationally.

You gulp. You’ve purposefully been putting the fact that your time here has an expiration date at the back corner of your mind. Whatever you have with Marcus, it’s temporary by its very nature, and you know it.

You just don’t really want to think about it right now.

“Yup,” you agree, mouth full of noodles. 

“What do you wanna do? I’m kind of out of ideas.”

You shrug. “We could ask Marcus if there’s anything he recommends seeing that we haven’t already been to.”

“I think we should go as far out as the metro line goes,” Emma says.

“Why?”

She shrugs. “See where we end up.”

“Whatever you want,” you tell her. “Last day is up to you.”

“How’s the pad Thai?”

“Good,” you nod, mouth full. “What’d you get?”

“Calamari,” she answers. “Never had it, wanted to try it.”

“How was it?”

“Chewy.”

You laugh, taking another bite of noodles. “Think I’ll stick to my favorite.”

The two of you huddle together on the small, two-seater couch in Marcus’s office, watching YouTube videos and laughing together until he comes back near the end of the day.

Your eyes automatically brighten when you see him return, drinking in the sight of him–the crisp lines of his suit paired with the slightly unruly hair. You discovered last night how soft it is, and how much he loves it when you thread your fingers through it and tug gently. 

He meets your eyes, but quickly drops his gaze, and you try not to sink in disappointment. Did it not mean as much to him as it did to you? Or is he just better at hiding it?

“You two hungry for dinner?” he asks, putting his stuff back in his messenger back and throwing it over his shoulder.

Emma groans loudly beside you. “Gonna be honest, I’m not really feeling dinner.”

“That was a lot of pad Thai,” you agree.

“Good,” Marcus says with a smile. “Me neither. Let’s go home and have a lazy night eating popcorn on the couch.”

The moment you arrive home, though, Emma makes a beeline for the bathroom. 

“She okay?” Marcus asks you.

You grimace at the faint sounds of retching. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

When she emerges again, Marcus hands her a glass of water with a concerned expression. “Everything okay?”

“No,” she mutters pitifully.

“Was it the calamari?” you ask.

“Please don’t say that word ever again,” Emma groans, flopping down on the couch. “Fuck. Everything hurts.”

“What do you need?” Marcus asks, looking a little lost.

“Distraction,” she mumbles. “Long movie or something.”

Emma takes up the entire couch, so you and Marcus have to sit in opposite armchairs while you watch Lord of the Rings. It’s almost unbearable to you, being so close to him and yet not being able to touch, not being able to look at him for fear of giving everything away. If you two were to lock eyes, you know that you wouldn’t be able to hide your reaction to him. So much so that even Emma, who’s still alternating between running to the bathroom and collapsing on the couch, would have no choice but to notice. 

The pull to him feels overwhelming; the only thing you can think of doing is crossing the living room and sinking into his arms. It makes you feel guilty–your best friend has food poisoning, Marucs is trying to help by refilling her water and encouraging her to drink, and here you are, with nothing to do but yearn for your best friend’s dad. 

When the movie is over, it’s late; Marcus brushes Emma’s hair back from her forehead and suggests she go lie down. As she’s stumbling toward the guest room, Marcus touches you for the first time since last night–lightly wrapping his fingers around your wrist while Emma isn’t looking.

Your eyes meet, and he gives you a coal-black stare, trying to communicate without speaking. He nods subtly, and his meaning is easy to understand.

Come to me tonight.

You come to him in the dead of night. You lie awake, listening for Emma’s breathing to even out, and then waiting another thirty minutes after that, just to be safe. 

It’s nearly midnight when you slip into Marcus’s bedroom, but he’s still awake; his lamp is on, and he’s reading a book.

Waiting for you. 

The moment the door creaks open, Marcus casts the book aside without even marking his place, and rises to his feet. He strides forward and you meet him in the middle, a clash of mouths and hands as you come together desperately. 

“Fuck,” he whispers against your lips. “All fucking day, all I could think about was this.”

“Me too,” you mumble hastily in between kisses. 

“No idea how hard it was to concentrate on giving that meeting this morning,” he confesses, “with you in the corner looking at me with those eyes of yours.” 

He grabs your top and pulls it over your head in one swift motion and ducks down to lathe his tongue against your nipple, making you arch against him. 

“Ah!–Really?” you gasp. “I didn’t–you looked so… calm the whole day. Like it didn’t affect you the same way it affects me.”

“Doesn’t affect me?” Marcus repeats incredulously. “Honey, I am out of my mind with wanting you.” He pulls back, his palms cradling your cheeks as he stares at you with a disbelieving smile. “Do you not have any idea what you do to me?” he asks softly. 

Stunned, you shake your head.

Marcus laughs breathlessly, as he reaches down to encircle your wrist with one large hand and brings your hand forward to press against the front of his pants, where you can feel him, hard and straining against the fabric. “You feel that?” he rasps. “Do you fucking feel what you do to me?”

He shoves your flimsy sleep shorts down your legs and all but tosses you onto the bed. He strips off his own shirt and follows you down. “I’ve been half-hard all day,” he confesses. “I had to fuck my own hand in the shower this morning and still,” he groans. “As soon as I picture your face as you fall apart for me, I’m done for.”

“You thought about that?” 

“All fucking day,” Marcus promises. 

“That all you thought about?” you ask, your voice turning coy as you gain more confidence.

He chuckles darkly. “Thought about a lot of things,” he murmurs.

“Such as…?”

“Just–all the ways I want to have you.” 

“Show me,” you demand.

Marcus chuckles again. “Show you what, pretty girl?”

“All the ways that you want me.”

“That would take a lot more time than we currently have,” he says wryly. 

“Then show me how you want me most,” you say. 

“Let me get you ready first,” Marcus murmurs, starting to kiss a path down your body, intent on his destination. 

“No.”

“Hmm?”

“I want it now,” you say frankly.

“Honey–” he protests softly.

“Consider the fact that I’ve done nothing but think about what happened last night and fantasize about what’s going to happen tonight foreplay,” you tell him. “I can’t–I can’t wait. I don’t want it to be slow. I need–I need—” you trail off, searching for how exactly to find the words for what it is that you need. 

Marcus nods slowly, his eyes darkening as he watches you plead for him to take you now.

“You really want me to show you?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

“Then get on your hands and knees for me, honey.”

You comply with a shiver, your heart in your throat as you turn around and put yourself on display for him.

Marcus mutters a soft curse behind you as his palm strokes up the skin on the back of your thigh and up over the swell of your cheek. 

You hear him spit in his hand, and you know he's coating himself in it behind you, easing his way in. He does it again, and this time you whimper softly as he cups you, transferring more wetness to your folds. 

"Already so wet," he teases softly. "Tell me if it's too much."

He slides forward, sheathing himself in one fluid motion, and your elbows nearly buckle at the overwhelming feel of it. 

Marcus doesn't wait for you to adjust, this time. He starts thrusting right away, his hands grasping your hips for leverage. He's pressing right on the spot that makes pleasure sing throughout your entire body. Once he's sure that his pace isn't too much for you, he starts giving it to you harder, snapping his hips into you over and over.

Last night was overwhelming in its own way, but this–this is devastating. You thought last night was the most pleasure you could ever feel, but you had no idea that this could wreck you so completely. 

You're crying out with every thrust, each punishing snap of his hips punching little pathetic noises past your lips as you take what he needs to give you. 

"Shhh," he reminds you. "Gotta stay quiet, honey."

You drop to your elbows, burying your face in the pillows to try and muffle the involuntary sounds, but you can tell it isn't enough. 

"M-Marcus," you whimper frantically. "I can't."

"Do you want to stop?" he asks (making you shake your head rapidly), "Or do you want me to help you be quiet?"

You nod frantically, although you have no idea what he means. You'd do anything to keep feeling his cock like this. 

Marcus’s hand wraps tightly around your mouth, quieting your cries and forcing you to breathe through your nose. Something about the action makes your pussy clench violently, and Marcus makes a quiet groan of pleasure above you. 

He fucks you harder and faster, one hand sliding underneath you to rub tight circles over your clit. 

"Cum for me," he rasps brokenly above you. “Fuck, please–” 

The soft plea is enough to end you. You wail into Marcus’s hand as you come undone, and he tightens his grip, muffling the sound. 

It doesn’t take long for him to follow–just a couple more minutes of brutal thrusts that have you whimpering into his hand, oversensitive from your orgasm. The minute he stills, his cock slips from you as he immediately collapses on the bed and pulls you into his arms. You’re both still breathing heavily, but he smooths the hair back from your forehead as he looks you over.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly. “That was a lot, I’m sorry.”

“‘Re you kidding?” you slur. “That was… amazing.”

Marcus laughs and pulls you close again. “I’m glad,” he whispers, and you can hear the smile in his words. 

“Can I stay here for a little longer?” you ask. “Just a little.”

Marcus pulls back again and looks down at you with an amused smile. “It’s cute that you think I’m done with you, honey.”

Your eyes widen. “You’re not?”

“Mm-mm. Don’t think I’ll ever get tired of the way you look when you come undone,” he murmurs, tracing the tip of his index finger down the side of your cheek. “You didn’t think I’d be satisfied with just once tonight, did you?”

You giggle. “I guess not.”

He fixes you with a fiery look. “Do you trust me?” he asks quietly. 

“...Yeah?”

He raises one eyebrow. 

“Yes,” you answer, with more conviction this time. “Yes, I trust you.”

Marcus kisses you tenderly before sitting back on his heels beside you. His fingertips trail down your chest, over the peaks of your nipples, and down your stomach, as though he can’t get enough of the feel of your skin. One hand travels further down, stroking the soft patch of hair on your pubic bone before he slips one finger gently inside you. 

You cringe slightly at the wet squelch of your combined release, but Marcus shushes you gently. “Love how wet you get,” he teases affectionately. “And I like knowing I’m there inside of you.”

You clench involuntarily at his words, your lips parting as you exhale shakily. 

He chuckles. “You like that? You like knowing that I get off on the idea of you carrying a little piece of me with you?” he asks, as he starts to slowly fuck you with one finger.

“What if I told you that I was thinking about it during that meeting this morning?” he continues. “I kept wondering if there was still a little in there from last night, leaking into your underwear as I talked.”

“Shit,” you mumble. “Marcus.”

“Wanna fill you up again tonight,” he remarks casually. “So it’s still there when you’re walking around tomorrow.” He groans softly. “Fuck–Can I–Can I give you my number? I–I want you to text me. Tell me you can still feel me.”

“Oh my god,” you murmur. “Yes.”

“Good.” He adds a second finger and presses the heel of his hand against your clit, working you up to another orgasm exactly how he now knows gets you off quickly. When you start to clench around him, though, he doesn’t stop. He starts to rub quickly back and forth on that little spot inside of you until something else starts to build. 

“M-Marcus,” you murmur. “W-Wait, I–something is–”

“Shhh.” He keeps going, rubbing harder and faster until he suddenly rips his fingers from you as you gush around them, soaking his hand and the bed.

“Oh! Shit,” you cry out, panicking. “What the f–”

“Fuck, yes,” Marcus groans, the sound coming deep from within his chest. “Oh, fuck, do that again.”

When he notices your expression of utter shock, though, he pauses, a slow smile of understanding spreading across his face. 

“Honey,” he says soothingly. “Was that the first time?”

You stare up at him, mouth hanging open. “I… I kind of always thought that was a myth,” you admit, ducking your head in embarrassment. 

“Oh, baby,” he breathes softly. “No, it’s definitely not.”

He lays down beside you again, gently tucking a wisp of stray hair behind one ear. “That was so good,” he praises softly. “So good to me.”

You smile shakily, but something is starting to nag at you.

“What’s wrong?” Marcus asks, noticing your hesitant expression. 

“I just… feel really inexperienced,” you admit quietly. “You know all this stuff, and I–it must be tedious, having someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing, or–”

“No,” Marcus interrupts, his voice full of sincerity. “It’s not tedious at all. On the contrary,” he says with a little laugh, “the fact that I get to show you… that I’m the only one who can get you to do something you didn’t even know you could do–Well, shit,” he says with a crooked grin. He reaches down and palms his cock, which is hard and weeping again. “Look at what it does to me, huh?”

“Does that mean you’ll fuck me again?” you ask eagerly.

Marcus chuckles at your enthusiasm. “I did say I was going to fill you up one more time, didn’t I?”

When you wake up (in your bed, next to Emma, after sneaking back into your own room after Marcus was finally finished with you in the wee hours of the morning), your travel companion is decidedly not ready to go. 

“I feel like I’ve been run over by a train,” she grumbles. “And my stomach is still in fucking knots.”

“We can just stay around the house,” you offer.

“I don’t want you to lay around being bored just because of me,” she protests, flopping down on the couch with a groan.

“Not feeling any better?” Marcus asks, coming into the living room. 

“No,” Emma pouts. “I’m gonna stay here and rest.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks, looking over at you.

You shrug. “I don’t really know. Stay here too, probably.”

“How about this,” Marcus says carefully. “I’m supposed to be going to the National Gallery of Art today to give a little talk about forgery detection. If you wanted to come, we could… walk around the museum a bit, afterward?”

You try to keep your face neutral at the prospect of spending a day with Marcus. Alone. 

“Sure,” you say, hoping it sounds nonchalant. “Could be fun.” 

“Great,” he says lightly. “It’s a d–it’s a plan.”

It’s a date.

You’re giddy as you wave goodbye to Emma–who’s watching daytime TV and holding a bottle of Gatorade–and follow Marcus out of the door. 

As soon as the door shuts, he rounds on you, taking your face in his hands and kissing you soundly. “So glad you said yes,” he says breathlessly. 

“Why wouldn’t I say yes to that?” you tease. “Spending the day with you.”

“I don’t know,” Marcus murmurs playfully, capturing your lips again. “Good question.”

“Is this a date?” you ask coyly.

He pauses, lips parting in surprise. “Do you want it to be?”

Taking a big leap of faith, you nod. 

Marcus’s expression softens, and he threads your fingers together. “Then it’s a date.”

After his talk–which you listen to with eager eyes and rapt attention–the two of you stroll slowly through the galleries, talking. Marcus occasionally stops, taking in the artwork, and tells you little tidbits of information about each piece. He seems to be using the quiet setting as an excuse to keep you as close as possible; his arm wraps around your waist as he leans down and talks quietly in your ear, making goosebumps rise on the back of your neck whenever he speaks. He seems to know the effect on you–you had no idea art could be described so sensually. 

You lose the afternoon to each other; having lunch in a small cafe and then walking down the National Mall, hand in hand.

You pick up a sandwich for Emma, just in case she’s feeling better, on your way home. As you get closer and closer, every step starts to feel heavier and heavier. You never want this to end. 

Just before you arrive at his building, Marcus stops and spins you around, cupping your cheek and pulling you to him for a soft kiss. 

“Today was–” he starts, but breaks off, shaking his head. 

“Yeah,” you agree.

“Listen, I don’t–I don’t know what your plans are after you leave tomorrow, but–”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

You’re both dancing around something big–both of you afraid to say what you really mean, and you know it, but you can’t bring yourself to take the leap. 

You had been hoping that Marcus would.

“It was nice,” you say lamely. 

“It was,” he agrees softly. 

Emma is looking a little less green when you arrive back home, and accepts the sandwich eagerly. 

“Sorry about today,” she says, her mouth full. “I don’t know what the hell that was.”

“It was the cal–”

“Don’t fucking say it.”

At first, when you hear Emma start to fall asleep beside you, you're paralyzed. You want to go to Marcus. This is your last night; if you want to say goodbye, you need to go to him this one last time.

You just don't know if you can face goodbye.

You don't know if you can face him. 

You aren't under any reservations about what this is. Marcus is a man, and you're nothing special. You're also nearly half his age. You gave him 'fuck me' eyes for three days, and he when he gave in to the temptation, you came willingly. But this was never meant to be a long-term arrangement. 

It was never meant to be in the first place.

You just wish your first time hadn't been with the total package. Marcus is sweet, kind, attentive, and can apparently make you cum like it was a competitive sport. How are you supposed to go back home, back to being around boys your age, and expect them to measure up?

You debate staying in bed. It would be the easiest thing to do. You could begin tonight: stuffing your feelings down and burying them deep, never letting them see the light of day again. You were on spring break, and this was a fun romp. A fling. You could leave it there and never give Marcus the goodbye he probably deserves. 

On the other hand… 

What's the harm in delaying for one more night?

You slip into his room for the third time in three days, and carefully close the door behind you. Marcus is shirtless in bed, and he beckons you over with a crooked, affectionate smile. 

"Fancy seeing you here, beautiful," he says, drawing the covers back with a playful raise of his eyebrow. 

Despite your heavy mood, you can't help but grin back and enthusiastically hop into bed beside him. 

He takes advantage immediately, grabbing you and turning you, and pulling you back against his chest with a playful growl. You're caged tightly in his arms, and there's nowhere you'd rather be.  

"This is nice," you hum contentedly. 

"Oh yeah? This all you want? Just a little cuddle?" Marcus teases, nipping gently at your shoulder. 

"What if it was?" You wiggle your hips playfully against his hardening cock.

"If that was all you wanted? Then I'd think really hard about dead puppies and my childhood neighbor Mrs. Fitzwilliam in order to calm myself down a little," he answers. 

"Mrs. Fitzwilliam?" you laugh. "Why?"

"When I was a little boy, I was convinced she was a witch. I couldn't so much as talk to her for years."

"Stop it, no you did not."

"I wouldn't joke about that," he laughs. "I was really scared of her!"

"Do me a favor and don't think about her," you tease. "I like how it feels against me."

"Would feel better somewhere else," Marcus says darkly. 

"Have somewhere in mind, do you?"

"I've had it on my mind all day," he says softly. 

"Show me," you murmur. "Show me what's been on your mind all day."

"Wanna know what I was picturing while I was giving that little forgery talk?" Marcus asks.

"Obviously."

"Then sit up, pretty girl."

He loosens his hold on you and you sit up, unable to keep the grin off your face. He sits up too, gently taking hold of the hem of your shirt and drawing it up over your head. He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of your shorts. 

"Help me out with these," he commands quietly. 

You shimmy them down your hips and kick them off, still kneeling before him, now completely bare. Marcus sits back on the headboard and pats his thigh suggestively, giving you a wicked smile. 

"C'mere."

You giggle and bite your lip nervously as you crawl forward and straddle him.

"Wanna see you just like this," he murmurs. 

"I–I've never–"

"I know," he interrupts with a wry smile. "I've got you. Just wanna see you like this," he confesses, palming your jaw and rubbing his thumb across your cheekbone.

Your eyes start to flutter shut as you feel the tip of him breach you as you sink slowly down. 

"Eyes on me, honey." 

With a shaky breath, you open them again, holding Marcus's intense gaze as you impale yourself on his cock. Your lips part, eyebrows pinching together at the stretch of him–you don't think you'll ever get used to the feeling of being broken open for the first time. 

"That's it," he whispers. "Just like that." 

You slowly rock your hips, rising up and sinking back down again. You feel so full like this; your lips part and a breathy gasp escapes you as you feel the drag of Marcus’s cock inside of you. 

This is the first time you've chased your own pleasure with him like this; Marcus's eyes rake over your form greedily and as you ride him, you start to feel overly conscious of his scrutiny.

"Do I look okay?" you ask shyly.

Marcus makes a disbelieving noise and surges up, his hands starting to guide the movement of your hips as he kisses you messing, trailing from your mouth to your neck as he flexes up into you.

"Are you kidding?" he asks softly. "You're ethereal. A fucking goddess in my bed. And if you're thinking about that, I'm not fucking you right."

"That's a lie," you say with a lazy smile. "You're very thorough."

"Oh yeah? You like how I fuck you?"

"Mmmhmm," you hum. "Liked what you were doing last night."

Marcus chuckles deep in his throat. "Is that so? Cum for me like this, honey, and I'll put you on your knees again."

When his thumb presses into your clit, rubbing in small circles, it doesn't take you long to start to feel the pleasure growing in your core. You start moving faster, bouncing on his cock, no longer caring if your body is jiggling too much or that your face might look silly contorted with pleasure; all you can think about is chasing that feeling that’s building inside of you. Marcus helps you along, thrusting up into you, and you swear he must get deep enough to feel the very end of you. 

He whispers little praises and encouragements in your ear in that deep, raspy way his voice gets when he’s drunk on pleasure. You can recognize all his little foibles, now–the way he wiggles his wrist back and forth when something’s on his mind, the way he talks with his hands when he’s passionate about a subject, and the way he sounds when he comes undone.

You’re going to carry all of those things with you, now–the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way he raises one eyebrow when he’s being playful, and the way he sometimes mouths along to the words of his favorite old movies.

Is it possible to miss someone so completely after just one week?

You’re so deep in your emotions when you cum, you barely even realize that you’re about to until you’re clenching hard around him, grinding down on his cock as he works you through it, guiding your hips with his fingers pressing hard into your skin.

You’re still in a daze as Marcus flips you over, depositing you on your back and then turning you over onto your stomach on the bed. Rather than pull you up to your knees like the night before, he straddles you like this and sinks back into you, draping himself over your back as he starts to really fuck you.

Oh. This might be your favorite position yet–it’s the same angle as it was last night with the added bonus of getting to feel the weight of this man pressing down on you. His chest is against your back, his ragged breaths in your ear. His elbows cage your face and he entangles your fingers together over your head. It’s a sensory overload in nearly every way, and you’re drowning in the feel of him.

It’s so good that you feel your core start to tighten again.

“So soon?” Marcus teases breathlessly in your ear. “Fuck, I can feel you shaking. How are you so fucking perfect, hmm? You always feel like you were made to take me.”

His words inexplicably cause a lump to build in your throat. Made to take him, but this couldn’t, by definition, last. The statement only makes you wish that your compatibility didn’t have to be so fucking temporary. 

You’re teetering on a precipice–on the verge of both an orgasm and inexplicable tears. When Marcus gently brushes the shell of your ear with his lips and murmurs one last, soft sentence, you finally succumb to both.

“You can let go, honey. I’ve got you.”

You convulse with a wet sob, pleasure and sorrow overtaking you simultaneously. Blessedly, with your face buried in the pillow, Marcus doesn’t notice yet; he starts fucking into you with abandon until he lets go with a deep groan in your ear. 

When he finally stills, and he starts peppering kisses across your shoulder blade, you can feel him stiffen when he realizes that, mortifyingly, there are tears on your cheeks.

“Shit,” Marcus breathes. He carefully slips out of you and turns you over underneath him, quickly brushing the tears at the corners of your eyes. He kisses them away, whispering softly to you.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks frantically. “Honey, look at me.”

“No!” you exclaim emphatically. “No, I–I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

“Talk to me,” he demands softly.

“I don’t–I don’t want to go home,” you whisper. “I don’t want this to end.”

“Oh, honey,” Marcus whispers. “Really?”

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I’m sure this is exactly what you’re looking for–for some girl to get attached to you after one whole week of knowing you…”

Marcus smiles and brushes his thumb against your cheekbone. “Attached to me?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you say. “You’re just really nice, and you’re gorgeous, and you’ve been so good to me–”

“Don’t cry,” he whispers. “Please don’t cry.”

"Sorry," you say again.

"Hey," he says softly, still stroking your cheek. "You know something? You're wrong. You're not 'some girl.' You're sweet, and funny, and cute, and maybe having this girl right here be attached to me after one whole week of knowing me is exactly what I'm looking for."

"What are you suggesting?" you ask bluntly. 

“All I’m suggesting is that we stay in touch,” Marcus answers. “No pressure, no expectations. We talk, and we get to know each other better, and when you graduate, Miss Pre-Law,” he teases, lightly touching the tip of your nose, “if you still feel the same way, come back to me. Go to Law School at Georgetown. Get an internship at the FBI. And whatever it is that you do, I know of a place you can stay.”

"You'd really want that?" you ask, a slow smile starting to spread across your face.

"I'd be a fool not to grab onto this with both hands," he murmurs, stroking his hand down your side. "A damn fool."

"What about Emma?"

Marcus pauses, biting his lip. "She's a grown woman," he says carefully, "and I haven't had much of a place in her life growing up. I would hope that… once we see where this goes–if it goes anywhere–she'd understand."

You nod slowly. "Okay."

"I've rushed into things in the past," he says softly. "More than once. But I'm not in any rush right now. I want to take my time, get to know you, and if you're still looking at me the way you're looking at me right now in a year, I'll consider myself a lucky man."

Your smile is brilliant. "I'd like that."

"I'd like that, too. And that means tomorrow isn't goodbye, anymore." 

"No?"

"Nope," Marcus says with a grin. "Just 'see you later.'"

"Can I still get a goodbye kiss?" you ask.

He shakes his head playfully, but his lips descend to meet yours anyway. 

"Not a goodbye kiss," he teased.

"A 'see you later' kiss," you correct. 

"A 'you are so goddamn beautiful that I can't help to kiss you' kiss."

"You're making this too complicated."

"An 'I'll call it whatever I damn well please' kiss."

"An 'everything's gonna be alright' kiss?" you ask hopefully. 

Marcus smiles and kisses you long and deep. "Especially that."

– – – – – 

One year later…

“May I present: the graduating class of 2024.”

Along with Emma and the rest of the seniors in the auditorium, you throw your mortar-board hat into the air, shrieking happily as someone else’s crashes down on your head, instead. 

“Fucking finally!” Emma shouts beside you, and you grin widely. 

The last year has been a whirlwind for the both of you, and you know it. 

After reconnecting with her dad, Emma made an effort not to lose touch again. Eventually, he had opened up about his past and the circumstances surrounding his divorce, and at her urging, even began the process of making peace with her mom. They even had Christmas together, for the first time since Emma was two. 

And how do you know all this?

Well, Marcus hadn’t lost touch with you, either. 

True to his word, you both took your time and got to know each other from a distance. Talking to him was still as easy as breathing, and you’d spend entire nights at the beginning staying up far too late and talking well into the wee hours of the morning. 

It wasn’t hard to see that the something that was between you was still there and not going away any time soon. And the only thing you’ve found so far that rivals the strength of your friendship is the passion that you continue to have for each other in the bedroom.

Marcus would make trips when he could–some visits ostensibly to see Emma and other, more secret trysts where his only aim was to see you. (And see you he did; on most occasions, he’d barely let you out of his hotel room.)

Your beginning may have been a meteoric collision–two people forced into proximity that had no choice but to fall into each other–but the growth of your resulting love was slow and careful.

Eventually, you’d need to tell Emma, but it didn’t feel like the time was quite right, yet. Of course, when she visits you at Georgetown next year and you give her not your own address, but her father’s, the two of you will have to come clean. 

Right now, though, as you and Emma weave through the crowds of people looking for Marcus, you’re content to keep things the way they are. Everything is slowly falling into place, and that piece of the puzzle will fit into the rest when it’s ready.

“There she is!”

Emma beams as she hears Marcus call out, waving his hand frantically to catch your attention among the sea of people. 

She lets herself be crushed into a hug, her father grinning proudly and murmuring something unintelligible into her ear. After a few minutes, he releases her and turns to you.

“Congratulations,” he says–perfunctorily, but warmly. 

“Thank you.”

After a couple of beats, Emma rolls her eyes.

“Would you just kiss her already? Honestly, it’s more weird that you’re not.”

Two sets of eyes swivel to her in alarm.

“You… you knew?” you exclaim.

Emma gives you a disbelieving look. “Okay, the fact that you two both think you were being subtle means you might actually be meant for each other. Wow.”

“How?” you choke out.

“Are you serious? You two had bizarre energy when you met, and ever since, I see you smiling at your phone all the time,” Emma says to you. “And after that week, whenever he’s come to visit, you both act weird around each other.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly.

“Plus, you had a hickey on your neck one morning,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Real subtle.”

Oops. You shoot Marcus a look, and notice that he’s as red as a tomato. 

“Em,” he starts, looking pained.

“It’s fine,” she interrupts. “Look, it’s not like we had the closest of relationships when I was a kid. I'm getting to know you as an adult, and it just feels different than it would be if you had raised me. I’m not going to say it doesn’t make me feel fucking weird, and I don’t ever wanna know details about your sex life and I am not calling you ‘mom,’ but I guess I’ll just say… I get it. You two are oddly similar, and I wouldn’t want to stand in between you and happiness. Because I… you know. I love you.”

“Emma,” Marcus says, his smile turning watery for a moment. 

“Don’t… make a big deal out of it,” she grumbles.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he laughs, and gives her a sweet kiss on the forehead. “I love you too, Emmie.”

He pulls back and looks at you, his eyes sparkling, and you feel your insides start to heat up just from his gaze alone.

Those words are still new, between you–the first time was whispered softly in his ear in the darkness after spending all night wrapped around each other just a couple of months ago. Marcus whispered them back immediately after; he was achingly patient and careful to take his time with you, even though you’d felt that emotion emanating from each of you for months prior.

It was just–you didn’t want to rush things. Love was new to you. Everything was. And if Marcus was going to be your first experience with all of it, you had a feeling that you were going to want to savor it.

You know he feels the same.

Stepping forward, Marcus gently tips your chin up to meet him in a gentle kiss. The shape of his lips are so familiar now, you could probably draw them in your sleep. You know the way they move against yours. You know how it feels when he smiles against your mouth–which he does often, and right now.

“Congratulations,” he murmurs again. This time, the word is dark and full of underlying emotion–love, affection, friendship, pride–and you grin back as you kiss him once more.

“What now?” you ask with a little laugh.

“I have a few ideas,” he husks in your ear, inaudible to anyone else, before pulling back. “But right now?” he shrugs. “Anything you want. Everything.”

“What if I said that all I wanted was you?”

Marcus’s eyes soften. “Well, honey,” he says gently, “you’re in luck, because that’s the one thing I can give you.”

The end.

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #pedro pascal

[pedropascalsx]

Kinktober - Day Four: Overstimulation.

Marcus Pike x F! Reader.

Summary: You challenge Marcus… and Marcus doesn’t back down from a challenge.

Word Count: 750

A/N: I’m so sorry this is a day late. I was too tired to finish it last night. I’m a little unsure about this one… but i hope you like it 🫣

Prompt from @absurdthirst’s list 💖

Each swirl of his tongue is deliciously devastating, pleasure mixed with pain as your thighs shake harder than ever before, but he shows no signs of letting up.

One of his hands holds you open as he strokes his cock feverishly with the other, he’s lost count how many times you’ve screamed and cursed his name from the amount of orgasms he’s pulled from you tonight.

But he won’t stop, not until that word falls from your lips or he feels that you can’t take anymore.

Your clit still tingles from your last orgasm, and you can feel that telltale sign of another building in your core. With a whimper of his name he doubles down on his efforts, letting go of his cock and sliding two fingers inside of you with ease.

“Marcus,” you moan, and he feels a shiver rip through your body, and you swear you can hear his cocky grin. “Please.”

He begins pumping his fingers slowly, just teasing that spot inside of you, before ramping up the pace. Thrusting them in and out as you curse his name, your body writhing and thrashing around in the most delicious way as the coil inside of you snaps and you clamp down so hard around his fingers that it almost hurts.

“Good girl,” he coos, lips still brushing against your clit, before he pulls out his fingers and spreads your slick down his shaft.

**

Marcus Pike; gentleman in the streets… absolute freak in the sheets. You had bought this on yourself, when you challenged him, despite knowing one thing about Marcus Pike… he doesn’t back down from a challenge.

**

He gives himself a few more languid strokes, and you look at the ring firmly wrapped around his cock and balls prolonging your night of pleasure.

“I want to touch you,” you murmur, as you manage to push yourself up on your elbows and reach out and take him in your hand.

“You can,” he says with a smirk, before reaching across the bed and picking up your vibrating wand, “You can stroke my cock while I keep this pressed against that pretty little clit.”

He chuckles at your loud groan, before shrugging his shoulders, “Unless you’re admitting defeat, sweetheart?”

“Slowest setting,” you hiss back, despite the fact your clit is pulsating with overstimulation, and you’re not convinced that you can cum again.

“Don’t forget who’s in charge here.” Marcus reminds you with a waggle of his brows. You mumble a quiet ‘yes sir’, as you stroke him slowly, before he places the wand against your clit.

The hiss you make as it touches your swollen bundle of nerves makes him stop for a few seconds to study your face, and once he’s comfortable that you’re okay and ready to go again, he switches it on… on the highest setting.

“Fuck, Marcus,” you groan, as your fingers squeeze tightly around his length, making his hips stutter.

“You know the safeword,” he simply coos. His spare hand reaches down to caress your tit, rolling your nipple in between his fingers before lightly slapping it, just to see the shock on your face and hear you whimper his name.

His name gets caught in your throat though, as your hips try to chase and rock away from the wand all at once, your pleasure receptors needing more even as your brain tells them no.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Marcus chants, as your hand slips from his cock and grips at the bed sheets beneath you, whimpering as another orgasm threatens to devastate and delight you.

He presses the wand just a little harder against your clit as your hips go into overdrive, rocking against the toy before you're completely awash with white hot pleasure and fireworks are exploding behind your pretty eyes.

“Marcus,” you plead, as he works you through your high, his sweet nothings filling your ears before he gently pulls it away and captures your lips with his.

His cock twitches against your stomach as he gently nibbles on your bottom lip, letting you catch your breath for a few seconds.

You watch as he slowly pushes himself up and looks down at your pussy, and his tongue comes out to wet his lips.

“It’s going to be a long night, sweetheart,” he smirks, before pressing a kiss to your knee, “and I’m only just getting started.”

You whine his name whimpering as his tongue starts lapping at your clit again.

You never should have challenged Marcus Pike.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedrostories #marcus pike #marcus pike smut #marcus pike imagine #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x female reader #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #CKT23 #marcus pike x ofc #my fanfiction #my fanfic

[gemstone-roses]

Christmas fic party request:

Where reader is an fbi tech (post red John) and shoots her shot at Jane at the Xmas party. Smut. Lots of smut. Very comforting because I just imagine him being SO lovely. Age difference mentioned.

Patrick Jane x female reader

Summary: your feeling brave, the man you’ve been pining for is older than you, surely he’s not interested in you, right? Smut. 18+ only,protected sex, praise kink, lots of praise, eye contact , so much praise ugh I’m mad for this man okay! I’m begging people to send in more requests for him 🙏🙏

Warnings: explicit smut, 18 plus ONLY. Smut, protected sex, praise kink x10. Fingering. Pet names, Minors be gone from here!

A:N - I’m super proud of this one. Thankyou for requesting I hope you liked it 🥹🥹please feel free to request more for Patrick Jane too!! ❤️

The wince on your face as you glance around the room is prominent. You only came tonight for one reason. And he’s not here.

Your colleagues are busy getting merry, rigsby and van pelt wearing matching Christmas jumpers and paper hats. The music is so loud you can feel it coursing through you.

Jane had seen your mood dip around the holidays and he had made you promise you would at least show your face. You agreed solely because he said he would accompany you and your heart fluttered at his offer. The small touch he left on your elbow, the reassurance in his face when he said ‘I’ll be with you the whole time’ had you screaming internally.

You weren’t the newest member of the team, but you were quite a bit younger than Jane, and as he is so observant you did your absolute best to keep your crush on him secret.

It had been a long few years.

Fed up of the party, you duck out and find yourself wandering straight into something tall and hard.

Patrick

“Oh shit I’m so- you start, blinking at him as you try and play it off.

“Are you okay?” He asks rubbing your arm soothingly.

It seems your brain has short circuited as you just stare at him, he looks good, so good.

“Hey” he says softly, moving his hand to cup your face.

“Hey Jane” you squeak out, praying he can’t tell how flustered you are.

His brows crease at you, his thumb runs across the curve of your cheek and you cannot take this anymore so you bring your hand up to connect with the hand that’s on your face.

His eyes bore into yours as you wait for him to pull his hand away.

But he doesn’t.

“Jane, I- I need to tell you something I - you whisper closing your eyes as you speak.

“I know” he says lowly

“You what!” You say, horrified, eyes shooting open as heat rises to your face.

You try and turn away but he stops you, hands flying to your waist, gripping tightly.

Your lips part slightly as you take in the man in front of you. He smiles, leans forward and

Runs his thumb across your lip and once again your brain short circuits, you think you might die right there. There’s no way he doesn’t feel the way your pulse starts picking up and your eyes blow wide at his action.

“Jane?” You ask, voice cracking

“Yeah honey?” His voice slightly deeper, it makes your pussy clench and your heart soar.

“I love you” you say, and for a moment you panic thinking he doesn’t feel the same and then he closes his eyes and sighs, before pulling you in closer

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear that” he growls.

He searches your face for any kind of hesitation and you nod, he smiles as he shakes his head.

“Use your words my darling”

“Hurry up and kiss me, please” you whine,

Your breath hitches as he cups your face again and brings his lips to yours. His lips are soft, he presses into you as he deepens the kiss.

You can’t help but let out a moan as he presses into you, it’s comforting, safe, and leaves you wanting more.

“Patrick” you whisper, as he reluctantly breaks the kiss, his hand comes back to cup your face, finger stroking slowly down your cheek.

“You okay?” He checks.

You nod a bit too quickly, and he chuckles.

“Shall we, go somewhere more private?” He whispers as he leans in to place a feather light kiss to your neck.

“God, yes” you mutter. He grabs your hand instantly and leads you up to his room above the office.

“It’s cold in here” you mutter as he shuts the door to his living space, instantly his arms are around you again, catching your lips in a searing kiss he cages you against the wall. One of his arms rest on the wall, the other tracing down to your waist. Your chest heaves as he teases his fingers up and down underneath your shirt.

“Please” you whine and he smirks, dipping his hand beneath the waistband.

“God your dripping” he murmurs rubbing your throbbing pussy through your panties. You clench your thighs together at his actions, and his words.

“Jane” you croak, desperate, needy.

“I love the sound of my name falling from your lips” he breathes, making you look at him before moving your panties and sliding in a finger.

It’s agonisingly slow, and of course Patrick can tell your getting frustrated with his teasing.

He speeds up a bit before adding another finger, your walls flutter around his fingers.

“Mm, Jane fuck” you whisper, he increases the pressure and starts to curl his fingers up as they enter you. His thumb comes to circle your clit and he catches your moan with a kiss.

“D-don’t stop” you moan as he presses his thumb into your clit as he curls his fingers hitting your G spot.

“Oh OH god” you whine

“That’s it honey” he soothes, breaking the kiss as your walls clench around his fingers.

“Jane” you say as you feel your orgasm approaching

“Come for me, that’s it, good girl” he says as he curls his fingers once more and you see stars as your orgasm crashes over you.

He holds you steady, fingers lazily pushing in and out of you as he fingers you through your orgasm.

“You okay”? He whispers placing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You nod and he pulls you into his embrace.

“God that was- incredible” you pant, leaning in to give him a kiss.

He pulls you gently towards his bed.

He pushes you gently and you fall back

“Lie down” he whispers, he’s out of breath and it’s so arousing you can’t help the throb that courses through you.

Patrick unbuttons his suit jacket, hanging it up on the chair he climbs on top of you. Once again you feel safe within his presence.

His arms come to rest on either side of your head, he looks down at you, a soft smile on his face.

“Stop it” you say, trying to turn away from his stare.

“Don’t, don’t do that, your beautiful, let me see you yeah?” he tilts your face to look at him, as if you could love this man any more.

“Would you like to stop?” He asks and his face tells you that he would not mind one bit if you said yes, which just makes your heart pound faster in your chest.

“No, I’d very much like to continue” you say. And Jane runs his hand across your face, smiling.

You can feel Jane’s cock pressing into your leg through his jeans and you shift your hips slightly. He sucks in a breath as you sit up to undo his belt.

You do it slowly, payback. But it doesn’t last long as he ends up pulling it off himself before guiding you to lie back down.

He stands up and removes his pants before coming back and resting his hands at the top of yours.

He waits.

You nod.

He pulls down your pants and can’t help but moan at the wet patch in the middle of your underwear.

Your breath hitches as he leans down and presses his lips into your clothed pussy and hooks his fingers in the line of your panties and pulls them down.

Jane frees his hard cock from his boxers and it springs up against his stomach. A drop of precum glistening on the head.

You clench your thighs at the sight. Jane reaches for the condom under his bed and rolls it down.

He pumps his cock a few times before lining up with your entrance.

You breathe in as you prepare.

Jane’s hand find your clit once more,he watches your face as his fingers circle your clit. You relax slightly as he continues his actions.

“Hey” he says softly

“I’m okay” you say.

“Take a deep breath for me darling” he places one hand on your lower stomach and the other wraps around his cock.

You do, and he slides his cock into you, slowly.

“Good girl, keep breathing for me” he soothes as he pushes his cock all the way in. Your breath catches in your throat as he pushes deeper into you.

“Keep looking at me” he says and you throb around him.

“You’re doing so good for me” he praises as he goes to rub your clit again.

“Patrick” you whisper

“Can you- I need you to go-

“I know, I know” he coos, rubbing your hips with his hand,

“I’ll go slow, I got you” he soothes before thrusting into you slowly. One of his hands is still splayed across your stomach.

“Mmhm” you whine.

“You feel so good around my cock like this” he says, pushing his cock in and out, he feels you clench around him as he speaks.

You close your eyes as he angles himself a little differently, still thrusting slowly, but his cock is hitting your g spot.

“Patrick- fuck” you choke out.

“Mm, you make the prettiest sounds” he breathes, every moan out of you sending him closer to release.

He moves his hand from your stomach as he reaches for your puffy clit, gently applying pressure as he thrusts into you.

“Patrick, I’m-

“Look at me, good girl, come for me, come all over my cock” he encourages as he presses into you again.

You hear him groan just as his cock twitched inside you and your pussy clenches,

Your toes curl and you see stars as your orgasm washes over you. Your ears ring as you hear muffled praise falling from Patrick’s mouth as you come down from your high.

“So good for me, you did so good, you’re incredible my love” he soothes, rubbing gentle circles into your hip.

You whimper underneath him. He places his hands on either side of your face.

“Jane, that was - god that was perfect you say a lazy smile painting your face. A big smile lights up his face, “I love you” he says, placing a gentle kiss to your lips.

“I’ve wanted to say that for a very long time” he admits.

“Me too” you say shy all of a sudden, turning your face from him.

He tuts

“No honey, what did I say about doing that, now, I’ll get you a warm towel and some water and I’ll be back in a moment” he soothes as he gets up.

And you, couldn’t be happier.

#patrick jane x reader #Patrick jane imagine #Patrick Jane fanfiction #the mentalist imagine #the mentalist fanfiction #gems Christmas fics

[javier-pena]

closure

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Din Djarin x f!reader

Word Count: 11.1k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Marcus, Din and you used to be best friends. Now you're on opposite sides of the law with a decade worth of grudges between you. But hate can quickly become something else ...

Warnings: angst | canon-typical violence | mentions of food and alcohol and smoking | they’re all mean to each other and they have a difficult relationship | (a lot of) dirty talk (by my standards) | slight power imbalance | reader has hair that can be grabbed | threesome m/f/(m) (kinda) | ecouteurism | voyeurism | exhibitionism | a bit of edging | fingering | competitiveness | (unprotected) piv sex | creampie | a tiny, tiny bit of degradation

Notes: "A friends -> enemies -> throuple vibe with cowboy!Din Djarin, cowboy!Marcus Pike, and a third person" was what @quinnnfabrgay-writes wished for for @pedrostories' Secret Santa event and i took it and ran with it for 11k words ... dear, Kaitlin, I hope I got it right and you'll have as much fun reading this as I had writing it. As always, this story wouldn't be what it is without Dani @alexturner who calmed me down when I was still far far away from completing this fic two weeks before the deadline!

***

1866/67

You were all together and it was perfect. Until you weren’t anymore, and you lost your anchor in life, your true north. Oaths given and promises made didn’t mean anything when you were not yet grown but already too old to believe in miracles.

The day Marcus told you and Din he was moving away was the day you made the acquaintance of grief. The childish part of you had thought the three of you would stay together forever, just like you had promised each other last summer lying in the grass by the river. Wherever life would take one of you, the others would follow. But you were barely 13 and couldn’t decide your own fate yet. So when winter came around and the grass died and the river froze over, the promises of the summer had to be broken too.

Marcus just dropped the news while the three of you were out hunting – or pretending to – in the forest behind town. He couldn’t even look at you when he said it. And he didn’t go after Din when Din stormed off, leaving you to listen to Marcus’ excuses. The only thing you thought would be the one constant in your life ran like dirt through your fingers that afternoon. A few weeks later, you saw Marcus for the last time, astride a horse next to his father, leaving town without looking back. With him left a part of your childish innocence.

The grown-up part of you understood. Marcus was a boy, he had to go where his father commanded his family to go. And his father had just been promoted to sheriff – in a town two states away. Of course, Marcus had to go with him, but you still resented him for it. Why couldn’t he stand up to his father and stay? Maybe find work on the same ranch as Din? Din, after all, was your age too, and an orphan, and was doing well by himself. If Din could be self-reliant, why not Marcus?

At least you still had Din and he had you. You tried to keep your friendship alive, visited him on the ranch, invited him to town, sent him gifts when you yourself had less than nothing, just to see him smile. It wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough. And when the snow disappeared under the warm spring sun, Din disappeared too, without a word, without a trace. One day he was there and the next he wasn’t. That taught you there was a grief worse than your best friend telling you he was moving away. It was your best friend deeming you not important enough for a goodbye.

When the next summer came around, it was only you who was lying in the grass by the river. Your big, childish eyes that had hungrily taken in the wonders around you were narrowed, your heart that had been wide open to the people around you was firmly locked. Neither Din nor Marcus had contacted you in the months since they had left and now you knew – relying on someone else only meant pain and heartbreak. Trusting someone else with a piece of yourself would only leave you lying in the dirt, bloodied and bruised.

That afternoon, you made a promise to yourself: you would never need another person again. You would never give away a piece of yourself again. You would protect yourself at all costs, even if it meant cutting yourself off from the rest of the world. Whatever happened, you would never experience grief like this ever again.

1879

Your arms are stiff and painful when you wake up. The bonds tying your wrists together haven’t loosened at all during the night. You groan and your bottom lip tears open – you’re parched, you’re tired, you’re in pain.

“Mornin’,” Marcus says, stoking the fire with a stick.

Without a word, you roll over onto your other side, so you’re facing away from him. You hear his sure steps, spurs jingling every time his boots land on the cold, hard dirt, and then he rolls you back toward him with a gentle touch to your shoulder. Before you can protest, he pressed the nozzle of a waterskin to your lips and makes you drink. You collect some of the water in your mouth, then spit it right back in his face. He wipes himself dry with a neutral expression, then retreats to the fire, picking up where he left off.

“I’m just tryin’ to be kind,” he mumbles, as if he’s trying to reassure himself he’s doing the right thing. You pretend you haven’t heard him.

His horse whinnies softly when the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts across your camp. Your stomach growls as you’re trying to figure out when you had your last meal. Yesterday morning, you conclude, before Marcus Pike forced himself back into your life, polished boots on his feet and a gleaming star on his chest, heavy shackles in his hand and a loaded gun strapped to his side. That wanted poster stuffed into his back pocket was all the authorization he needed to arrest you, and you let him, because his reappearance after twelve years of absence made you freeze like prey. The only people who could have saved you, Burke and Bridger and the other members of your gang, were too far away to do anything about your arrest.

“You hungry?” he asks from his crouching position next to the fire. “There’s still some beans left over from last night.” The beans you refused to eat. “I could warm them up for you.”

You pretend you haven’t heard him, focusing on an ant scurrying across dried grass and tiny pebbles. He doesn’t get to talk to you, much less cook.

“You’re gonna have to talk to me eventually,” he adds, his voice melodic and clear in the cold morning air.

You don’t, because you don’t owe him anything, and after two more attempts he gives up. Even though your stomach is empty, growling hungrily, it’s also filled with the warmth of pride as you ride next to him later, hands bound to the horn of the saddle. All you have to do is to stay strong until you reach your destination, some jail or other in a dirty town. He’ll never find out that you know who he is if you play your cards right. Let the doubt and prospect eat away at his heart.

“You’ve changed,” he observes some time around midday, as you ride next to each other on a well-worn path over the plains. “When we were kids, you could never shut up.”

You pretend to be interested in the flight of a northern harrier high up in the sky, acting as if you didn’t hear him.

“I always expected you to make a good match or open up a tailor shop,” Marcus goes on, seizing you up from below the brim of his white hat that is too bright in the midday sun. “I never expected this of you.”

His comment gets to you, worming its way under your skin like a splinter ready to infect you with a fever. You bite the inside of your cheek so you don’t shoot him a snide remark. He doesn’t get to hurt you, not again.

“What’s done is done,” he says next, and his horse shakes its head with a snort as if its’ agreeing. “Maybe a few years in prison will clear your head and set you straight.”

The splinter is infected now; it happened much faster than you had expected. The infection spreads to your stomach, making it bubble with acid, it spreads to your cheeks, sets them on fire with anger and shame. You dig your nails into the leather of the saddle and fill your lungs with air, ready to scream all the ugly things at him that you’ve contained for more than a decade. But before you can form a single syllable, the distant roll of thunder interrupts you, the distant pounding of hooves on dirt.

Marcus hears it too, and his hand instinctively flies to the colt strapped to his side. He glances around, eyes narrowed against the sun, but you spot it before he does – a tall rider on a gray horse, so darkly colored it looks black, rushing toward you as if hellhounds are after him, their fangs bared. You don’t know what to make of that sight, but you’re acutely aware of your defenselessness. If he means you harm, you’ll be completely at his mercy. Marcus seems to be thinking the same thing as he glances over at you, but you make a point of facing the approaching rider, your face blank. You don’t want his concern, especially not since it’s his fault you’re in this situation.

The gray horse comes to an abrupt stop a few yards away from you. Its rider is wearing a hat that matches the color of its coat, and his face is hidden by a dark bandanna tied across his mouth and nose and cheeks, so only his brown eyes are visible. Where one hand holds onto the reins of his horse, the other holds a shotgun, propped against his hip so the barrel points up to the sky.

“She’s mine, Pike,” he growls, even before the dust has settled.

“Now, hold your horses,” Marcus says, sizing up the newcomer. “I am an agent of the law, deliverin’ this here prisoner –”

“– into my hands,” the stranger finishes, now aiming the barrel of the shotgun straight at Marcus’ chest.

Your gaze wanders between the two, trying to figure out who is the lesser evil.

“Careful.” Marcus’ voice is steady, but his hand that he lifts instinctively in front of his chest is shaking. His other hand, however, cocks the hammer of his colt in one smooth, practiced motion.

“Don’t be a hero.” The stranger flicks his gun to Marcus’ side, then back onto his chest. “You’ll lose.”

You don’t know what it is, if it’s the way he tilts his head or if it’s the way he pronounces his Ls, with a slight lilt to his voice, but suddenly that stranger isn’t a stranger at all.

“Din?” you gasp, and Marcus’ head snaps to you so fast you hear his neck crack.

Din’s eyes don’t even flicker to you. “Move back, Pike,” he orders.

Your head is spinning. If this is really Din, and you’ve never been surer of anything in your life, then you’re saved. You have no idea what you’ve done to deserve this much luck, but you’re not about to look the gift horse in the mouth. And even though both he and Marcus broke your heart twelve years ago, you can already feel it stitch itself back together inside your chest at the sight before you.

“Move back,” Din repeats. “That bounty is mine.”

The carefully placed stitches tear open again and you bleed. He doesn’t know who you are, or he doesn’t care; all he wants is the money. With every stitch that comes undone and every drop of blood you bleed, your heart turns back into a stone that sits heavy inside your chest.

“I’m not movin’ for you.” Marcus spits down into the dirt and for a moment you’re distracted from your pain by that crude action. “Bounty hunter scum.”

A shot rings out as Din fires at Marcus, shooting the hat off his opponent’s head. Marcus’ horse spooks, rears with a loud shriek, and Marcus, who is caught unawares, tumbles down and hits the ground with a heavy thud and a grunt. He’s back on his feet in no time, his body unhurt, his damaged pride only visible by the flush that creeps into his cheeks. You want to shout when he rushes toward Din’s horse, but it all happens so fast, and then Din hits the ground too, pulled out of the saddle, his shotgun discarded somewhere in the dirt.

Marcus hits Din, and you hear a sickening crack when his fist connects with Din’s jaw. He does it again, one hand holding onto the collar of Din’s shirt. But then Din frees himself with a shove, and Marcus stumbles before he hits the ground again when Din returns his punches. Din climbs on top of him, pinning down Marcus’ arms with his knees, and hits him again, cracking open Marcus’ cheek. Marcus grunts in pain and kicks his legs, trying to free himself, but Din appears to be much stronger. He punches and punches with such precision that watching him becomes almost hypnotic until you can’t take it anymore.

“Din!” you shout, and when he doesn’t stop, you kick your horse and steer it next to the two men. “Din!” you repeat, and he looks up at you, not even a glint of recognition in his eyes. His bandanna hangs askew, but is still covering most of his face. You wonder what he looks like now. “Leave him!” you order, your voice laced with all the hurt you’ve buried for twelve years.

Marcus, his suit dusty and his face bruised, is laughing, and when Din offers him a hand to pull him up, he pulls Din into a tight hug that Din returns with just as much enthusiasm. You can do nothing but stare, feeling dumb.

Once they break apart, Marcus remarks, “You’re strong,” and rubs his chin.

“You too,” Din returns the compliment, patting Marcus’ shoulder.

They have forgotten you’re there. You shrink back in on yourself, hating yourself for wishing they’d just give you one small sign of recognition.

“About her …,” Din starts as if you’re not even there.

“Let’s share the bounty,” Marcus offers without hesitation. “It’s so much money.”

“But you caught her.”

Marcus laughs, and you’re transported back to those long summer days by the river. “And you fought for her. I think that makes us even.”

Din holds out his hand. “Let’s shake on it then.”

Marcus does without hesitation.

And you haven’t felt dirtier in all your life, like you’re nothing but a piece of meat to be bargained with.

*******

When the sun has vanished halfway behind the horizon, you reach a small settlement that is nothing more than a dusty main street and rickety wooden buildings huddled together as if trying to seek comfort. You spent all day riding behind Din and Marcus who talked amicably about their jobs and their lives and their horses while ignoring you. You’re well aware that the tears you fought hard to hold back have left tracks in the dirt on your cheeks, and you wish you could wipe them clean so the men don’t see the evidence of the hurt they’ve caused.

Why don’t they remember you?

Marcus leads your little group to the jail, the only adobe building in the entire town, and is greeted by a dirty man who looks like a weasel.

“Jail’s full,” he says even before Marcus has had time to open his mouth.

“She’s wanted for bank robbery in three states,” Marcus tries.

The man shrugs, unimpressed. “I have a man in there who’s wanted for murder in five.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do with her?” Marcus asks.

The man shrugs again. “Ain’t my problem.”

Marcus looks to Din for help, but Din shrugs too.

Marcus leads you to the saloon next, the only building in town that seems to be busy, and ties his horse up out front. He vanishes inside for a short while, and when he comes back out, he says, “They have one room left.”

“Let’s go,” Din grunts, and pulls you off your horse.

Your legs feel stiff from riding all day, every bone in your body aches from tiredness. You want nothing more than to crumble to the ground and find some rest, but you won’t show any signs of weakness. So you hold your head high and shake off Din’s hands with a snarl, walking into the saloon next to him like an equal, not his prisoner. Marcus leads the way up a creaking wooden staircase and into a dirty corridor that has yellowed pictures on the walls and heavy curtains hanging in front of the windows. From downstairs, you hear the shouts of drunk men and the laughter of women who are paid for their company. You know exactly what kind of establishment you’re in.

Marcus pushes open the door to a room and suddenly the noise from downstairs stops. It’s like you’ve entered another world, maybe one of those fancy hotels back east you sometimes read about in magazines. The curtains in here are a pretty shade of pink, the floors are clean, a fire is crackling in the fireplace, and on a small table in front of the chaise lounge, there are three bowls of steaming hot stew just waiting for you. Off to your left you spot another doorway and through that a big bed covered in white linen. Your body aches with longing.

“Sit,” Din growls, and pushes you onto the chaise lounge. He pulls out more shackles from the saddlebag slung over his shoulder, ones that come with a long chain, and ties you to the chaise lounge. It’s only then you realize the piece of furniture is fixed in place with iron bolts screwed into the floorboards.

Only then does Marcus take off your handcuffs.

You reach for one of the bowls of stew and eagerly begin slurping it down, too hungry to act aloof around the men. You ignore Marcus who throws Din a snide look. Din doesn’t return it; instead, he takes off the bandanna and reaches for a bowl of his own. And you freeze, a piece of half-chewed potato on your tongue. He looks just like the boy you remember, his proud chin and big nose still the defining features in his face. But a stubbly, black beard is covering his jaw now, and a faint scar runs just below his left eye, and his lips are somehow fuller than you remember. You know you’re staring but you can’t help it – you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning.

“Eat your supper,” Marcus snaps at you.

You don’t know if it’s the exhaustion or if it’s Din coming back into your life so unexpectedly, but you’ve had it with Marcus Pike. “Don’t talk to me like that,” you snap back.

A smirk lights up Marcus’ face and you wish you could punch him but he’s sitting too far away. “Oh, so you do know how to talk.”

“Marcus …,” Din says, and it sounds like a warning.

“I know how to talk,” you confirm. “I just have nothing to say to you.”

“You had to know you’d get caught sooner or later,” Marcus points out. “No need to be upset. You played a dangerous game and you lost.”

His words hurt more than a slap would have. “That’s not … don’t you remember?”

“He remembers,” Din says quickly before Marcus can reply. “But that was a long time ago. He doesn’t owe you anything.”

“I want to hear it from him.” Your jaw is so tight you have difficulty speaking.

“You broke the law. I caught you. End of story,” is Marcus’ short reply.

You can’t let it go. “So our past doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“Din’s right,” Marcus answers with a shrug. “We were just kids. There’s nothing –”

“You promised we’d always be friends,” you interrupt him, your voice so loud it rings in your ears. “You promised, and then you left.” You turn to Din whose gaze is fixed on his half-empty bowl. “Tell him, Din.”

Before Din can say anything, Marcus puts down his bowl with a loud clang. “Now listen here.” Where your voice was full of emotion, his is calculating. “We were kids. We were playing around. You couldn’t honestly have expected me to keep a promise when I couldn’t decide anything for myself. My father –”

“Fuck your father!” you shout. “Din could look after himself too.”

Marcus laughs and it makes you want to press your hands to your ears to black out the sound. “You’re delusional, missy. Why should I have abandoned my family for a ranch hand and some dirt-poor street kid?”

“You promised!” you scream, flinging your bowl across the room so it bursts against the wall, its contents landing on the floor with a wet plop.

Marcus laughs even louder. “By God, those wanted posters are right. You’re insane.”

“That’s enough.” Din’s deep voice makes both you and Marcus pause and look at him. “Ain’t no reason to be cruel to her.”

“Just listen to her.” Marcus runs his fingers through his hair, a gesture you remember all too well.

“I am,” Din answers with a grunt. “Maybe you should, too.”

Marcus takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. A smile tugs on Din’s lips, one that makes your stomach drop. They share some kind of understanding you’re excluded from.

“Alright,” Marcus says with a nod and turns to you. “Say your piece.”

You don’t want him to call you insane again so you will your voice to be steady when you speak. “You and Din, you were my only friends, the only real family I had. We promised each other to … to be there.” The way Marcus looks at you, his cold gaze full of attention, makes your eyes sting with unshed tears. Now that he listens to you, you can’t seem to keep that anger alive. “And I know you had to leave. If my family had left, I don’t think I would’ve stayed behind either. But you … there was no word from you for twelve years. And then you just turn up as if nothing has happened.”

Marcus nods again and turns his attention to Din. “You feel the same way?” he asks.

“No,” is Din’s simple answer.

That stokes the angry fire again. “But you left too.” Your voice isn’t steady anymore. “You left because the memory of him was too painful.”

Now it’s Din’s turn to laugh in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. “You have no idea why I left.”

“Then tell me,” you demand.

“No.” You’re starting to hate that word. “It had nothing to do with you.”

Before you can press him for an explanation, Marcus clears his throat. “You know where I went. I left you my new address. You also didn’t send word for twelve years.”

“Because you just left,” you say quickly, not prepared to admit that what he’s saying makes sense.

Marcus ignores you. “And what did you expect? You’re practically an outlaw, I’m a sheriff … did you think I’d show up on your doorstep to reminisce about the good old days? I moved on a long time ago and it would be best if you did too.”

“Didn’t it ever occur to you that this might be your fault? If you hadn’t left –”

“Don’t you dare put this on me!” Marcus shouts. “No one forced you to rob banks, that was your decision.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you snap.

Without warning, Marcus lunges at you, hands outstretched, ready to grab any part of your body he can reach. You flinch back, chains scraping against the wooden floorboards, but before he can touch you, Din is there, shielding you with his body.

“That’s enough,” he says, voice strained from holding back Marcus. “Don’t let her get to you.”

Marcus groans, but takes a step back. “She’s …”

“I know,” Din says, throwing you a disdainful loom over his shoulder. “But ain’t we all lookin’ for someone to blame for our misfortunes?”

A tiny little gear starts turning at the back of your mind at hearing him say that. Is that what you’re doing? Putting the blame for your miserable life on someone who wasn’t even present for most of it, just so you don’t have to hold yourself accountable?

“Din …,” you start carefully, no idea what to say to him but hoping you can catch his attention.

Din only has eyes for Marcus though, “It’s late.” He yawns deeply. “We still have a long ride ahead of us. Let’s go hit the hay.”

“We can’t leave –,” Marcus starts.

“We can leave her here. Trust me,” Din adds when Marcus doesn’t move.

Trust me. Those words echo around your mind later when you’re trying to fall asleep, head resting on a prickly pillow, body uncomfortably twisted on the chaise lounge. Sometimes, that echo is replaced with a different one. Ain’t we all looking for someone to blame for our misfortunes? If Marcus hadn’t left, your life could have gone differently. But you made the decision to push everyone away when he was gone. And you made the decision not to reach out to him. And you made the decision to look for guidance in a band of outlaws instead of in your town’s seamstress or in a nice husband or in faith.

A tear rolls down your cheek and lands on the pillow with a soft plop as embarrassment makes you run cold with dread. Ever since Marcus put you in chains, you’ve behaved like a spoiled brat. You didn’t show him you recognized him either, waiting for him to … you don’t know what it is you want from him. He cooked for you, made sure you were somewhat comfortable, considering the circumstances, and you just spit in his face. It’s not surprising he doesn’t want anything to do with you. If your places were reversed …

But before you can finish that thought, you hear a strange noise, a deep, low moan that you can’t quite place, followed by the creaking of an old bedframe. Then you remember the men and women from downstairs, the way the women were sitting in the men’s laps, laughing at their jokes. You hold your breath and prick up your ears, listening for a higher moan, but none comes. Even the bedframe doesn’t creak a second time. It’s only when you really listen that you can hear strangled pants, as if someone is trying to keep quiet.

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it.”

Your whole body turns stiff as a board at the sound of Din’s voice, louder than any sounds you heard so far, too loud on your eagerly listening ears. Your face heats up instantly and you squirm, your heart jumping into your throat. No, you’re imagining things … there is no way this sound could have come from Din. He’s in the bedroom with Marcus, not …

Again, your thoughts are interrupted, this time by a low grunt, followed by a sharp intake of breath that is released into the most sinful moan you’ve ever heard. And this time, there is no doubt about who is making those sounds and where they’re coming from. Because while that moan is still sticking to your eardrums like honey, you hear Din’s voice again, sharper this time.

“Will you look at that? So eager, and I haven’t even started yet.”

You press your palms to your ears, hands clammy with shame. Are you more embarrassed for them because you can hear them so clearly or for yourself because your childhood best friends, both men …? You’re not stupid, you’ve heard stories about how men sometimes prefer the company of other men, but a part of you thought those were tall tales, told because it sounded so forbidden. But Din and Marcus …

Carefully, you lift one hand of your ear and listen. At first, you don’t hear anything, but the more you try, the clearer you hear it: sheets rustling, low, breathless pants, even the sound of skin moving against skin. You listen with bated breath, very aware that you shouldn’t, but even though your stomach is still in knots, something else is happening to your body too. A hungry pressure between your legs demands your attention, but you ignore it by digging your nails into the fabric of your dirty pants.

“Din …,” comes Marcus’ strangled voice after a while, and you inhale sharply at hearing the desperation in his voice.

“Oh no.” Din’s voice is eerily calm, still deeper than usual, but steady. “You ain’t done payin’ for what you did to my face.”

“Din, please …,” Marcus begs.

“No, darlin’. I like it too much when you’re like this.”

The bedframe creaks again, just once at first, then the sound of wood being moved against wood turns into a steady rhythm. Marcus mumbles something you can’t hear, but you hear Din reply, “I know … you’re doin’ so well.” Realizing you’ve been holding your breath all this time, you inhale sharply, the dry air in the room irritating your throat. You swallow hard at the same time as Marcus breathes out a trembling, “Fuck.”

The chain around your ankle jingles, and it’s only then you realize you’ve been rubbing your thighs together, chasing friction. You stop immediately, but Din and Marcus haven’t heard you. Marcus’ moans sound strangled now, as if Din is covering his mouth with his hand. Or maybe Marcus is trying to keep quiet, remembering where they are and who is in the other room, just a thin wooden door between you.

“Please,” Marcus tries again, the word muffled and barely intelligible.

“That word sounds so pretty comin’ from your lips,” Din groans, and it’s the first time his voice breaks.

“Din!” A sharp warning.

“Oh, come on now, don’t be shy,” Din coaxes.

Suddenly, all the noise stops, and you hear your blood rushing in your ears. Then you hear Marcus again, his voice straining as if he’s choking on the words. “Fuck!” he groans. “Fuck, Din! Fuck, yeah. Fu- don’t, don’t fuckin’ stop.”

Din grunts, or maybe he laughs. You can’t tell. You’re burning up as if you have a fever. One of your hands is resting at the top of your thigh, thumb rubbing soothing circles. Your other hand is in your mouth as you bite down, stopping yourself from making a single sound that could betray you. Between your legs, everything is clenching and burning, but you don’t dare give yourself the release you so desperately crave. And when your thumb brushes too close to your center, you remove your hand with a jerk, grabbing the chaise lounge instead.

Din groans, a sound you feel deep in your thorax, and you hear Marcus breathe one final, “Fuck,” before a silence so thick you could slice it with a knife settles over your two rooms. You try to take deep breaths, but your whole body screams for attention, screams to be touched and caressed. It’s painful when you release your grip on the chaise lounge, and your hand shakes when you bring it up to rest against your stomach. Your eyes flicker to the door on your right, but Din and Marcus are quiet. Their groans and sighs and words are still fresh on your mind as you allow yourself to replay them.

Your hand wanders lower and lower, and when you press two fingers against yourself through your pants, you almost sob with relief. You massage yourself eagerly while undoing the chord that holds your pants in place with the other hand. But before you can touch yourself, the door to your right creaks open, and you freeze, remembering just in time to close your eyes.

“Yeah, she’s asleep,” Din grunts, before the door clicks shut again.

That’s enough to break the spell. Swallowing a lump of shame, you turn onto your side, back facing the door.

*******

The next day is hot, the sun stands high in a cloudless sky. You keep your eyes on the neck of your horse, trying to shield it from the bright light. Marcus rides ahead of you on the narrow trail, Din follows behind you. If you hadn’t heard them last night, you wouldn’t be able to tell that something happened between them. Or would you? Were Din’s cheeks flusher this morning before he hid them behind the bandanna? Is Marcus turning around so much to check on you or is he looking at Din?

You’ve barely had time to sort through your own confusing feelings: shame at realizing you might have been treating Marcus unfairly, embarrassment at almost touching yourself last night, anger at the way both Din and Marcus are treating you and … longing. A strange kind of longing. You don’t know what for, but you wish there was something you could say to make them see you as more than an outlaw. But when Din says, “You’re quiet today,” you deliberately give him the cold shoulder. And when Marcus offers you some water, you shake your head, even though you’re parched.

That evening, you’re far away from any human settlement. When the stars come out, even before the blush of the setting sun has completely vanished in the west, Marcus stops by an abandoned adobe building with a roof that is half collapsed and a thorny bush growing next to the doorway, almost blocking it. “That’s as far as we go today,” he says, dismounting.

You don’t have a choice but to follow Din into the building while Marcus unsaddles the horses. The floorboards are covered with sand, but the fireplace and chimney are intact. Din sweeps some of the dirt away with his boot, then shoves you so you have to sit down. “Hey!” you protest, but he just ignores you.

Marcus carries your saddles into the shack, one after the other, then looks around. “I’m findin’ us some kindlin’,” he decides. “Keep an eye on her.” Din grunts in confirmation.

You shift around on the floor, trying to find a more comfortable position, when Din places your saddle at your back so you can lean against it. Then he unlocks your shackles. You groan in relief, rubbing your sore wrists. “Don’t let him see you be nice to me.”

Din throws you a curious glance. “Why do you hate him so much?”

You sigh, stretching your legs out in front of you. “I thought we were friends. Then he left.”

“Oh, come on.” Din rolls his eyes. “Drop the act.”

His direct manner makes you want to be honest with him. “You’re right. It was such a long time ago. Sometimes I don’t even remember why I’m so angry with him, but I can’t stop.” That gets you Din’s undivided attention. His bandanna is still tied over his face, but his eyes light up. “It’s true, you were both so important to me. And then he was gone, and you left too, and I thought it was because of him, so I blamed –”

“It was because of him,” Din corrects you.

“But yesterday you said –”

“I said I didn’t leave because I couldn’t bear the memory of him. That’s not …” The sparkle in his eyes flickers, then dies.

But something within you lights up as you begin to understand. “I heard you last night,” you say, voice breathless.

Din chuckles. “It’s not as if … we run into each other from time to time, that’s all.”

“That’s what he wants it to be, isn’t it?” It all makes sense now. It makes sense that nothing could cheer Din up after Marcus left. It makes sense that Din left too. It’s just that it hasn’t occurred to you yet because it’s so … unusual.

Din shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s … twelve years ago, I left because I wanted to find him. Because when we were still together and you two were practicing kissing while I was trying to catch dinner, he would never stop looking at me. Before he left, he gave me this bracelet he had made out of some leather he had stolen from the tanner and made me promise to come find him. I know he hurt you, but he …”

“He hurt you more?” you guess.

“No, not on purpose. We’re both …”

“You’re men,” you say, hoping you’ve guessed right this time.

“We meet by chance every couple of years in a one-horse town and then we see where the night takes us.”

Your heart aches for Din, for the dull look in his eyes, for his flat voice when he finally tells you the truth. And it aches for yourself, for the way you’re even more on the sidelines than you had thought. But you can’t be angry at him for that.

“So it’s just been Marcus for you ever since we were kids?” you ask carefully.

Din laughs and shakes his head. “Don’t try to make this into a romantic tale. Of course not.” Your confusion must be written all over your face because he elaborates, “I’m not sleeping alone almost every night because a childhood friend gave me a bracelet more than a decade ago. It’s just … we’re fond of each other, that’s all.”

You look at him warily.

“Who knows, if I hadn’t left, maybe I’d have grown fond of you, too.”

“Don’t tease,” you snap.

“I mean it,” Din says calmly. “You’re pretty under that prickly wall you keep hiding behind.”

You choose to change the topic. “Does he hate me?”

“Who? Marcus?” Din laughs again. “I don’t think he’s capable of hatin’ anyone. He’s annoyed with you, sure, he thinks you’re childish and immature, but I also think he’s not as nonchalant as all that.”

You smile at Din, and your cheeks twitch with the unfamiliar motion. “I missed you too, by the way. Not just him.”

“You didn’t miss me as much as him though,” Din points out, and finally pulls the bandanna off his face.

“I’m also not as angry at you as I am at him,” you point out.

Something in Din’s face shifts. “Do you want to get back at him? Because I might have an idea how we could do that.”

“What?” you ask, well aware that Marcus’ footfalls are moving closer and closer to your shack.

“Just follow my lead,” Din says with a quiet smile.

Marcus doesn’t remark on your unshackled wrists or the way you keep digging into your food once he gets a fire going and warms a can of pork and beans for you. He mostly talks to Din about the remainder of your trek, about the formalities involved in picking up the money they’re owed for you, about his plans to travel back to his hometown, the one he moved two twelve years ago, where he was elected sheriff two years ago. Tonight, the way they barely glance at you doesn’t sting. It doesn’t bother you that they talk about you like you’re not there. You only hide your smile, feeling lighter than you have in years.

Once supper is done, Din pulls a flask from his saddlebag and hands it to Marcus before moving his saddle next to yours so he sits closer to you, then offers you the same flask.

“Din,” Marcus warns, and it sounds so much like how he said Din’s name yesterday that it makes you feel that familiar prick of embarrassment.

“Don’t worry,” Din says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

You take a sip from the bottle, grateful for the burning sensation.

The bottle is handed around until it is almost empty, and your head is heavy with a pleasant buzz. You laugh when Din teases Marcus about his uneven mustache, and you laugh even louder when Marcus retorts, “At least I can grow one.” With Din next to you, and Marcus sitting cross-legged opposite you, you feel yourself grow comfortable with the familiarity of it, like your childhood home remains familiar to you even if you haven’t visited in years.

When Din leans in to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear, the atmosphere in the room shifts, the walls move in closer, and the air grows thicker. Marcus furrows his brow, and your face heats up, so you clear your throat and sit up straighter, moving your body away from Din’s. But then you remember how he told you to follow his lead, and you smile at him, trying to ignore how your heart picks up speed.

“You know what I’ve been wondering ever since we were kids?” Din asks, deep brown eyes locked onto yours. Before you can answer, he adds, “Marcus?”

“What?” Marcus asks, voice neutral.

“Why was it that only you got to practice kissing with her, and never me?” Din’s eyes flicker down to your lips before he looks over to where Marcus is sitting, fingers balled into nervous fists in his lap. “Isn’t that odd?”

“You never asked?” Marcus replies with a shrug.

“Oh, I did,” Din corrects him.

Marcus runs his finger over his mustache. “I don’t know, Din. Maybe she didn’t want to practice with you.”

You try to remember those long summer days twelve years ago, and you try to remember if you really never kissed Din. What you do remember is Marcus’ soft lips on yours, the way he hardly used any pressure as if he was afraid he’d break you. And the longer you think about it, the surer you are that there was a day Din asked, “When’s it my turn?” and Marcus dismissed him with a wave of his hand. But you don’t remember not wanting to kiss Din.

Din slings his arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. “I think you didn’t want to share.” It sounds like a tease, but Din can’t quite hide the bite in his voice.

Marcus’ gaze flickers to you and then back to Din. He sighs. “That was such a long time ago. I really don’t remember.”

Interesting, you think.

Din tips back his hat and smiles down at you. “Then I’m sure you won’t mind me practicing now.” It sounds almost like a question, and you give him a small nod as answer.

Din catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger and guides you up toward his lips. Your heart skips a beat at that first touch and then it starts hammering painfully at the forcefulness and greed with which Din kisses you, so different from how it used to be with Marcus. You return his kiss hungrily, flicking your tongue across his bottom lip, reaching for his arm to steady yourself, following him eagerly when he leans back. It doesn’t feel like he’s just pretending to get back at Marcus.

Din moves on from your mouth, leaving a hot trail on your jaw and down your neck, before he sinks his teeth into a bit of exposed shoulder where your shirt has shifted. You bite your tongue, holding back a whimper, but he grips your neck lightly and strokes his thumb across the bitemark. “Oh no, darlin’, let it all out.”

“Alright,” Marcus says, slapping his thigh with some finality. You flinch, only now remembering he’s there and why you’re kissing Din in the first place. “Hope you’re happy now.”

Din ignores him and kisses down your chest, flicking open the buttons of your shirt with practiced fingers on his way. You freeze up, gazing across the small space at Marcus, but then Din cups one of your breasts and grazes his teeth across the nipple. “Din,” you groan, both a warning and a plea.

“Din,” Marcus says, and it’s all warning. Hearing him say that single word feels like a punch to the base of your spine.

Din looks up at you, lips glistening. His thumb replaces his mouth as he rolls your hard nipple under the tip of his finger. “Bet you never practiced that with him, did you?”

“Does that still count as a kiss?” you tease, your voice quivering as he keeps stroking your nipple.

“What do you think, Marcus?” Din asks, glancing at the other man.

Marcus has paled, but you have to give him credit for keeping his voice steady when he answers, “I think you should stop this.”

Din ignores him and captures your mouth in another kiss instead. He pushes his tongue past your lips and teeth, exploring how to draw sighs and whimpers from you. You squirm, very aware of a steadily pulsating need between your legs, not only fed by what Din is doing to you, but also by the thick atmosphere in the room. A piece of wood in the fireplace snaps, making you jump, and Din runs his hand down your naked side, rough callouses catching on your soft skin. He stops at the hem of your trousers.

“Do you want me to stop?” Din whispers against your lips, so quietly Marcus can’t hear.

You shake your head.

“Remember that night in Galveston?” Din asks, his voice loud enough to fill the entire cabin. “When we agreed to share that woman and you didn’t let me touch her?”

You swallow hard when Marcus replies with a low, “Think very carefully about what you’re gonna do next, Din.”

“It was easy, really, because I didn’t care about her,” Din goes on as if he hasn’t heard Marcus, untying the chord of your trousers with a flick of his wrist. “But I have a feeling that this is gonna be very hard for you.”

He shoves his hand between your legs and you groan deeply, a sound so foreign that at first you don’t realize it’s coming from you. Your head falls back and lands against your saddle, while you raise your hips at the same time, eager for Din’s touch. If he’s surprised by how wet you are, he doesn’t let on, instead circles your clit with his thumb just like he toyed with your nipple. Soon, his hand moves lower, careful at first, but then he crooks a finger and pushes it into you with such force you can’t help but clamp down around it.

“How does it feel?” Din asks, his voice deeper now, almost as deep as it was the night before. The memory makes you shiver with arousal. “Knowing I have a finger buried inside of her? Oh no, wait.” Din pulls out almost all the way, then pushes back in, a second finger joining the first. “Two fingers.”

Marcus doesn’t reply, but when you dare look at him, you see his face is covered in red blotches, ones you mistake for angry marks until you notice his eyes, blown wide with arousal. And it’s hard to tell in the flickering light from the fireplace, but you think you can make out a bulge between his legs.

“Don’t be shy,” Din coaxes. “Tell me.” He brushes his thumb over your clit to draw another whimper from you and it works on Marcus.

“We both know you’re all talk.” A quick smirk flashes across Marcus’ face. “Ain’t no way you can make her come.”

You clench around Din’s fingers again and he chuckles. “I think she likes it when you talk like that.”

Chest heaving, you look up at Din only to find his eyes locked on Marcus. It makes the breath catch in your throat, the heat with which he stares at the other man.

“How does it make you feel, Marcus?” Din repeats, punctuating each word with a thrust.

You flick your gaze over to Marcus, eager for his reply, but he just shakes his head. You roll your hips tentatively in an attempt to draw a response from him, but even though he briefly lowers his eyes to look at you, he doesn’t respond.

“Kick off your boots,” Din orders, and when you don’t move, he presses his thumb to your clit. “Come on.”

It’s only then that you realize he means you and not Marcus, so you do as you’re told, your leather boots landing against the old wooden floors with soft thumps. Din pulls out of you, but only to use both hands to pull down your pants quickly so your lower body is completely naked, exposed for both him and Marcus. Your first instinct is to cover up, so you move your knees together, but Din pushes them apart again with a shove.

“Oh no, darlin’, let him see,” he mumbles, a tendon in his neck twitching.

You swallow and nod, letting your legs fall open. If you’re not mistaken, it makes Marcus’ breath hitch. That’s enough for you. Din pushes two fingers into you again and you sigh with relief, a sound that makes Marcus twitch as if he’s about to lunge for you, but he remains in his spot instead, hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles are turning white.

“So how does it feel?” Din asks a third time. “Now that you can see everything?”

You roll your hips to meet Din’s thrusts, which earns you a soft stroke down your side.

Finally, Marcus replies, “You know the answer.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Marcus looks at you then, and you feel your face heat up under his attention. His gaze wanders from your parted lips down your heaving chest to where Din’s fingers are slowly pumping in and out of you, coated in your arousal. Your initial embarrassment is gone. In its place is an insatiable desire to be watched by Marcus, to have him see you at your most vulnerable. You roll your hips faster, and throw back your head, moaning loudly, just to get a reaction from him, and it works.

“I think if it was my fingers inside of her, she would’ve already come twice.”

Din chuckles, but something catches at the back of his throat. “You don’t even know if she wants to.”

And then, for the first time, Marcus addresses you, voice tight like a rope around a bull’s neck. “Do you want him to make you come?”

You look at Din as if asking him for permission, but he only kisses your temple and mumbles into your ear, “I can’t help you with that decision, sweetheart.” So you look back at Marcus but he only stares at you, taut concentration written all over his face.

You nod.

Something flashes across Marcus’ face, something you can’t quite place, but he nods once and leans back, eyes back on Din. “Let’s see what you got then.”

Din’s thumb brushes over your clit just once, twice, his fingers toy with your nipple almost gently, his fingertips brush against the most sensitive spots inside of you, and it doesn’t take much more than that for you to roll your hips desperately, your entire body on fire, taut like the hammer of a colt. Din finds your trigger, rolls your clit just so, and you come with a shout, and animalistic sort of noise, eyes on Marcus as he watches you open-mouthed, his eyes impossibly dark.

“There you are,” Din says in a mocking tone and kisses your temple again.

Marcus gains back control by shaking his head lightly, then swallows. “She didn’t even scream your name.”

Next to you, Din tenses and you think you hear a deep grumble somewhere in his chest. He pushes himself up onto his knees and undoes his belt with practiced motions. You’ve barely caught your breath before you’re being pulled up, shoved onto your hands and knees, and Din is behind you, his thick cock brushing against your thighs. You try to look at Marcus again, but Din’s hand is in your hair and he pushes down your head and part of your chest at the same time as he pushes himself into you, stretching you wide. You claw at the wood beneath your palms, groaning in both pleasure and pain.

“Oh, you’re so easily riled up,” Marcus provokes, the slight edge in his voice telling you he is too, although he can hide it better.

Din ignores him. “I don’t need her to scream my name,” he grunts. “Knowin’ you’d give anything to be in my place right now is enough.”

“And you want to be in mine,” Marcus shoots back.

You know he’s right because Din pushes into you with a vicious thrust. “Din,” you groan, and you can feel the attention in the room shift.

Din pulls out all the way so only his tip is still inside of you, then slams back into you, pushing your entire body forward. You groan again, struggle against the hold he has on your neck, but he only tightens his grip.

“Please,” you whimper, feeling overstimulated yet hungry at the same time.

“I don’t hear her begging for your cock,” Din spits at Marcus. You hear Marcus move, but Din orders, “Stay where you are,” and Marcus stops.

You shift, pushing your knees further apart, and suddenly Din reaches deeper, drawing something akin to a howl from you. Din’s hand moves from the back of your head to close around your jaw, and he lifts your chin so you can see Marcus, his face covered in an angry flush, a spot on his bottom lip chewed raw.

“Do you think he wants to fuck my release into you once I’m done?” Din growls in your ear.

You can’t hold on a second longer. Your body gives in, erupting with pleasure so intense everything else loses its meaning. You’re faintly aware of Din groaning, “So good, you feel so good,” of something wet and hot running down your thighs, of Din pulling out of you gently before you collapse on the floor. Then you’re aware of movement in front of you, and your body tightens in anticipation, but when you look up, you find Marcus standing there, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.

“Marcus?” you ask, the name foreign on your tongue.

Without looking back, he walks out of the shack, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, leaving Din to clean up after himself.

*******

You don’t know what you expected to happen, but it certainly wasn’t this: you, back in handcuffs, and Marcus, leading the way without acknowledging your presence. Only Din seems to be in a good mood, pointing out small birds resting on branches or flowers growing by the side of the trail. No one talks about the previous night, and in the bright light of day, you’re not so sure any of it actually happened.

You hold your head up high, refusing to feel humiliated. Din was gentle this morning, almost apologetic, when he put you back in handcuffs, tipping his hat and calling you “ma’am”. You’re not angry with him for last night, far from it. You’re also not angry with Marcus for how he reacted; you’re disappointed, sure, and maybe a little bit heartbroken. But far from angry.

It’s another hot day, but this time you’re riding through open woodland, and the shade brings you some reprieve. The trail is broader, Din can ride next to you, and you talk to him from time to time; it almost feels as if you’re on your way to a Sunday picnic. But despite everything that has happened, and despite the way Din laughs at your jokes, you know there’s no use in asking them to let you go. Whatever happened last night doesn’t influence their sense of duty and righteousness.

In the afternoon, the trail grows rockier as you begin to ascend through a small mountain range. The trees become sturdier and grow closer together, the flowers become less frequent, the birds now screech with a predator’s voice. You’re just beginning to feel drowsy from the heat and the exhaustion of the past few days when a sudden shout tears you out of your daydreams and pulls you back into the forest.

The trail before you is blocked by a tree trunk that makes it impossible to pass without some difficulty. On top of it stands a man you know all too well, one you thought you’d never see again: Burke, the leader of your gang, the man you decided to follow when everyone else in your life had left you. Relief makes your body tremble – you hadn’t expected him to show up to rescue you, hadn’t thought you’d be that important to him. Maybe you were wrong, maybe you don’t have to accept the fate Marcus and Din have decided upon for you after all.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Burke says in his nasal voice you’ve come to know so well. “You’ve reached the end of your journey. Please dismount and let us shackle you, so we can take back what’s rightfully ours.”

Next to you, Din flinches, reaching for his gun holstered at his side. Burke is faster as he draws his own gun and fires, the barrel glinting in the afternoon sun. Din loses balance and falls of his horse, clutching his right shoulder. You’re frozen with shock, your brain too slow to catch up with what is happening, relief turning sour in your mouth. You know you should be grateful you’re not going to jail after all, but all you feel is dread when Din’s body hits the ground with a loud thump and he groans in pain.

Burke aims the barrel of his gun at Marcus next and orders, “Disarm him.”

Three men climb out of the underbrush, Bridger, Burke’s second in command, Ingram, his muscle, and scrawny Jimmy who isn’t much use in a fight but who excels at stabbing people in the back. Marcus raises his hands above his head as if he means to surrender, but once the men reach him and Ingram grabs him to pull him off his horse, Marcus punches him in the face so hard his head snaps back. Ingram recovers too fast, grabs Marcus’ jacket, pulls him off his horse with a jerk, and kicks him as soon as he hits the ground.

“Stop!” you yell and Burke looks straight at you.

He raises his hand and Ingram stills. Marcus groans at his feet, arms slung around his stomach, a bloody scrape along his cheek. “Stop?” Burke asks.

“There is no need to harm them,” you stammer, thinking fast. “Or do you want law enforcement chasing us down for killing a sheriff?”

Somewhere to your right, Din inhales sharply, but you don’t dare to look at him. Instead, your eyes are locked to Burke’s as you watch his face closely to figure out your next move. You’re free; you don’t have to go back to jail. But if it means Marcus and Din die, then you don’t want your freedom.

“I was expecting more gratitude,” Burke finally says, his voice laced with disgust.

“I just don’t want anyone to die because of me,” you try weakly.

“Do I have to remind you who those men are?” Burke snaps. “They wanted to sell your freedom to the highest bidder. They don’t deserve your compassion!”

“They also don’t deserve to die for doing their job,” you point out.

An ugly grin creeps onto Burke’s face. “Who said anything about dying? Ingram, tie him up, and let’s have some fun.”

Ingram grabs the collar of Marcus’ jacket and pulls him to his feet. Marcus struggles against the grip, face contorted with pain, but there is nothing he can do to free himself. You watch as they drag him to a tree by the side of the road and tie him to the trunk with thick ropes. You know what comes next – you’ve seen it often enough. And if there’s anything you can do to keep Marcus from that fate, you’ll do it, even if it means your own death.

Your legs are trembling when you climb off your horse and sneak over to where Din is lying, hand still pressed to his shoulder, his brown leather glove shiny with blood. He can’t help you much; it’s up to you to make sure Marcus gets out of this in one piece.

“Where are the keys, Din?” you whisper, ignoring Marcus’ pained grunt when someone, most likely Ingram, punches him in the gut.

Din reaches for his jacket pocket and pulls out the keys, face paling from the strain of it. He barely manages to unshackle you, but once you’re free, he grunts, “Take my gun.”

You grab the cold metal, your hands trembling so hard you slip at first. But your mind is eerily calm. You know exactly what you need to do and what it could cost you. Slowly, you stand, and take a few steps closer to the tree. Marcus is tied up, the four men are standing around him. Jimmy is playing with his knife, Ingram is stroking his jaw where Marcus hit him, and Burke and Bridger are debating what to do next. You don’t give them a chance to make up their minds.

“Let him go!” you shout, your voice high with fear.

When the four men spin around to face you, you raise the gun, aiming straight at Burke. Burke … the man who was like a father to you, who took you in and taught you how to care for yourself. You almost laugh – how quickly things can change, how quickly loyalties can shift. But if you’re honest with yourself, you have to admit you were never that loyal to Burke and the gang, and definitely not now that you feel you’ve got your real family back, even if they are going to turn you over to the law.

“Well, well, well,” Burke says slowly. “Will you look at that? I can’t say I’m surprised, but I never pegged you as a pig fucker.”

You ignore his words, cocking back the hammer. “I mean it. Let him go.”

Burke gestures to Bridger who takes the knife from Jimmy and presses it against Marcus’ throat. You flinch.

“Does that upset you?” Burke asks with a sneer. “If you lower the gun now, we won’t kill him. I can’t make any promises for you though.”

Before you can ponder actions and consequences, you aim the gun at Bridger and pull the trigger. Both you and Marcus flinch, but while your brow is only covered in sweat, his gets sprayed with blood when you hit Bridger at the side of his head and he crumbles to the ground. For a brief moment, a flash of memory shoots through you, an image of Bridger getting you a big wool coat two winters ago so you wouldn’t freeze to death. Back then, you never would have thought you’d be the one to end his life. But you also hadn’t expected to see Marcus again.

Before you can make sense of what just happened, Ingram is upon you and wrestles the gun from your hands. He hits you in the face with his open palm and you scream, more in surprise and shock than pain.

“You’ll pay for that,” he spits and hits you again, this time with the back of his hand.

Before you can defend yourself, a loud bang makes you turn around. Ingram flinches and follows your gaze, one hand locked around your arm, the other raised to strike a third time. Din is standing next to his horse, the barrel of his shotgun smoking, aiming toward the tree. Jimmy is lying next to Bridger, a gaping hole in his chest. Ingram’s grip on you tightens at the same time as you realize there are more of you know then there are of them. You hear the telltale clicking sounds of Din reloading his shotgun and you shove Ingram as hard as you can away from you. The next second he tumbles to his side, leg torn open.

“Help Marcus!” Din shouts, his face contorted with pain.

You don’t think, you’ve stopped thinking minutes ago, as you turn and sprint toward the tree where Marcus is still tied up, defenseless, while Burke stalks toward him, Jimmy’s knife in his hand. You shove your former leader aside and fling yourself between him and Marcus, but before you can come up with a plan, Burke shoves you and pushes you to the ground. You go down with a surprised shout, the last sound you make before Burke’s hands close around your throat and he squeezes. You kick your legs and claw at his face and neck, but he’s relentless. A lightheadedness comes over you, and you’re only dimly aware of Marcus shouting your name and Din’s, but Burke doesn’t stop. The only thing you can see are his glazed-over eyes, dull with the intent to kill.

Using your last strength you grope around, hoping to find anything that can help you. Your fingers close around something cold and metallic, but you have no time to check if it really is Jimmy’s knife. You raise the thing and plunge it into Burke’s side, groaning with relief when he loosens his grip in response. You pull out the knife, then shove it into Burke’s side again; the man tumbles off you with a scream of pain. You push yourself up, aiming for his neck, the knife gliding into the flesh with hardly any resistance. From then on, it’s just a blur until Burke stops twitching, until your arm burns so much you can barely lift it anymore, until your ears are ringing with your hoarse screams.

Din is there, and he takes the knife from you. You let him, tears streaming down your face. It feels like you’re all alone in this big forest until someone sinks to their knees next to you and cups your face in cold, shaky hands.

“You stupid girl,” Marcus mumbles, wiping at your cheeks, brushing loose strands behind your ears. “You stupid, stupid girl.”

His lips are soft when he kisses you; he tastes of metal. You kiss him back, your whole body trembling. Between kisses he keeps mumbling, “Stupid girl,” until a teary laugh erupts from you.

“Kiss me again,” you demand, knowing it’s the only thing that keeps you from losing consciousness. He does, and there’s an edge of desperation to it now, like he’s only beginning to realize he’s still alive and you’re too. You cling to his jacket and feel his chest vibrate, you lick his lips and are rewarded with a hungry bite. It’s only when you start crying again that he pulls back.

Din is at your other side and pulls you into a tight hug with his good arm. “Don’t listen to him,” he mumbles, his fingers stroking the back of your head. “You’re not stupid; maybe a bit reckless, but incredibly brave.”

Marcus pulls you to your feet and holds you tightly when your knees buckle. Din follows you, and kisses the top of your head. Shielded between both of them, you realize they are the only family you’ll ever need.

***

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#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike #marcus pike x din djarin x reader #marcus pike x din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin #the mentalist fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedrostoriesgift23 #pedrostories #closure

[thetriumphantpanda]

i work from nine to five; hey hell, i pay the price | Marcus Pike

Summary | You use the office halloween party as a way to prove you can push yourself out of your comfort zone. You didn't expect that to mean that the apple of your eye, Marcus Pike, would take an interest in you.

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Plus Size F!Reader

Word Count | 4.4K

Warnings | Explicit smut, workplace 'romance', negative talk about bodies, body issues, plus size reader, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PiV sex, dirty talk, mention of food and alcohol, halloween vibes, costumes, pet names, but nothing else.

Authors Note | I told myself I wasn't going to do halloween writing, and then I had a very vivid image of Marcus Pike bending me over his desk at a work party.... So I did some halloween writing. As a woman who lives life in a bigger body, this one goes out to everyone else who has felt the way reader has felt. These are MY OWN experiences, attitudes I've had given to me, and given to myself, they aren't universal, we all feel differently about ourselves, but if you've ever been made to feel less than because of the way you look, just know I see you and that Marcus Pike would absolutely take you apart regardless of how thick your thighs are. If you liked this, please consider supporting me through my Ko-Fi.

Divider by @saradika

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

You tug at your skirt a little, trying to pull it down over your thighs. It seemed like a good idea at the time, to choose something skimpy for the office Halloween party. A way to challenge yourself, finally start to work through the years of bullying at school, and the off-hand comments from your almond-mom who had always told you things like, ‘you could stand to lose a few pounds’, or ‘surely a salad would be a better idea?’. 

It had been such a relief when you’d gotten this job two years ago, finally earning enough on an FBI salary to move out of your family home and into your own space. A space where you weren’t judged for how many fries you had on your plate, or how the pair of trousers you’d chosen to wear made your belly look. It had been good for you, and ever since, you’d been trying your best to challenge yourself to do things you never thought you’d ever have the confidence to do. 

Things like standing in the office, in a pair of fishnet tights, with a skirt so short that if you bent over, Dave from Finance would get a complete eyeful. Looking around though, you couldn’t help feel like it had been a terrible idea. Amy from HR looked absolutely phenomenal in her devil outfit – a red bodycon dress that looked like it had been painted on, showing not a single imperfection on her body – and Jessica, who worked reception, in a Catwoman jumpsuit that hugged her figure perfectly. You don’t think it would ever go away, the comparing yourself to everyone else, even though you knew that Amy and Jessica would totally have their own insecurities about things. 

You were trying to make yourself at small as possible, crowding yourself into the corner of the room, hand clutched around a plastic cup full of ‘spooky punch’, that Hannah, the office manager had put together, which comprised of mostly vodka, some orange juice and what looked like a whole bottle of green food coloring, with some eyeball candy floating around in it. She’d put together a Halloween playlist, which was currently blasting The Monster Mash at a decibel you think should be illegal, and everyone had contributed to her spooky buffet, which was just normal food cut into shapes – like your addition of frozen pizza that you’d cut out with a ghost-shaped cookie cutter. You know you should go and mingle. Adam, on your team has already tried twice to get you to join their little group, so you relent, and walk over, giving everyone a warm smile. It’s all going well, until Alison, nods her head in your direction and stats speaking. 

“Did you work late?” She asks, to which you shake your head. 

“No, why?” 

“Oh,” She grimaces, “I just didn’t think you’d dressed up, is all.” 

And you know it’s mainly because she’s oblivious to mostly everything, but it smarts. Sure, the orange turtleneck is something you’d worn to work before, as are the black platform heels, but the skirt that ghosts the bottom of your ass and the fishnet tights that are still probably one size too small are not something you usually wear, nor are the fake glasses, with thick black frames, or the fucking magnifying glass you’re clutching. You sigh, make your excuses and walk over to the buffet table, picking up one of the slices of pizza you’d brought. Once you’ve eaten that, you reach for one of the cupcakes at the back of the table. It’s iced like a pumpkin and the cake looks to be chocolate, which is your favourite. You’re peeling off the wrapper and about to take a bite when someone interrupts you. 

“They’re delicious.” 

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. Marcus Pike. Head of Department. Not your boss, but your boss’ boss, and the most beautiful man you think you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d sat in on meetings that he chaired, supposed to be taking notes but instead focused entirely on him and how he commanded the room. The way he talked with his hands, and how much you wish you could have him run those over your thighs. Or the way he would chew on his bottom lip when he was concentrating, wondering whether he’d like it if you did that if he were to ever kiss you. 

“Oh.” You exhale softly, suddenly uber aware of the fact he’s probably just watched you eat the ghost-shaped pizza, and now, not a minute later, getting ready to bite into the cupcake, you go to set it down on the table, but he stops you, hand gently holding onto your wrist. 

“Please,” He says softly, “I made them, so I need the ego boost.” 

You smile a little, finally meeting his eyes, “You just said they were delicious, what do you need my opinion for?” 

“I remember the raspberry muffins you made last week,” He smirks a little, “And the apple turnovers the week before those, and everything else you bring in, I need to know what the office star baker thinks about my effort.” 

You’re going to refuse, say you’re already full, despite the pizza being the first thing you’d eaten that evening, that you’ll take it home with you and report back on Monday, but his beautiful brown eyes are soft, almost pleading, so you sigh, peel the rest of the wrapper off and take a bite. It’s actually delicious. He’s put some kind of orange flavouring in the icing, and the cake itself is really good. 

“You were right,” You smile, “It is delicious.”

He smiles, like he’s won a prize and it makes you feel a bit fuzzy inside, that this man next to you has been affected by your praise. 

“Great costume, by the way.” He compliments, and you don’t miss the way his eyes trail over your body. 

“You mean you don’t think I ran out of time and came in my office clothes?” You tease. 

“You’d wear that skirt to the office?” He’s smirking at you, and also offers you a wink, which has your hand dropping to the table, holding yourself up, why on earth was Marcus Pike flirting with you? “It’s good, Velma, right?” He motions to the magnifying glass abandoned on the table. 

You chuckle a little, “First prize, got it first time,” You then take a moment to take in his costume, he’s wearing a brown jacket over one of his usual shirts, a brown satchel is draped across his body and he’s got a hat on, but it’s the whip that really gives him away, “Indiana Jones?” You say quietly. 

“The one and only.” He smiles, opening his arms a little. 

You think it must be the amount of vodka that Hannah put in the punch, but even so, your next question shocks you, “Do I ask where you got the whip from?” 

He looks around dramatically, “Just checking Amy from HR is out of earshot,” Then he leans in a little closer, “It’s from my own personal collection.” 

You reach your hand out, letting your fingers run over the material where the handle is holstered in his pocket. It feels expensive, although it’s not like you have much experience with them to pass judgement on what’s expensive and what isn’t.

“Feels expensive,” You hum, “Guess that head of department salary has to get spent on something.” 

He reaches down and takes your hand in his gently, running soft circles over the skin on the back of your hand, “You really do look lovely tonight,” He speaks softly, “Enjoy the rest of the evening.” 

And then as quickly as he was stood in front of you, he’s gone. You let out a breath that you didn’t realise you’d been holding in, focusing on the way your chest is heaving and you can feel your pulse in your head. You pick up your plastic cup and down the liquid that’s left in the bottom, wincing at the strength of the vodka, then deciding you need a top up. 

You mill about for a little bit longer, but still feel like a bit of a spare part. You’ve shown your face, spoken to everyone you should have, and now there’s a glass of wine and a bubble bath with your name on it back home. You pick up your coat from the back of a random office chair, grab your bag from your own desk, and sneak out as quietly as you can. You’re halfway down the hall, almost to the elevator, when you hear a voice from behind you. 

“Running away?” 

You turn around, Marcus Pike is leaning against the doorframe to his office. He’s taken the satchel off, and the whip is no longer in his pocket. He’s crossed one ankle over the other, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Feeling a little like a spare part,” You shrug, “And there’s a glass of wine calling my name at home.” 

He nods in understanding, “You drink whiskey?” He asks. 

“If I have to.” You answer back. 

“Well, how about you stay and have one with me,” He offers, “Leave that wine for another day.” 

You shift awkwardly from foot to foot, because why on earth would Marcus Pike want to have a drink with you? It feels like someone somewhere is having a good old laugh at your expense, but you feel your feet leading you towards him, brushing past him and into his office. 

You’ve been in here a handful of times before, mainly to drop of reports and papers, and only once whilst he’s been there. It’s been a very professional relationship up until now, no flirting, nothing inappropriate. You drape your coat over the arm of the small couch he’s got there – you imagine he sleeps on it when he hasn’t got time to go home during crunch time of investigations.  Your bag sits on the floor next to it. 

He leaves the door open, giving you an out if you want it. He points to the couch, tells you to sit down, which you do, pulling once again at the tiny skirt, trying to cover the way the skin of your thighs bulge through the holes of the fishnet tights, ultimately failing, as Marcus reaches into one of the drawers of his desk, pulling out two crystal tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He fills them both equally, handing one to you, but he doesn’t sit next to you, he just leans against the edge of his desk. 

“I always thought it was a myth,” You muse, “Agents with whiskey in their desks.” 

He smiles at you, “It’s in there for big wins,” He explains, “Cracking cases and that kind of stuff.” 

You nod your head, taking a small sip of your drink, wincing as it drags down your throat, “What’s tonight’s big win?” You ask, fluttering your eyelashes and then cringing a little at yourself. 

“You looking that sinful.” 

You’re taking a sip when he says it, so you end up spluttering quite unattractively at his words. Is he serious? You dab at the corners on your mouth, setting your glass down on the floor, “Sorry,” You mutter, “But are you for real?” 

He smirks, “As real as you and I.” 

He pushes himself off the desk, puts his drink down on it as he moves. He takes three wide strides until he’s stood in front of you. You look up from where you’re sat, hands folded in your lap. He reaches out, drags the fake glasses from your face, throws them absentmindedly onto the couch next to you. You’re breathing heavily as reaches out with one of his hands. The flat of his palm cupping your jaw, whilst his thumb traces along your bottom lip. 

“Do you want me to close the door?” He asks, voice lower than you’ve ever known it. 

You have no words, your tongue refusing to work, so you nod instead, because as much as you’re still thinking someone is going to come in and tell you you’re being pranked, you also want to know what he’s going to do next. He’s back to you in moments once he’s closed the door and turned the lock. The light above is harsh, but it’s needed, because the blinds are closed. 

He's standing in front of you again, this time both his palms are cupping your cheeks, and he’s leaning down, ever so slowly, until his lips are a hairs breath from yours. God, you want him to push the last few millimeters and kiss you, but he’s stopped. Waiting. And you don’t want to break first. You’ve done it before, gone to kiss someone, and then felt them laugh just before you can, because why would they want to? 

“You gonna kiss me, pretty lady?” 

“I want you to kiss me first.” You admit on a shaky breath. 

You’ve got your eyes closed, so you can’t read his eyes, look for the sense of regret in them, so it’s a shock when you feel his lips on yours. It’s so soft, barely there, before he’s pulling away, still close enough to feel his hot breath over your skin though. 

“There,” His thumbs are moving across the skin of your cheeks, “Now you.” 

So, you do. You reach your hand around to the back of his neck, pull him into you and really press your lips to his. His bottom lip slots between yours and you suck it gently into your mouth. You smile a little at the sound that comes from his throat, then he’s opening his mouth against yours and you’re following, doing exactly the same, letting his tongue behind your teeth as it melds with your own. His hands are dropping from your face, trailing down your shoulders. He leans forward into you a little, his hands under your arms to tug you up. 

You drag your mouth from him to stand up, his hands dropping to your hips to guide you behind his desk. There are nerves bubbling under your skin because you know what he wants as he pressed your ass into the wood. He wants you to sit on it. To be fair to the department, it’s a sturdy looking desk, but the thought of the way it’s going to creak under your weight makes you want to crawl into a hole. Marcus doesn’t push though, just brings his mouth back to yours, letting his hands wander a little, dragging them back up your body to palm your tits through the layers you’re wearing. 

“I think you did this on purpose,” He speaks against your mouth, “Like you knew this woman had always driven me wild.” 

You don’t mean to, but it makes you laugh, “Don’t tell me Velma from Scooby-Doo was your sexual awakening?” 

He laughs back, doesn’t confirm it, but doesn’t deny it either. He’s looking down your body, having pulled back a bit, “Fuck,” He mutters, “Every time I look at you, it gets better.” 

“The magic of a slutty Halloween costume.” You shrug. 

He nods his head, but speaks again, “It’s not just that though,” He’s speaking softly now, “I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, wandering around the office all the time, driving me mad.” 

This would normally be the time that you’d try and fight against the compliments being thrown your way. Tell them they must be lying, or joke that they need to get their eyes tested. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like you should do that here. There’s something about Marcus that makes you think he wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t string you along this far just to have a laugh at your expense, so you don’t do it, for the first time in your life. 

You reach up to his shirt, undo two of the buttons, “You know,” You hum, “I think exactly the same as you, with your whip or not.” 

He breathes out, taking hold of your wrists to stop your movements, “Let me make you feel good?” He asks. 

You meet his eyes, feeling heat rise across your face, but you nod anyway, because you’ve come this far, and you can already feel wetness pooling in your panties. He drags his hands down your body, grips your hips and forces you to sit on the edge of the desk, dropping to his knees in front of you. He’s looking you straight in the eyes, as he pushes the material of your skirt to gather at your waist. Your legs open further, and Marcus groans when your movement reveals the see-through black lace of your panties. It hadn’t felt right to dress as a sexy Velma and wear your normal underwear, is how you justify it. 

You’re expecting him to tell you to lift up so he can drag your tights off you, but instead, he hooks a finger through the material at your groin and fucking rips them apart. It makes you gasp. You’d chide him for ruining them, but at this point you don’t care. They were cheap, and if it means you’re going to have his mouth on you quicker, then you’re not going to complain. 

Marcus leans forwards, you can feel the heat of his breath splaying across the lace material, and then he drags his tongue across the length of your folds over the lace of your panties. Even with the material barrier between your skin and his mouth, you’re tipping your head back in pleasure, letting out a breath as he repeats his movements, dragging his fingers just behind his tongue on his last pass of movements. It’s not enough. 

“Please, Marcus.” You beg quietly. 

“What do you want, pretty lady?” He asks, looking up at you with angelic eyes, as if he couldn’t possibly think what it is you want from him. 

“Your mouth.” 

“You already have it.” He points out, proving his point by licking another stripe up your panties. 

“Marcus,” You sigh, “Move the… fuck… move the damn material out of the way.” 

He lets out a huff of amusement, “See,” He says, doing exactly as you ask, hooking his fingers under the material and moving it to the side, “All you had to do was ask.” 

He doesn’t waste any more time now. Letting his tongue dip between your slick folds, dragging the wetness that’s pooled at your entrance up to your clit, where he flicks softly with the tip of his tongue. You feel his thumbs spreading the lips of your cunt, baring you to him so he can really start to work you up. He presses the flat of his tongue to your clit, working it gently as your hand settles into the curls on his head, anchoring him there. He’s doing all the things you love, moving between wide stripes of the flat of his tongue, and quick flicks with the tip, until your hips are grinding against his face and you’re biting down onto your bottom lip to keep quiet. 

“You taste so fucking sweet, pretty lady,” He speaks against your skin, surprising you a little as he pushes not one, but two of his fingers into your soaked cunt, “Feel good?” 

“Oh God,” You breathe out as he hooks his fingers inside you, pressing against a spot you had no idea even existed inside of you, “Don’t stop… don’t fucking stop.” 

He doesn’t, the obedient man that he is. He starts dragging his fingers in and out of you, whilst his lips wrap around your clit, pulling it into his mouth, laving it with attention from his tongue, which sends you over the edge. 

Your thighs are clenching around his head as your body convulses. All you want is to cry out, call his name into the room, but even though you can hear the music from the party down here, anyone could be walking past, and it would be just your luck that it would be Amy from HR. His mouth is working you through those aftershocks as your thighs ease the pressure around his head. 

He's breathing as heavy as you are when he stands, slotting himself between your open legs. You can feel the hard length of him pressing against your silken center, as he dips his head to kiss you again, your taste intoxicating on his tongue. 

“Can I fuck you?” He asks, almost desperately, “You gonna let me?” 

“Please.” Is all you can get out, as he drags you off the desk, flipping you around so your front is pressed against the wood of the desk. 

He’s got his hand on the nape of your neck, pressing you down. You can hear him undoing his belt, dragging the zipper of his jeans down. You shuffle a little, widening your stance as he takes his place behind you. You can feel him dragging his cock through your folds, gathering the slick he’s pulled from you, before he’s plunging into you in one go. It takes everything you have not to scream. He’s big. Stretching you like no-one has before and it feels so fucking good. 

Marcus is still gripping the back of your neck as he starts moving, his other hand gripping the plush cheek of your ass, spreading you open even more as he slowly drags himself in and out of you. He’s going slowly, and you think that the way his breath is hitching in his throat means he’s struggling to keep his composure, so you decide to have a little fun. 

When he’s pulled almost all the way out of you, you turn your head as much as you can with his hand resting there, looking over your shoulder at him as you wiggle your ass, slowly backing into him, letting your cunt suck him right back into you again. 

“Baby, you can’t do that,” He pleads, his fingers digging into the skin of your ass, “Carry on like that and this will be over before it’s begun.” 

“Don’t care,” You mutter, “Harder, please.” 

He starts pounding into you now, the sound of his skin slapping against yours is obscene. You’re both trying as hard as possible to keep the moans and groans as quiet as possible, and you can’t help but wish he wants more, that he’ll take you home sometime, unwrap you and let you scream for him, but you decide to focus on the here and now. 

“Touch yourself.” You hear demanded from behind you, “I want to feel you come on my cock.” 

You snake your hand underneath you, pushing the discomfort of how your arm is trapped between your body and the desk, and start tracing quick circles over your clit. You’re already sensitive, hanging on the edge from his mouth, so you press harder, move your wrist faster. 

“Feel so fucking good, baby,” Marcus groans behind you, “Close, ain’tcha?” He asks, “Go on baby, let go for me, let me feel you.” 

And it’s his voice that does it, that finally tips you over the edge, has your cunt clenching around him, walls fluttering and teeth biting into your bottom lip as your knees give way. Thankfully, Marcus is gripping at your hips, which helps to keep you upright. 

“Where, baby?” He asks, voice strained, and you don’t catch what he means, “Quick baby, where do you want me?” 

“Anywhere.” You groan out, “I don’t care Marcus, just come for me.” 

You think for a moment he might stay inside you, which would be fine, you thank the implant under the skin of your arm, but at the last minute he’s pulling out of you, feeling the hot slick of his cum on the skin of your ass as he lets out a low groan out of his mouth. He’s breathing heavily behind you, pulling his jeans back up. You try and move, to push yourself up, but you’re worried if you move further you might collapse. 

“Stay there.” He says gently, leaning over you to pluck a few tissues from the box on his desk, gently wiping away the mess he’s caused, pulling your panties back into place and letting your skirt cover as much of your ass as it can in your position. 

“You okay?” He asks softly, helping you to stand, tucking a bit of your hair behind your ear. 

You nod, because you are, you’ve never been fucked so thoroughly, never been made to come so hard in your life, but there’s an anxiety settling in your stomach. What always happens now is they’ll tell you they had a great time, but don’t think they want to see you again, which is going to be even more embarrassing because you have to work with this man. 

It's almost as if he can sense your anxiety, because he’s cupping your cheek again, leaning to give you a soft kiss on the lips, “Would you maybe want to go out sometime?” He asks, “I know we’ve done things out of order, but I’ve wanted to ask for a while.” 

You smile, because it does make you happy, that the man you’ve fancied for the best part of a year actually wants to take you out, “As long as you promise to take me back to yours after and let me see you naked?” 

He blows out air from his mouth, but his eyes are twinkling, “You drive a hard bargain,” He muses, “But you’ve got yourself a deal.” 

He’s moving from you now, over to the couch, picking up your coat and your back, motioning you over so he can help you into your jacket, hooking your bag onto your elbow, then moving to gather his own things, “Wait, right now?” You ask, sounding surprised, as he shrugs his jacket on. 

“I know a great diner just down the road.” He shrugs, picking up his satchel. 

He’s walking back to you, but you put a hand on his chest, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” You ask, watching a confused look fall over his face, you dart your eyes to his desk, where the whip from earlier is lying abandoned, “I’m only coming back to yours if you bring that.” 

You watch as a smirk splays across his lips. He snatches the whip from his desk, shoving it into the satchel, “Well, pretty lady, lead the way.” 

#Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike fic #Marcus Pike fanfic #Marcus Pike fanfiction #Marcus Pike fluff #Marcus Pike smut #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x f!reader #Pedro Pascal #The mentalist #the mentalist fic #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #plus size reader

[pedroscurls]

second chances | series masterlist

wip | ao3

Summary: After Marcus moves to DC - alone - he's determined to just focus on work. After a failed marriage followed with his failed relationship with Lisbon, Marcus believes that love just isn't in the cards for him anymore. Until you move in next door. Character pairing: Marcus Pike x fem!Reader Rating: 18+ minors dni, each chapter will have its own warnings.

Part 1.

Part 2.

Part 3.

Part 4.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal characters #marcus pike #the mentalist #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #the mentalist fanfic #marcus pike x fem!reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x reader #story: second chances

[undercoverpena]

make me like the holidays

marcus pike x f!reader | marcus masterlist

written for 12 Days of Pedro

summary: you're not the biggest fan of the holidays, so marcus makes it his mission to change that with a christmas market and a gift you have to wear.

wordcount: 3.6k warnings: smutty-themes, a teeny bit of orgasm denial, you consent to wear a vibrator controlled by marcus, vibrator worn in public, outdoor orgasm, christmas themes, marcus being a tease, his dimples, his smile, him.

an: huge thank you to @hellishjoel for asking me to be a part of this, and to @thetriumphantpanda for holding my hand, answering questions about warnings, and reading this as i shoved it at her face.

“So, what? You just don’t like the holidays?”

Snorting, you slide your fork around your bowl, licking your lips.

Because you knew eventually this would come up.

"I didn't... say that," you reply, averting your eyes. Mouth opening, closing again, unsure where to begin.

How to start.

How to begin to explain the odd feeling you get around this festive time of year. How your eyes don’t light up at tall Christmas trees, and instead your heart sinks whenever you see one of those adverts where the family all meet excitedly for the holidays.

It doesn’t matter how you dress it up—whether you hang tinsel or baubles—it always seems like an odd time of year. And because of that, It makes people pity you, aww at you, feel compelled to leave candy canes on your desk and purposefully add you to their Christmas card list, as though it's going to fix the decades of memories.

Placing your fork down, and you sigh. “I guess. I-I just don’t get super excited for it.”

Marcus is already thinking—you can tell.

The faintest line begins to appear between his brows, deepening the more he stares, drowning you in a brown you’re forever grateful to get the chance to wake up to every, single, day.

Leaning across the breakfast bar, he smirks—all devil, no angel. “I think I could change that.”

“Oh. Is that so?”

Nodding, his breath dances over your skin—all tantalising—before he softly slants his lips over yours, biting carefully on the bottom of your lip.

“That how you’re going to convince me, Pike—using underhand tactics such as your mouth?”

Snorting, he leaves his fingers lingering under your chin. “That’s a last resort. I think I can convince you in other ways to see how magical it can be with me.”

“You sound very confident.”

He smiles, and it makes something twist inside of you—a worry growing there, planting itself, all ready to grow into something ugly that he’ll eventually see. Be the thing at the top of the list when he inevitably realises he can do better than you.

Stroking your skin, he sighs. Not heavy, nor soft. Something in the middle. “I’m still going to love you if you hate the holidays, baby.”

Smiling, you look down at the counter—the one the two of you eat at whenever you can now, taking what hours you can have together.

“I promise,” he whispers. “But, you think you can let me try and make it special for you? Show you that there’s nothing quite like a Pike Christmas?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you let out a heavy sigh, meeting his eyes—somehow feeling yourself fall even deeper in love with him when you do.

“How can I say no to such an offer.”

Bundled up, wrapped in layers—including his scarf—your gloved hand slides into his, fingers awkwardly trying to find the home between his, almost wanting to pout at the fact you couldn’t feel his palm against yours.

“Comfortable?”

There’s a sparkle to his eye, made worse by the smirk that accompanies it. The one you imagine he’s been wearing since he’d handed you the bag stuffed with tissue, arms folding as he leans in the doorway.

It’s a little bit of fun, he had said.

Your fingers unfold it, unwrapping it free as your eyes immediately land on the box containing the little purple device and its remote.

“I know the season isn’t your favourite thing, but I thought this might make it more enjoyable.”

Narrowing your eyes, you stare at the box.

“Thought it could give you something to be excited about,” he adds, tone shifting—more silky than normal. “Now, whether you’re on the nice or naughty list today, is down to you.”

"Oh, Santa Pike. Please put me on the good girls list."

Grinning, his fingers slid over your jaw as he kissed you, "I think you'd prefer to be on my naughty list, baby."

Now, that same purple, unboxed gift is resting against you, flush. Stuffed and held in position by the underwear he helped you choose—the lace of it keeping it very much in place. And while it isn’t currently switched on, but you know he could change that at any moment—the remote buried in his pocket, all within his grasp.

A thought which makes heat lick up your spine and an ember of worry knot in your stomach—

At any point you change your mind, you tell me, baby. You hear me? Just say the word.

Clearing your throat, you curl into his arm, staring up at him—watching him take in the run of wooden huts, fairy lights and overt cheer.

“Let me guess, you have a to-do list for today?”

Smirking, his arm comes around you keeping you close, before he pinches your side. “No. We’re gonna see what we get up to.”

Squinting playfully, you brush the edge of his stubbly chin. “I’m not buying it. You have a plan.”

Shaking his head, his teeth tease his lip, nose almost flush with yours. “No plan—just want a lovely day with my girl…”

Hovering your lips over his. “But?”

His eyes slowly close, nose scrunching—lips spreading into the biggest, most foolish smile. “We have to start with a festive drink—”

“I fucking knew it, Pike. Fine, come on.”

But, he doesn’t let you budge, not even as you grumble, grasping your hips, yanking you close.

He gives you a look, a pointed one—all accompanied by a grin. It’s all shit-eating, spreading delightfully up into his cheeks. One you’d usually brush over with the pads of your index fingers.

"You don't sound like you're having a good time, baby."

"Marcus..."

You don’t move them this time—leave them on his waist. Feeling his hand slide into his pocket. And you brace.

It’s the only way you’re able to stifle the soft moan which attempts to slide through your teeth and burn the air as it buzzes. Light, but good. Your breath was suddenly a challenge to find, made worse by his watchful stare.

Lashes fluttering, gloved fingers gripping into the side of his jacket as you let your breath paint against his neck. It’s all building—layering itself on thickly atop the earlier ‘testing’ he had done earlier. When you had whined his name, been tempted to shed the many layers and keep warm in an entirely different way with him.

“That feel good?” he asks, low, breathy—only able to formulate a nod.

Then, it stops.

Blinking, your thoughts suddenly cleaner, more appropriate—things beginning to speckle back into your mind.

“Kiss?” he asks, the request falling from his tongue like silk.

“Depends how good the drink is.”

It turns out, it’s delicious.

Marcus had practically whispered the name of the drink he recommended into your ear—having likely noticed the overwhelmed expression slowly etching into your face.

Trust me his expression reads, as if you’d ever trust anyone else.

As soon as the taste of his recommendation met your tongue, your body almost welcomed the season with open arms. Your groan wasn't even buried as your eyes widened at the taste, at him for suggesting it—watching him smirk before he looped his arm around your waist.

“Thoughts?”

Smiling, you almost reply that you like being close to him, preferably forever choosing to be pressed close to him. You find it calming, suddenly no problems ever seem that big when he’s next to you.

Swallowing that, you glance at him, knowing it would be easy to fight the smirk. To act placid, add a shrug, sell it. But, his eyes have widened a fraction, pupils a mere dot in a sky of brown, with the reflection of the lights acting like stars.

The hope etched into his expression is what puts the final nail in your attempt at nonchalance.

“It’s good.”

Brows rising, he grins. “Yeah?”

Nodding, you take another sip. The flavours of the hot chocolate coating your mouth as you slide your arm around his waist. The feel of his lips against your forehead spreading an additional warmth through you, that the drink would never have available.

You’re almost sad when it ends.

Not that he lets you sit in that. Quickly, he takes your cup from you, placing both in a nearby trash can, before he’s pulling you back to him. For the briefest of moments, you just stare, admiring the way you see the outline of yourself in the pool of his eyes, the way you get to witness the way his adoration spreads across his face—all lit up by swinging fairy lights in the gentle, winter breeze.

“Got cream on your lip, baby,” he whispers, tongue swiping across your bottom lip—nowhere close to the site he pointed out.

And then you feel it again.

The thrum which spreads through you, is pressed against your bundle of nerves, making your thighs quake on fixed and solid ground. With the addition of his mouth on yours, the waves lap more feverishly, it all building, all desperate to crash.

Your fingers grasp onto him, teeth piercing into his bottom lip as he kisses you, letting you bury a moan into his mouth—and Marcus is happy to swallow it. Gleefully getting to feel and taste the way he makes you feel as your walls flutter, tightening—wishing for more. Needing more. Almost begging for it when you catch his gaze.

“You know how good you look right now?”

And then it stops. Your breath hitching. Skin prickling with warmth as you let a gasp escape—it weaving into the air, encased in vapour as you blink.

“W-what’s next?”

He grins, it rising up until his dimple appears. His palm flattening to the back of your coat, fingers sliding in pulses.

“Thought we could pick decorations for our tree.”

Brows raising, you turn your head, looking at him, finding him already watching you. Something is spreading in you, a symbolic bandage extending out from his touch to around the places warped and scarred from years of bad memories.

“Our?”

Kissing your head again, you hear him repeat that one word: our.

Just like he had done when he’d moved the last box of yours, you asking whether his place would get your favourite burgers delivered—ours, baby. Ours. It felt it, too. He’d made sure of that. Created space on shelves, and moved ornaments from their homes to allow yours to have a place.

So, it wasn’t out of reach he’d do the same with his holiday, his tradition.

“What if you hate my taste?”

Snorting, he brushes your cheek. “You know I love the way you taste.”

Rolling your eyes, he laughs.

“I could never hate your taste, baby. I love everything about you.” His hand drops, and he takes a sip of his drink as you do the same. “Plus, you chose me. Can’t be all bad.”

He’s kind to you when you’re handling the baubles, even more, when the two of you wander hand-in-hand through tightly packed huts.

Your hands point out things, not just for the two of you, but for others—his parents, a friend. It allows your guard to drop, and your brain to temporarily forget the device resting snugly against the swollen nerves desperate for him—even if you’re aware of how soaked your underwear is. How it clings, how it brushes nicely against you when the two of you walk from place to place.

Marcus becomes less kind when you’re in the queue for a sugary snack, your mouth busy explaining to him where you best think the tree can go in his place—a thing he corrects to ours at every chance he can.

“You almost sound like you’re getting into all of this.”

Smiling, you rest your head against his shoulder in the line. “Maybe it’s the company.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice low, the corner of your eye-catching his other hand sliding into his pocket. “Could be that.”

“Marcus.”

He just raises his brow, a sly smirk passing over him, before you feel him flick it on. “How else are you going to remember that it’s our place, baby?”

Every nerve, the ones previously all frayed, now lit up—just like the tree in the centre of the market. Your mind empties with a press of a button, fingers sliding inside his open coat, grasping for him—for grip.

“You excited about the holidays now?”

Fuck, you hate him, because yes—if it’s like this you’ll forever adore Pike holidays. You’ll wish for them, count down to them on your calendar. Ticking off in red pen, making a point to excitedly cross each one of them off.

Because the two of you haven’t even put the tree up yet.

There’s still so much prep, so much you suspect he wants to replace with good, better—more excitable—memories.

“Bet you’re wet,” he whispers.

And you glare at him, unsure if it’s with adoration or anger. Both merging, swirling—concocting into something you can’t stifle as your cheeks warm and your ears burn. Because there are people around—families, small children.

“Take me home,” you plead. “Please?”

Pressing your thighs together you find only makes it worse. The pulses are far more forceful, and better aimed directly at the already needy parts of you.

The ones which he’s usually so attentive with, barely keeping you like this, all wanting and not satisfied. Marcus barely lets the knot in your stomach tighten usually, but now, you think he’s having fun with it. Likely admiring the way your pupils are swallowing colour and a sheen is crossing over the skin on show. Because you’re warm, too hot— there are too many fucking layers and not enough of him pressed against you—

“Need you, Marcus.”

His fingers brush against your chin, aiding you to take a step forward as the queue moves. “I know, but be good for me.” His mouth close to your ear, hand impossibly tight on your hip—keeping you pressed against him, able to lean, let him take your weight as your legs shake. “You deserve this—”

Your lips part, and all attempts at levelling your breathing fail, falling away from your grip. Feeling the focus on the surroundings fading, black spots appearing—this game of taunt and tease having made you so impossibly shaky on your legs.

And he turns it up.

Moves it to the next one up, an up-and-down kind of vibration. It feels good, but then it lessens—a momentary break, a chance to mumble his name less in a whine—before it returns like a second wave.

It pulsing. Something akin to a rollercoaster, a high and a low—it comes around in slow circles that makes it hard to know whether you’re close to coming or growing more frustrated.

“You want something with chocolate or prefer just sugar?”

You try to speak, mouth moving close to his ear, but only a moan escapes. Low, coming from somewhere deep in your soul as his grip tightens on your hip. The speed slowed for a moment, likely settling itself up to do another build-up.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

Your legs are unstable, more jelly than muscle and bone. It’s all too much, but not quite enough either—just needing that fraction more to stop teetering on the edge and fall over, filling with bliss, and pleasure.

Each time he slides his hand over your hip or back, you have to swallow a whimper of his name. Dangling against the edge, dangerously so—only one little push and you’d be falling, freely, willingly, likely moaning and making an embarrassment of yourself so close to Santa’s fucking grotto.

“If,” you begin, hand to his chest, fingers trying to find skin, something, anything, his still around your waist, practically bruisingly, clutching the many paper bags against you, “we go home now, we might have time to put the tree up.”

You watch him smirk, how it hits his eyes—making the twinkling lights pale under the brightness of his expression.

“Then,” you continue, lips sliding close to his ear, “you can—shit—do something no one has ever done.”

He swallows, loudly—not even swallowed by the choir. “What’s that?”

Smiling, licking your lips. “Fuck me under it.”

Pinching your side, you swear you hear him grunt.

You barely register that you’re being dragged, hip to his, being led—the little device working its magic against your drenched cunt as you pass by choir singers and a person dressed like an elf until it’s suddenly quieter.

Bags dropped to the side of you, back pressed against the side of a hut—the roof casts a shadow over his face, but his eyes still shine. They’re bright and alert. Drinking you in like you’re the only thing that he can see, ever wants to see.

"No one can see us, I promise."

You believe him. It's the only reason you allow yourself to release a pathetic moan before your fingers dig into his pocket. Searching through receipts and his phone, finding it. The thing which weighs more than gold to you, the remote that has the chance to make or break you right now.

It clicks with such ease.

Every muscle in your tightens, your eyes clench shut, all but vanishing winter wonderland from sight and painting a new picture on the back of your lids. Him—naked. Stood all soft muscles and his signature smirk. His room—ours, you hear it in your head, ours baby, ours—surrounding you.

You’re on fire.

Cracking an eye open, finding him watching—in awe, captivated like you’re a sight to behold. And maybe, clutching the remote in your hand, you were. Maybe you were illuminated in a heavenly glow and looking as though you could melt the fake snow around the two of you—you feel you could, anyway, just from the look he wears.

The fact the two of you are just focused, lost in only the other as he keeps you against the side of the empty hut—thankful, happy, that at least one of the stalls hadn’t opened so you couldn’t be heard being held against it, mind being lost to the buzzing in your underwear.

“Who knew you were so dirty?”

“You love it,” you moan, ghosting your lips over his.

Needing a little more, craving a little more.

Please, please, please you think over and over.

He takes it from your shaking fingers, sliding his knee between your thighs—pressing it more defiantly against you, flush, likely feeling the vibrations through his bones as you moan his name. Sketch it into the air, write it there, never wishing it would fade—

More, Marcus. Please, baby. Please.

You’re aching. Your ears flood with buzzing as liquid heat spreads through you when he clicks once, twice—thrice. Landing on a setting he must have seen in the instructions.

And it’s bliss.

It’s mind-melting, muscle surrendering. Your hand cupping the side of his neck, nails digging in, needing to feel him, know he’s there—wishing it was his fingers, wishing he was heavy against you. That weight you crave, that sensation of just him.

Close, so close—

You say it like he wouldn’t know. Like you can’t feel the way he’s looking for signs across your face, likely knowing more about how close you are than you even do. He spends enough time making you feel good. Too good to you, always has been, ever since the moment the two of you met, and you’re grateful, happy, content, fucking over the moon, sun and stars—

“What do you need, baby?”

“You,” you whine.

Just you, only you. Only ever you.

The coil in your stomach tightens, the knot having formed something which can shatter with far too much ease, and it does shatter.

You snap. Break. Fall apart.

He drags your face against his neck, letting you curse, and moan. His name crying out from your lips, until it falls in softer waves from your tongue, splaying across his skin, tattooing him. Squirming close to him, suddenly at ease, shoulders sliding from your ears.

“Marcus,” you whine, differently.

And you’re grateful it stops, him switching it off—a grin breaking out in its wake. Your breath slowly comes back to you, your chest unloosening from trying to bury all your pants.

That’s when you’re finally able to take him in and see the way he’s still staring, so lost in you. His mouth parted, the softest smile trying to stitch into his cheeks, eyes moving around the features of your face.

You just let him stare, and he lets you gaze. Only blinking, letting the rest of the world in when you hear a bunch of kids walk past the end of the hut, loudly laughing.

“I think I could like a Christmas with you.”

Grinning, he pockets the remote, his hand coming to your cheek. “Yeah? I told you I’d make it special for you.”

Nodding, you kiss him. Soft at first, before it deepens, nipping at his bottom lip—finding yourself meeting the hut again, his palm beside your head, able to taste the sweetness of his drink from earlier, the cream, chocolate and ginger—

“I was serious…” you mumble, “earlier.”

Pausing, he lifts his head.

“About the tree, what we could do under it.” Sliding your hand down his front, you cup him, feeling how hard he is, fingers sliding either side of him. “Think you deserve a special day too.”

“Really?”

Biting your lip, you nod, slowly at first—then more purposefully.

“Fuck, I love you, baby.”

an: merry pike christmas ;)

#Marcus pike x reader #Marcus pike x female reader #Marcus pike smut #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fluff #Marcus pike Fic #Marcus pike fanfic #Marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #the mentalist fic #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #Pedro Pascal #Marcus Pike Pedro Pascal #Marcus Pike the mentalist

[cambria-writes]

i don't know what to say. i'll apologize for the previous cilffhanger and this one but i promise, swear that you will not need to wait a year for the next update. i'm... uniquely motivated to keep going. should probably be able to wrap everything up in the next 2-3 chapters.

cheers to finally having some smut! 🥂

pairing: patrick jane x named reader word count: 3,278 rating: E for explicit content warnings: SMUT, good girl used probably too much, soft dom!jane, reader is mentioned having hair long enough to grab, female reader, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), so much foul language, insecurities addressed, age gap solidly confirmed (approx. 10 years but you can interpret that however you want)

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𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖓: 𝔒𝔞𝔰𝔦𝔰

Your legs feel like jello when Jane pulls the door behind him. It’s still left ajar, which you appreciate, but it’s enough for you to feel isolated. Alone. An entirely jarring feeling when you felt entirely too seen not even a minute ago.

You can’t see your clothes when you look around the guest bedroom. Spartan is what you’d call it if you had to describe it, though it’s clear someone’s been using it recently. It’s not hard to imagine why; you don’t think you’d want to sleep in the room your family got murdered in, either. When you sit down on the chair by the bed, pulling at the hem of your loaned shirt, you can’t see your clothes anywhere. Not that you wanted to get dressed; that would give the impression you’d want to go home, right?

You definitely don’t want to go home yet. Not right now.

Though whatever half-awake, fragile moment you’d had with Jane before is pretty much gone with your sleepiness, there’s still something nestled in your stomach. A feeling you wouldn’t call uncomfortable, but definitely isn’t familiar. The sound of the door creaking open nearly makes you fall off the chair.

“I did knock,” Jane says, a little sheepishly. He stays in the doorway, though, hand on the knob like he’s ready to go back out.

“I’m thinking too much again,” you say quietly, with a huff of laughter. You glance up at him quickly before turning your eyes back down to your hands and the way your nails dig under the shirt hem.

You don’t hear the floorboards groan when Jane walks up to you, don’t hear anything when he couches in front of you. You don’t flinch, to your own surprise, when his hands cover your in your lap and still your movement. He waits for you, because he knows just as well as you do, somehow. You’re not even sure what’s known, just that there’s a vague sense of understanding. You take a deep breath, clear your head while you nod to yourself, and look up.

“There she is.” His smile is small but god it feels radiant to you. Warm. Safe, against all odds.

“Yeah,” you whisper, taking another deep breath and letting your shoulders sag, trying to let the tension out of them. You fight the urge to look away and fidget with your hands. “Yeah, I think I’m done with my thinking.”

Jane hums and nods. “And what were you thinking about?”

“Wha—what I want,” you stutter out. You can feel the heat burning in your cheeks, which in turn just makes you even more flustered. You pinch your lips shut though.

One of Jane’s hands leaves your and moves to the outside of your thigh, just above your knee. If you thought the ‘fragile’ moment from earlier had imploded and vanished, you’re quickly realizing that it very much did not and that someone—whoever the fuck had the gall to call Jane this morning—had simply hit pause.

“And what is it that you want?”

“I don’t know if I have the words for it,” you reply, a little too quickly. Jane cracks a smile and the hand at your thigh begins a slow motion upward. “I—no, I just. It’s…”

“Uncomfortable?” He offers, and you offer a small nod. “What makes it uncomfortable?”

“Besides the overwhelming risk of rejection and humiliation?” You ask, voice pitched and quiet. When you start biting at your lower lip, the remaining hand covering yours quickly comes up to pull it from between your teeth.

“I won’t humiliate you,” Jane says slowly, and you can’t help but notice that his eyes are very obviously not looking into yours, and his thumb is still just below your lips. The hand on your thigh is as close to your hip as his arm will allow, thumb rubbing circles into the skin. When his gaze does meet yours again, all traces of a grin are gone and—god, his pupils. “What are you worried is going to be rejected?”

You exhale shakily and breathe in just as unevenly. “Me.”

“Why?” Jane looks back down and, after slowly putting a knee to the floor and effectively kneeling in front of you—the image of which is doing things to you that you wouldn’t dare mention in polite company—he carefully pulls his hands away from your face and thigh and taps at your right leg for you to lift it. He rests your foot on his knee and gives it a reassuring squeeze before moving his fingers to dig into your calf.

“I’m…” you start, unsteady, eyes fixed on the fingers working through the muscles of your calf. “I’m younger, I’m—I don’t know, I’m clueless? I got shot, I got kidnapped, I let you drag me into really, actually, really questionable situations. That’s dumb. That’s entirely dumb.”

“So you’re worried of being rejected because you don’t think you’re smart enough,” Jane summarizes, and coming out of his mouth you realize it does sound a little silly. You can’t help the shiver that makes it down to your legs when his hands make it to your knee and you can feel his fingers working out a knot you didn’t even know could exist behind it.

“...well it sounds childish when you say it like that,” you huff, and you resist the urge to cross your arms. “But yeah. Yes. I don’t feel smart enough.”

Jane gently guides you to put your leg down and taps the other one to bring it up. The same process starts again, from the soft touches at your ankle to the massaging of your calf.

“I can assure you,” he starts, voice low and cadence slow. “That you are infinitely more clever than you let yourself believe you are.” Close your eyes against the slowly increasing burn behind them and breathe through your nose. You feel warm fingers dig into the tendons behind your knee, sliding underneath your thigh to get at the muscles there.

There’s a lot to unpack here. The attraction to someone older than you, the unwillingness to believe anything good about yourself, the fact that speaking your mind feels shameful enough that your brain shuts down, but...

Jane smooths both hands over your hips, under your borrowed shirt. You can’t help the sharp intake of breath you take and the shiver that spreads out to your limbs from your spine. His hands stop their ascent at your hips, but just above the waistband of your underwear. Thumbs rubbing slow circles in the skin just above your hip bone.

You open your eyes again when you feel a soft kiss on your right knee. When you look down, the sight makes your breath catch in your throat.

You don’t think you’ve ever really understood the meaning of the word ‘reverent’ until just now.

You take a stuttering breath and lift one of your hands to rest atop the disheveled blond head in front of you. Jane exhales almost like he’s chuckling. His hands slide back down the length of your legs before he places them on the seat of the chair, on either side of your thigh. You don’t know if the lump your swallow past is anticipation or disappointment. He leans forward what feels dangerously close as he slowly stands. Pauses when his face is even with yours, and it’s a struggle to keep your eyes trained on his.

“You’re sure this is okay,” Jane asks, but it sounds more like an uncertain statement. You wonder for a second why he seems so hesitant and careful—treating you like glass even though you’ve been shot and been perfectly fine.

And then you remember the cave, the clammy demanding fingers. Close your eyes against the memory and take in a deep breath that sounds like a gasp.

But it’s fine. It is. Jane’s hands don’t feel like hers, this room doesn’t look like that, everything smells... safe. Alive and warm and safe.

“Yea-yes. Yes,” you repeat, clearing your throat and opening your eyes. “This is different,” you add, under your breath, and can’t help but let your eyes travel down to Jane’s mouth before jumping back up.

You can feel Jane’s amused exhale on your lips before he stands straight. With a gentle hand on your neck, guides you up to stand, too. It’s with a gentle tug to pull you in that he kisses you. And unlike last night, you’re about as lucid as you could be, and this is not chaste. You splay your hands over his bare stomach when he coaxes your lips apart with his. Where Patrick shudders at the touch, you can barely recognize the relieved and almost needy whine that slips from your mouth into his. The feeling of his tongue against yours has your knees almost buckling. You’re quickly steadied by a firm hand at your waist and the one at your neck sliding down to grab your shoulder.

“You need to breathe,” Patrick whispers, almost laughing, against your lips.

“Sorry,” you breathe, and the giggle that bubbles up feels foreign and almost manic. “I just—you’re so...”

“No need to be nervous,” Patrick mumbles, into your cheek this time, as he slowly moves to turn you. “I won’t bite unless you ask nicely.”

You pull back a bit too quickly to take a look at his face, but lose your footing in the process. You find that you comfortably land back on the bed, springs bouncing you back up one of twice before you settle. You barely have the time to lean up on your elbows to look up at Patrick before he places his hands behind your knees and tugs to pull you to the edge of the bed.

Your heart leaps in your throat. You really hate to assume anything and especially in moments like these but. But you’ve seen this movie—pretty much literally—and you have a feeling you know what’s supposed to come next. Jane must see the look of both shock and apprehension on your face, because where his expression has been pretty tame and affectionate, there’s something dark and hungry there when he sees your eyes go wide.

“Never had someone go down on you before?” he asks, and the crassness of it makes you remember how warm your face is. You don’t miss the way his hands are slowly creeping back up the outside of your thighs. Don’t miss the way that you have no choice but to keep your legs spread on either side of his.

“Uh, on-one, bitched the whole time, wasn’t uh,” you clear your throat again, bring your cold fingers up to your cheeks to try and dim the heat. “Wasn’t pleasant.”

Patrick clicks his tongue and shakes his head in obvious disapproval. He goes down on a knee when you feel his fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear. Your heart feels like a hummingbird in your throat when he slides it over your hips, down your legs and off your feet.

“Hands off your face,” Patrick says, though the hard tone in his voice makes it sound like an order. Your hands slip down over your chest before you can even think about it. His hands slide back over the top of your thighs, glide over and around your hips, and stop to rest just over the curves of your ass. Pulls you just a bit closer with a short tug.

“Oh god, fuck,” you whisper, swallowing thickly when you feel his warm breath against your cunt.

“Double tap for me to stop,” Patrick says, but doesn’t move immediately. Lifts his head and pinches with a hand to get your attention. “Understood?”

“Yessir,” you choke out, all at once, and immediately bite down on your tongue. His eyes narrow and he—you think it’s a hum, but it sounds so guttural you’re tempted to call it a growl.

“Good girl.”

You can’t see his head very well past the shirt you’re still wearing, so your spine arches nearly clean off the bed when you feel something wet slide all the way up your slit and catch on your clit. Your throat clamps around the whine that wants to leave it, only a choked exhale exiting your lips.

You open your mouth to say something, but your mind blanks when Patrick puts his lips around your clit and sucks. You swear your see stars for a second before he eases off, letting his tongue flick over it instead. When your body loses some of its tension, the whine that was choked before comes out as a whining moan on your exhale.

Patrick goes back down to tongue your entrance, only cursorily, before returning his attention to your clit. It feels like every other time you exhale is a breathy moan. You bring an arm up to your mouth to quiet yourself—you feel embarrassed is what it is—but a nip on the inside of your thigh makes you yelp. Patrick pulls a hand forward and slides the shirt you’re wearing up to your sternum, fingers splayed wide.

“I want to hear you,” he grunts, returning his tongue to your clit. You pull your arm from your face. When you feel two fingers slide up and down your entrance, though, you let yourself reach down and thread your fingers through his hair. “Just like that,” he mutters against your cunt, sliding both fingers in with ease.

But slowly.

“Fuck, please,” you whisper-whine, angling your hips up to try and get the fingers deeper. The hand on your chest slides down, until Patrick’s whole forearm is across your hips and holding you down against the mattress.

His fingers do, blessedly, slide in deeper, but unexpectedly hook up in a come hither motion, and you nearly choke at the sensation. Slowly, he pulls his fingers out, tips just brushing your entrance, before thrusting them back in. Again, bends his fingers and pulls them out.  Bit your lips and arch your back against the feeling. You’re realizing, on the third thrust, that maybe you don’t know your body as well as you think you do.

The fifth time Patrick pulls his fingers out, you can almost feel your orgasm in the back of your throat. He lets you angle your hips up this time. When you do, he once again seals his lips over your clit and sucks, but he also violently increases the speed of his fingers. You hope his knuckles leave bruises.

“Fuck, please,” you whine again, back arched and hips thrusting upward. You want to scream when Patrick takes his mouth off you, fingers still thrusting wildly.

“Ask nicely,” he breathes. You sob, hips still twitching trying to chase your high.

“I did, I did—I am! Please, fuck, please sir?”

“There you go.”

You don’t have time to think about the meaning of that before his lips are back on your clit, sucking, but this time he flicks his tongue over the nub.

Patrick’s fingers massage your inner wall while you come with a screamed sob that you don’t contain. At some point you register the fingers leaving and the sound of liquid hitting the floor, but you’re spent. Dazed and all but convulsing with your heart pounding in your ears and your head feeling like cotton.

And then Jane’s leaning over you, a forearm on the mattress by your head, brushing a hand across your forehead and down your cheek.

“Exceptional,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours.

“Hmm,” you whine, low, clearing your throat and taking a deep breath to steady yourself. “That’s—that’s my line.”

Eyes closed, you feel his lips on your and open up without any prying. You don’t mind tasting yourself on his tongue. You can just barely muster the energy and coherence to lift an arm up to put around his neck to pull him closer.

You can feel the bed dip at your hip where he takes a knee. The hand by your face moves to your waist and under. Too quick to register in your blissed-out state, Jane lifts you off the bed just enough to move you up a bit. Enough so that your hips are on there proper, and your legs are only dangling off the edge at the knee.

When you sigh, Jane chuckles and pulls away to take a look at you.

“All good there?”

“Better than I’ve been in a while,” you whisper, slowly blinking your eyes open. “Sorry for uh,” you stutter, letting your hand fall from around his shoulder to his chest. “For the mess.”

Patrick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes before leaning up and back. Your hands slide down his bare chest as he does, and your heart once again leaps into your throat when you realize how hard he is. Your fingers catch and linger at the waist of the slacks he’d worn to bed last night.

“Making a mess,” Jane starts, hands slipping under yours to pop the button of his slacks. You realize that his right hand is still damp with you. “Kind of the whole point.” 

You don’t realize you’re biting down on your lip until Jane grazes your jaw with his fingertips, and pulls your lip from between your teeth with his thumb. Zipper all the way down, you look up for—permission? You only pinch the fabric of his slacks to pull them down when you get a quiet ‘go on’.  Once they’re mid thigh, though, you squirm a bit to be able to scooch back enough to sit up in a way that doesn’t kill your back or neck.

A gentle hand comes to rest at the back of your head while you’re focused on the cock in front of you, bulging a pair of soft-looking black briefs. Your mouth closes with a click when you realize you’ve left it hanging open.

“You never answered me earlier,” Jane says quietly. The hand at the back of your head swirls a bit before you feel fingers closing and tugging on your hair. “What is it that you want?”

You feel breathless. When you look up, you can’t tell what colour Patrick’s eyes are with how blown his pupils are. Swallow thickly and loudly. There’s a moment when you glance back down at the straining fabric over his cock that you consider asking, very nicely, if you can blow him. When you look back up, he’s leaned down and used the hand at the back of your head to tilt it up.

The first time you open your mouth, you can’t quiet get the words out. You close it and clear your throat, again, and try to ignore how your face is heating up again.

“I wan—I want you to,” you start, taking a deep breath.

“You’re doing great,” Patrick croons, the hand at your head flattening out, fingers digging in like a semblance of a massage. You close your eyes to appreciate the sensation, but only for a second.

“Fuck me,” you say, eventually, blinking up at him before adding,“Please, sir.”

The hand in your hair tightens and pulls again, pulling you down to lie back on the bed while Jane leans down to join you. 

“You asked so nicely,” he whispers into your throat, and you shudder when you feel his tongue run up your jugular. “So eager to please when you’re given half a chance.” 

“Always,” you breathe back, putting your hands to good use and shoving both slacks and underwear over Jane’s hips to free his cock. Can’t help but cant your hips up when you feel the warm tip of it against your thigh. “Fuck, anything you want.” 

Taglist

@fucklife-or-me @mamacakeishereforfun @newavenger @yearningforsappho @natsukee @piper570 @rikuisthesweetestboy @berry-blink

i tagged everyone i could find in my replies but if you want to be tagged please send an ask!

#honey and the hatchet #patrick jane x reader #patrick jane #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #patrick jane fanfiction #named reader #no Y/N #second person POV #SMUT #the slow burn is finally catching

[idolatrybarbie]

pairing: marcus pike x fem!reader

word count & rating: 5.4k | explicit - 18+ minor free zone!

summary: it's not stalking if it's a casual curiosity. you would never do anything...you're just nosey. lonely, too, maybe. but that isn't your fault. yes—this is fine. only stalking if he notices. so what exactly happens when he does?

warnings: social isolation, touch starvation, marcus pike is a virgin (there is no virgin-shaming here - do not fear), alcohol, themes of alienation, allusions to failed relationships, everyone in this story is very normal, smut - kissing, loss of virginity, vaginal fingering, handjob, protected penetrative vaginal sex(!!!), premature ejaculation, body worship (with mouth), exhibitionism, implied male masturbation, vaginal fingering, very enthusiastic oral sex (f receiving), cum eating, cuddling.

notes: i was depressed and am sick (again) but yesterday was a really good day, so you get a fic. @wannab-urs wanted to see virgin marcus - here he is. this slowly and subtly became a little more kinky than i intended it to lol? my own cat makes an appearance and yes he is really that old. this is also my 400th post to this blog. woohoo, enjoy! :)

He’s your neighbour. Kind of cute. Okay, lie—very cute. You don’t have much on him otherwise. He moved in about three months ago, right at summer’s end. At first, you thought he was a student. You see him around the house and the neighbourhood during weekdays, so that rules out a college schedule.

He likes to read books in the park. Thick novels with colourful covers and lengthy titles. You would think that he’s showing off, peacocking with the way that he’s got a new book in his hands every week. But no, the reading isn’t for show. He moulds them to his liking, dogears the pages and folds over paperbacks; things someone doesn’t do when they’ve got a book in their hands as a lure, a line.

Surprisingly, he seems to be single. You aren’t exactly sure why. There’s no short supply of wealthy single moms in the area, and the man himself is truly gorgeous. Maybe he’s recently divorced, or gay. Maybe it’s his mom’s old house and she’s passed, and he’s only here to settle things up before skipping town again.

You find yourself watching his windows at night, never able to catch a glimpse of him. The house glows orange with the lights still on inside—a welcoming lighthouse in the cold and murky sea of suburbia. When you start thinking like that, watching his house for more than too long, you send yourself to bed. The very last thing you want to be is the obsessed stalker across the street.

A part of you can’t help it. Your other neighbours, despite barely knowing them, don’t seem to like you very much. You have a feeling a certain washing-your-car-in-a-bikini-top incident at the end of this year’s boiling hot August might have something to do with it. With no friends to speak of in this cookie cutter county, you find yourself lonely. When you don’t think about it too hard, that’s justification enough.

This morning, you wake up before the sun. Sparing your eyes the bright glare of house lights, you use a near-dead flashlight to see down the hall. The cat in your care this week lives on a strict schedule. At fourteen human years—eighty in feline—Bender has grown accustomed to routine: breakfast at six-thirty, talk television at eight. Later mornings to early afternoons are a little less structured, leaving him to wander the house or settle in for a nap. Then he eats again at four, followed up by water and a monitored trip to the litter box. After that, he usually sits on the cushioned back of your couch to watch movies with you.

His owner is away in Florida with her grand kids. She’s been leaving him with you for the past six months whenever she needs time away from Virginia to let loose and explore. Bender isn’t really my cat, she’d told you the first time, but her daughter is in New York for school and couldn’t take him this year. You secretly hope that she never does. He’s excellent company.

Professional pet-sitting hadn’t ever been a career that you’d really considered. You’re still not sure if this is a forever thing or a temporary gig to pay the bills. Really, you’d like to put your degree to use in some capacity. But after being laid off so abruptly…well, you aren’t itching to get back out into the workforce quite yet. Especially not when sweet older women pay you a hundred dollars a day to revel in the company of cuddly creatures.

They aren’t all easy like the old man. Charlie, the St. Bernard you sat last month, is clingier than any ex you’ve ever had. The Fogelmans’ Dalmatian is nice to have for a day or two, but thirty minute runs twice each morning go from exhausting to borderline impossible by day three. Animals are exhausting. When you aren’t sitting, you’re sleeping.

Peeling back the tin lid on a can of wet food, you can already hear the light tap of Bender’s small paws on the floor. He joins you in the kitchen, waiting as he watches you spoon half of the can’s contents onto a dessert plate. You soften it, making it easier to chew before you slide the food over to him. He always takes a comically big first bite.

“If only they could all be like you, huh?”

Bender doesn’t answer, of course. He’s a cat.

Good Morning America rambles away on your flat-screen. You’re waiting for Bender’s owner, his travel carrier already baited with treats. The unopened food cans and his toys are packed away in a grocery bag by the door. When Anne-Marie sends you a text that she’s in the neighbourhood, you gently lead the cat into the carrier. The grated door clinks shut behind him.

Poking a finger through the slats, Bender meets you with his paw.

“Come visit me soon, alright?” you ask. “Maybe your mom can take a long trip to Canada or something.”

Anne-Marie doesn’t have to knock for you to know she’s there, her short shadow visible through the frosted glass beside the door. You stand and turn to open it, greeting her with a smile. She asks after you and tells you about her flight in.

“I hope he’s been a good boy,” she says.

“An angel, as usual,” you reply.

“He’s a little bit of a grump sometimes.”

“Perfectly fine with me. Bender’s always welcome back here.”

Anne-Marie takes the bag of food and toys first, tossing it into the front passenger seat before returning for the carrier. Handing it over, you watch as she walks down the steps and  loads him into the backseat of her SUV. She buckles Bender’s glorified plastic box securely in the back, getting in herself. Anne-Marie waves at you from behind the wheel. You wave back.

Watching the vehicle pull away with your furry friend in tow, you see your neighbour’s house for the first time today. The weather is cooling off as winter grows closer. You don’t see him out much anymore, except when he gets home from who-knows-where. Even then, it’s only a glimpse of his short walk to the front door. Today, he’s sitting on his porch. With a fleece sweater zipped to his chin and a vest hugging his torso, you watch as pulls on a pair of muddy boots.

Cold air breezes past you, the draft pulling you back to reality. Just as you’re about to close the door, he peers up. And looks…directly at you. Then your neighbour smiles in acknowledgment.

Making eye contact for a second too long, you shut the door quickly. Leaning against the surface, you replay the last thirty seconds in your head. The car pulled away, he was sat there…he pulled on his boots and saw—

Three sharp knocks land on the other side of your door. You’re too much of an optimist, hoping it’s Anne-Marie again. Glancing at the glass from here, you find the realistic answer. It’s him, up close and personal this time—for the first time. Suddenly, you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

He knocks once again, clearly waiting. There’s nowhere else for you to go. The man is standing at the only reasonable exit point. Caving, you take a breath and open the door. 

The first thing you notice is his smell. Earthy-sweetness lingers with him as the familiar stranger smiles at you. Again.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” you return. “…Can I help you?”

“I figured that I’ve lived across the street for a while but never introduced myself,” the man says. He holds out a hand and you take it, his broad palm warming yours. “I’m Marcus.”

You tell him your name, still shaking his hand. When you let go, the smile falters.

“So Marcus, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I was wondering if I could borrow a cup of sugar,” he says.

You glance around the doorway, unsure how to respond. “Um—” 

“I’m joking.”

“Oh,” you nod. Shifting your weight from right to left, the tiniest of squeaker toys lands under your foot.

“You've got a dog, right?”

“Sort of,” you say. “I pet-sit sometimes. They aren’t really mine.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to bring ‘em out for a walk, but I guess—”

“I could still go for a walk,” you say, the words rushing out.

The smile returns to Marcus’ face, strong as ever as he nods. “Sure. Great.”

“Just give me one second.”

You backtrack into the front hall, pulling open your coat closet for a jacket and your shoes. It only takes a minute before you’re joining Marcus on your porch. He leads you down the steps, taking a right onto the sidewalk. This is the direction he drives in from.

“So, pet-sitting,” he says. “Passion or hobby?”

“Well, I get paid for it. Not really a hobby.”

“Monetized hobby,” Marcus corrects himself. “Or is this what you do professionally?”

“In that case, hobby. I lost my job a couple of months ago. Still sort of figuring it out,” you say. Marcus nods. Then you ask, “What about you?”

“Why don’t you guess?”

You hum, thinking back on what you know about him. The car he drives is new, a dark SUV with tinted windows. Whatever he does must pay pretty well. He lives alone, fairly solitary; no kids, no spouse. You’ve seen him bring in a maximum of three grocery bags at once, and yet he hasn’t starved, so he probably doesn’t cook a lot. Sometimes it’s like he’s never home, and others he’s ever-present. That’s a pretty erratic schedule for a business professional.

Giving up on a real answer, you say, “Male stripper.”

He laughs and rolls his eyes. “I wish.” You and him both.

“A cop?” you ask.

“Warmer,” Marcus says. “FBI agent.”

“You’re joking, right? Are you even allowed to tell normal people those things?”

“I mean, sure. You’re not a terrorist, are you?” he asks.

“No,” you say.

“Then we’re fine,” Marcus says. He formally introduces himself. SSA Marcus Pike.

“So, Marcus the FBI agent. What draws you to Fairfax County?”

“The commute. And the house is nice, too.”

“You don’t strike me as a white picket fence kind of guy.” Looking out at the neighbourhood, that’s all there is.

“You don’t seem the type either,” he says. Touché. “When I first started planning the move, it wasn’t supposed to be just me. But uh…some things changed, and I’d already bought the house. Can’t let it go to waste.”

There’s something raw there. It softens his voice a little, taking away that clutch of confidence that seemingly brought him to your door.

You say, “I guess it’s better here than another shit-box apartment.”

“Right? That was my whole life back in Texas,” Marcus says.

“Texas?”

“Not born nor bred,” he says. “I worked in the Art Theft department at the bureau there.”

“Working on crafts for the kiddos?” you ask.

“More like nabbing art thieves, stopping criminal smugglers. Stuff like that.”

You hate to admit that this man probably has more courage in his pinky finger than you possess in your entire being, but at least now you can justify the curiosity.

“So you’re good at catching the bad guys, then,” you say.

“More so good at noticing things,” Marcus explains.

The air changes slightly, goosebumps rising along your skin. You ignore any potential implication. “Like what? Human behaviour?”

“Sure,” Marcus says. “Small stuff. Like if someone’s lying…or if I’m being watched.”

When Marcus doesn’t say anything else, you pause. A finely manicured lawn as your backdrop, you stare at him, disbelieving. You can’t imagine what you look like—the pictured definition of mortification.

“Look, I’m really sorry if I creeped you out. I just—I don’t get out a lot without a job and all, and I don’t really have any friends here. You seemed interesting, but none of that’s an excuse and I should’ve come over and said h—”

He says your name, stopping your rambling. “It’s fine,” Marcus says. “A little odd but…flattering?”

With your heart racing in your chest, you scrub a hand over your face. “Oh my god,” you sigh. “I really am sorry, Marcus. My life isn’t very…normal anymore. It makes you do some weird things.” 

You can’t remember the last time you were outside before today. Direct grocery delivery took away any need to get out to the store, and with it your last real connection to the outside world. Except the pets. They keep you from losing it entirely.

“We’ve all got our fair share,” Marcus says. Why is he being so cool about this? He should be calling the police, or in this case, himself.

So you ask, “Why are you trying to make me feel better?”

“Well, if I don’t then you might not want to come over for dinner later."

At seven o’clock, you make your way across the street to Marcus’ front door. You hesitate in knocking, checking the time on your phone again. He says it’s fine, but maybe this is a mistake. You’re not over the embarrassment from earlier. You really don’t know how to carry out social interactions anymore. Maybe it’s for the best if you turn around and quietly slip back into your house…

Before you get the chance, the door before you opens up. Marcus has changed. He’s wearing less layers this time, only a simple white Henley shirt and a dark pair of jeans. Cartoon sharks bite the ankles of his socked feet, and you find yourself smiling when you finally look at his face. God, this man is fucking gorgeous. It almost makes you mad.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey, come on in.”

He stretches his arm to open the door wider, stepping aside to make room. You take your boots off at the door and note the details of his home. The walls are cherry red, different to the sage green of your place across the street. The wall space in the kitchen is filled with paintings where yours stay bare, all of them neatly hung—Frida Kahlo and Elmina Moisan are the artists you recognize. 

Marcus tells you that his mother is Chilean, that he was born over here once his American father could get her stateside. They moved down to Mexico when he finished high school. He’s visited every summer since, and each time he brings back a painting. There are only four here.

"You're missing a few," you say.

"The rest are upstairs," Marcus says.

Maybe you'll see them later.

Tonight, he's making fried rice and soy sauce chicken.

"Or See Yao Gai, if you want to get fancy with it," he says, concentrating on the pan.

Watching Marcus work over the stove is mesmerizing. He knows what to do and exactly when to do it, never letting anything burn or sit too long. You feel more like you're watching a professional chef than a guy that cooks "on occasion.” Even the way he washes rice has technique.

Jesus Christ, get it together.

Before plating the food, Marcus offers you a drink. He pours himself a small glass of something red.

"I'll have what you're having," you nod.

He sits across from you at the table. You imagine yourselves as your respective houses, the cloth runner that sits in the middle of the table acting as the paved street. They say people look like their pets, but homes take on characteristics of the people who live in them. Everything here is warm, like his hand. Vibrant and pleasant. The place smells like him too, all sweet and saffron.

The first bite of dinner explodes with flavour in your mouth.

"This is fucking delicious," you mumble, still chewing.

"Thank you."

"Of course." After a sip of wine, you say, "I mostly sustain myself off of hot pockets and spinach wraps. This is like, gourmet."

"You don't cook at all?" Marcus asks.

"Eh," you shrug. "I used to. A lot, actually. But it's not the same when—"

When what? When there's no love in it? Something like that. There's no one to feed, no one to come home to. So who fucking cares?

"When you're only cooking for yourself."

"I understand." They should sound like empty words, but something in Marcus' eyes tells you he really does.

"It's just…hard, I guess." Oh no, where are you taking this? "To keep caring? I’m sort of—"

"Going through the motions?" he asks.

"Yeah. Exactly," you say.

Marcus scoops another forkful of rice off his plate, chewing before he swallows. He says, "Well you know, I'm right across the street. Maybe twenty feet away? So if you need to, you can always go through the motions over here."

You don’t know exactly what he means, but it sounds nice. Someone to talk to. "One day I might just take you up on that."

When you're both finished, you help Marcus with the dishes and re-organising the table. You're showing yourself to the door with him in tow. You open it and cross over the threshold, the cold hitting you all at once. The sky is much darker than it was only an hour ago. A streetlamp behind you highlights Marcus’ face just so.

"Thanks for dinner. For all of it," you say. "It's been a long time."

"You're always welcome," Marcus says. And then he kisses you. Your hand moves over his shoulders, wrenching him forward to pull his body closer. You both stumble back into his house, the door closing behind you.

His hands remain respectfully north of the equator until you grab them, pulling them down to your hips. You break away from the kiss to say, "I don't usually…um. But do you want to—"

"Yes," he whispers. That's all the confirmation you need.

The combined stumble up to his bedroom has you bumping into walls, almost tripping on the landing. Marcus’ hands are hurried across your body. He can’t seem to make up his mind, palming your ass before he slides his hands over your ribs, squeezing your breast. Right outside his bedroom, he stops you.

“I’ve never done this before,” he says.

“Sex on the first date?”

“Sex…period.” You watch the way he cringes at himself, instinctively holding him closer.

Carefully, you say, “We don’t have to.”

“I want to. I just—it’s good to know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“It’s fine,” you say, giving him a kiss. “And we can take it slow.”

Marcus nods.

Inside the room, he lets you take the lead. You begin with your clothes, shedding your top, socks, and pants. Marcus mirrors you, leaving him shirtless in blue underwear. He’s already on his way to being fully hard, a bulge visible beneath the fabric.

Standing in front of his bed, you wave him over with a light come here. He’s drawn to you, a snake to its charmer, strong arms encircling you in his hold. You revel in the warmth of him. Marcus’ closeness has you leaning into his body, skin-to-skin. It has been so long since you’ve had this. You can’t remember the last time you’ve even had a hand to hold, an arm to brush by accident—so you take it. You revel in it, only god knowing the next time the opportunity will present itself.

“Are you okay?” Marcus asks, breath warm against your ear.

“Yeah, uh… I’m sorry,” you say. “It’s been a long time since I’ve touched somebody.”

The admission makes your stomach twist, Marcus’ face relaxing into a softer shape. Instead of the usual look of pity, he keeps his expression open. When he kisses you again, it’s long and slow; languid passes of his tongue against yours as the pair of you fall to the middle of the duvet. Marcus settles against you, assuring that his weight doesn’t crush yours before he peppers pecks across your mouth and forehead.

You can feel him hard against your thigh, steadily rocking himself into your skin with every smooch. He asks, “Can I touch you?” and you breathe a yes.

His right hand moves from its place on your torso to glide down the side of your body, cupping your ass before Marcus slides two fingers into the band of your panties. He smooths the pads of his fingers over the skin below your stomach, dipping below your pelvis to feel you.

Marcus brushes against your clit. You tilt your hips higher, chasing after the sensation.

“Here?” he asks.

“Little to the left?” you whisper. Adjusting accordingly, your breath catches when he finds it. “Yeah, there.”

Marcus rubs at it with his fingers, drawing tight circles around your clit as you wedge your face in between his shoulder and jaw.

“Can I kiss your neck?”

“Sure.”

Slowly, mindlessly, you peck at Marcus’ skin to ground yourself. Closer to his ear, he smells powdery, like vanilla. You’d like to know if it’s cologne or all him. You gasp when his fingers move to collect some of your wetness, returning to your clit and doubling down on the light pressure. Tongue darting past your lips, you lick him. He groans.

“Does that feel good?”

Gathering your thoughts takes a moment. “Yes, Marcus—don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He watches you now, eyes closed as you’re worked closer to the edge. With Marcus’ free hand, he slides the strap of your bra off your shoulder, pulling the fabric away from your breast.

“Use your mouth,” you instruct him.

Marcus doesn’t need to be told twice, ducking low to take your nipple into his mouth. His lips and fingers working in tandem as your body narrows in on the edge of pleasure. You keep a hand at the back of his head as he licks and sucks your nipple. When he takes the sensitive bud between his teeth, you cry out and tug at Marcus’ hair. You push his mouth closer, closer—you wish he would eat you.

It doesn’t take very long for you to cum. A few more tugs of his teeth at your nipple and a harsher pass over your clit has you seizing against him, lips parted as a harsh noise leaves your mouth. Marcus slows his fingers to an eventual stop. When you look at him again, he’s eyeing the stickiness left between them.

You hold his wrist, pulling it to your mouth and slipping his fingers onto your tongue. Marcus watches you clean them intently, like he’s committing the sight to memory. When your done, he holds your face and kisses your nose. You laugh.

“What else do you want to do?” he asks.

You slide a hand down his stomach, lightly prodding his belly button just to see him flinch. The smile he gives you makes you ache.

Hand hovering close to his clothed cock, you say, “I wanna touch you.”

He nods. “Please.” The single word comes out high and whiny, stoking that fire in your belly once again.

Slipping a hand into his briefs, you feel the wetness at the head of his cock as it smears against the elastic. You start there, taking the sticky tip into your palm to gather some of Marcus’ precum. When you work your hand over the rest of him, the glide is easier, his skin like slick velvet underneath you. It’s your turn to watch as his eyes flutter closed, mouth twisted into a pout as Marcus breathes hard through his nose.

“You can make noise, baby. Let me hear you,” you say.

Marcus gives you a quick nod, eyes opening again when you squeeze him at the base of his shaft. He moans, long and low, lips parted beautifully. You speed up, watching the effects of the faster pace as he curls further into your body. The slope of his nose drags against the skin of your shoulder as he breathes you in.

“Fuck,” Marcus whispers. His curses are said softly into your skin. Suddenly, his upper half draws away from you. “Fuck, wait, wait—”

You don’t realize he’s cumming until the first stripe of spend lands across your hip. Marcus groans, a reluctant purr from the back of his throat that mixes in with another low, “Fuuuuck.” Your hand frozen around him, you wait until he’s done to move.

Immediately, Marcus withdraws from you entirely. His eyes are glued to the cum on your skin, face twisted with something unreadable.

“Hey,” you say, touching your clean hand to his. He looks up at you. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”

“I’m really sorry,” Marcus mutters.

“Why?” you ask. With the shake of your head, you join him closer to the end of the bed. You slide your fingers through the mess of his spend, bringing them to your lips. Again, he watches as you clean it up. “Totally natural. Normal. You felt good, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“That’s all that matters. I felt good too.”

“Do you still want to…” he trails off.

“If you want to do more, I have no objections,” you say. “And if not.” With a shrug, you quirk your lips up. There’s no pressure here. You’re grateful to have him at all tonight.

“I have an idea,” Marcus says. He shakes off the funk, shoulders rolling back again easily.

“I’d love to hear it.”

Noses close enough to touch, your hands never leave his skin as Marcus confides in you his thoughts. When you say yes, he positions himself below you. Starting at your ankles, he nuzzles his face against your skin, slowly moving upwards as he presses kisses to your calves. Eye-level with your left knee, he readjusts your leg. He lightly slides his tongue over the slot of skin behind the joint, pulling giggles from you as you squirm at the feeling.

From here, Marcus makes sure to take his time. He alternates between soft, wet kisses and flat licks up your thighs. He noses along the sensitive skin, rocking into the mattress every once in a while.

“This is probably bad timing…” he trails off. You wait for Marcus to continue, but he’s too preoccupied licking at the skin of your mid-thigh. Running your hand through his hair, you try to capture his focus again.

“Marcus?”

He looks up at you, those beautiful brown eyes melting your heart and sending it dripping down to your cunt. “I’ve known the whole time. That you were watching me.” Then Marcus returns between your legs, nose at the crux of skin between your thigh and where you need him most.

You can barely map out your words. The anticipation is killing you. “You—you did?”

“Mhm,” he hums. He’s so close now.

“You never said anything.” The bridge of his nose presses directly against you, your hips stuttering against his face. “I would’ve…god, I couldn’t stop,” you confess.

“I kind of liked it,” he whispers to your pussy—a secret between them.

You groan when his nose brushes your clit again, breaking into a light pant when Marcus licks a fat stripe across the lips of your cunt. His words short-circuit your brain. You squeeze your eyes shut, imagining Marcus in this very room, touching himself as you unknowingly watch him in the dark. All those nights with the lights left on. Is that what he was doing?

Marcus slides his tongue directly over your pussy, prodding with care. Forcing yourself to look, your gaze falls from the ceiling to his lowered form. He’s already watching you, drinking in every bite of your lip and crease in your forehead. With your attention on him again, Marcus doubles down on his efforts, making out with your cunt as you whine.

“Please, please, please. Marcus—inside, can you use your fingers?”

“Anything,” he says, slipping two inside of you carefully. “Anything you want.”

They move in tandem with his tongue. Finally having something to grip and clench around has the heat of your second orgasm growing to a full forest fire. Picturing yourself now, you wonder if any of your other neighbours have taken an interest in the new guy in town. If they’re watching now, catching a glimpse of you through his window. The thought has you moaning again, picturing inches of soft, revealed skin and Marcus’ hands on you through the eyes of a stranger.

Marcus fucking you in the dark SUV that occupies the driveway, taking you against the translucent accent window of your front hall. Privacy with that hint of exposure. The delicious subtlety of risk.

Maybe you kind of like it too.

Marcus sucks on your clit and the sensation consumes you, flames licking up your spine. You cum with a shudder and a curse. He slows his hand down, removing his index and middle from you to share another kiss.

“I’d like you inside me,” you whisper.

Teeth gnaw at your insides. You crave the closeness, his warmth. Leaning to the side of the mattress, Marcus pulls open his bedside drawer. He fishes a condom from its depths.

“You’re prepared,” you say with a smile.

Marcus shrugs as he carefully tears the wrapper. “I was a boy scout.”

You sit up to help him put it on, spitting in your palm before you wrap it around his length. “Of course you were.”

He watches your movements, rolling the plastic on at the head before you remove your hand. Marcus slides the condom down the rest of him, keeping the end pinched.

“I was expecting brownie points for that presentation,” he says.

You lean up to meet him on your knees, teasing him with the promise of another kiss. You just miss his lips with your own, planting a peck at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t get a prize for watching your hot English teacher roll one onto a banana.”

Leveraging his shoulders, you have him seated and straddled in one swift move. Marcus sucks in a gasp as you hover your cunt over him, slicking his cock with your body. He holds himself, lining up to let you sink down easily. The stretch is slight, feeling a pinch as he splits you open. Grasping your shoulders, Marcus moans into the plate of your chest.

Grinding on him slowly, you pet his hair and hold the heat of his face to your skin. “There you go,” you sigh. “How’re you feeling?”

You squeeze around him right as Marcus opens his mouth to answer, words replaced by stuttering breaths. "Good, good. So good,” he says. “Feeling you…fuck. You’re beautiful.” Marcus rocks his hips up into you, taking over the pace as he grows a little frantic. The friction of short hair at the base of him keeps you sated, enjoying the feel as he follows his release.

“Think of you all the time,” he continues. “See you out and—god, ah—you’re always so beautiful. Shit… Always alone. I just—”

Marcus grinds into you a few more times before he spills into the condom, moaning into the kiss you give him. You stay together like that for a minute, reveling in the feeling of him. Then you slide off his lap, Marcus’ limp dick slipping from you. He stands to take the condom off and disappears into the en suite bathroom. When he returns, the two of you bundle up under the covers.

He lets you be little spoon, his hands swiping softly over your stomach. Marcus traces little shapes beside your belly button, lips meeting the top notch of your spine.

“How was that?” you ask, breaking the soft silence.

“An excellent first time,” he says. “More…more than I imagined it could be. Thank you.”

“I’m glad.” You bring your own hand to the arm that wraps around you, feeling him. “It’s kind of a two-way street. I haven’t—I’m not really accustomed to closeness anymore.” His grasp on you has your head abuzz, high on his touch. Then you ask, “You said you saw me?”

“Oh, right,” Marcus says, remembering. “Saw you around the neighbourhood. I was mostly impressed you were able to keep a handle on that Dalmatian without turning into the evil coat lady.” His corny joke still makes you laugh, one more for the night, even as you shake your head. “And…I don’t know. I never saw you with anyone. I kept wanting to come over and say hello. Say anything, really.”

“I would’ve liked that,” you say. “Would still like that. If you came and talked to me.” Talking, fucking, going through the motions.

“I think we’re a little past that,” he says.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ll always come talk to you.” A beat of silence. “Just you and me, like two lonely people.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedrostories #fic: lover be sweet

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

No Net Ensnares Me

**co-written with @littlebirdsbookshelf**

Pairing: Victorian!Marcus Pike x f!reader��

Rating: Explicit (smut, 18+ only)

Word count: 20k!!!

Warnings: Arranged marriage AU; strangers to spouses to lovers; period-typical views on women, virginity, marriage, and sex; YEARNING, oh so much yearning; Marcus being a dumbass; smut: fingering, virgin!reader, unprotected PIV sex

Authors Note:  The title comes from, no surprises here, Jane Eyre. The book mentioned in this fic, The Transmission of Life, is a real book published in 1873 and is just as hilarious as it sounds. The full pdf is available online if you ever wish to cringe at what is essentially Victorian era sex-ed for men. **Happiest of birthdays to my co-writer, who spent her birthday spending time getting this amaaaaaaaaazing fic ready to post!**

Penny's Masterlist | Morgan's Masterlist

Splash! 

You wince as water hits your skirts before you have the chance to pull them up and out of the way.

Mother isn't going to want to see another dress with mud stains.

It's not your fault–if you could simply wear short trousers like your younger brother, Edward, does in the summer, you could avoid the problem altogether. If he were just a little bit wider in the hips, you could probably steal some. Next summer, perhaps. 

The water burbling in the small stream on the property is cool and refreshing, and the rush of the current makes such a pleasant, soothing sound as it cascades over the little pebbles. You pick one up–a flat, smooth one. You'd once seen Father teach Edward to skip stones, but when you had asked to learn, he had gently chastised you that it wasn't proper. You toss the stone in the same manner you remember seeing them do, but it simply plunks into the water with a small splash, not even skipping once.

With a little huff of laughter, you sit on one of the large boulders on the side of the stream and wiggle your toes around in the water. This is where you feel most at peace. Not at finishing school, where you were forced to endure hours upon hours of dance, embroidery, sewing, and etiquette lessons. Nor at home, where your mother seems to follow you about looking for faults to critique and your father spends all of his attention on raising Edward to be the next man of the house.

No, despite the relentless and unending teasing you’ve endured for it at the hands of your finishing school peers, you feel most at home when you are running free through the woods or cooling your bare feet in the water.

Most unbecoming! 

The words ring loud and clear in your brain, and in your mother’s voice, no less. You aren’t sure why she’s so ridiculously concerned with raising you up to marry off–not when Edward will surely continue in your father’s footsteps, carrying on the family legacy. Besides, you’re quite a few years past marrying age, now, and if your betrothal was so very important, wouldn’t they have shipped you off to the first man that would have you?

You smile wickedly to yourself. Perhaps the problem is that there is no man that would have you. 

Feral creature, your headmistresses had thrown the accusation like so many embroidery needles through fabric. Unmarriageable. Unmanageable. Horrid and brash, like a boy. 

Well, if the shoe fits… you’re happy to languish as an old maid–why, soon you’ll have aged enough to earn the label of eccentric! You snort. An old maid. At twenty-eight. You’ve hardly even left your county; let alone seen anything of the world. You’ve done nothing, traveled nowhere, not even attended university, because such things were ‘not for ladies of your station.’

No, you are quite fine remaining unwed. Being someone’s wife was just one more way for them to entrap you.

Upon your return to the house, your parents are waiting for you in the sitting room just inside the front hall.

"Excellent news, sweetling," your father says as you enter, brandishing a letter. "We’ve had a letter from The Earl! The Pikes have agreed to the union of our two families in marriage."

"Fifteen seems rather young, does it not?" you comment, shooting a look at Edward, who sticks out his tongue. "Not very husbandly behavior, brother."

"Silly child," your mother scolds, never one to find humor in any situation, "the Pikes have only one child; a son. You are to be married to Lord Marcus Pike in a fortnight."

"A fortnight?" The words are practically shrieked as you whirl around to face your parents. 

"Don't shout so, dearest," your mother adds, a false sweetness in her words. 

"He's a good man by all accounts," your father interjects. "Well bred, and of course dreadfully wealthy. It will be a good match for our families."

"Am I to be a meal ticket?" you ask, your voice quieter as you come to grips with the gravity of the situation.

"Sweetling," your father begins, but you back away, horrified. 

"Don't 'sweetling' me," you snap. "Where was my input in any of this? Don't I deserve to know my… my…"

"Fiancé," your brother finishes, unhelpfully.

"I don't know what he looks like," you say. "I don't even know how old he is."

"He's…" your mother glances at the letter again, "eight and thirty."

"And unmarried? What's wrong with him?" you demand.

"Now, now, sweetling. There's nothing wrong with the man."

"How do you know? Have you met him?"

"I–" Your father searches for an answer, but can't seem to find one. 

"We'll all have met in a fortnight," your mother interjects. "So it hardly matters, discussing such things now."

"It matters to me," you mutter. Gathering your skirts in one hand, you start for the stairs. 

"Dearest," Mother cries. "Your skirts!"

"They'll wash," you snap. "I've got bigger things to worry about now, don't I?"

You tramp up the stairs in a huff, ready to throw yourself onto your bed and scream into your pillow, wallowing in the unfairness of it all, but just before you throw the door shut, your mother is there, having followed you.

"I would like to rest–" you offer weakly.

"I feel the need to warn you," she says, pushing past your protest, "that this kind of unladylike behavior will not be appropriate for a married woman of your status. You cannot run about the woods like a feral animal; you will have responsibilities. Duties. We have not yet spoken, you and I, of what it is to please a husband–"

"And we won't begin now," you interrupt. "Mother, I'm tired. I wish to lie down."

You don’t wait for her to leave before collapsing inelegantly on your bed and burying your face in the covers. Blessedly, she says nothing more, leaving you to sulk in your misery.

Married. To a man you’ve never even met. Realistically, you knew this day would come, eventually. At the age of twenty-eight, being unwed was starting to be an unusual condition. All of your peers have been wives for quite some time; most of them already surrounded by children. You suppose you should be grateful to your parents for waiting this long–although you know that part of their apparent difficulty in finding a match was directly caused by your advancing years. The last prospect had declined your father’s offer and had instead asked for the hand of your neighbor’s daughter–who was not yet even twenty years!

You have to admit, that one stung a little–even if you felt nowhere near ready to be someone’s wife. The weight of that responsibility has always felt so suffocating, when all you ever wanted to do was be yourself. You wonder if any other wives ever have the urge to run through the woods at night, wiggle their toes in the middle of a mud puddle, or lay in the grass and stare at the stars.

You’re sure that your betrothed would not want a wife who behaved in such a way.

You create an image in your mind of the man you’re to marry. He must be objectionable, in some way, to have remained a bachelor for so long. Perhaps he’s disfigured, or his breath is horrid, or… oh God–what if he’s cruel?

You shake the thought away–too horrifying to think of. 

With an anxious mind and heavy heart, you manage to fall asleep.

“Straighten your back.”

“I’ve been sitting in a cramped carriage for over three hours,” you remark, trying not to clench your jaw in irritation at your mother’s reminder.

“Well, you’re not in one now, so do try and act like it, dearest.”

You grit your teeth and put an exaggerated curve in your spine, sticking your chin up and looking haughtily down your nose as you, your parents, and your brother walk up the stairs to the manor house currently occupied by Lord Pike, the only son of the Earl of Tennesley.

Lining either side of the stairs are the home’s staff, each bowing and curtsying as you pass them. At the front door, a large contingency awaits–his parents, you presume, perhaps some relatives, and there, standing at the front of the group, is a man.

At first glance, there’s nothing outwardly objectionable about him, as you had feared. He’s dressed smartly in a black frock coat, a maroon waistcoat, and a tie of damask silk neatly centered under his crisply starched collar. As your eyes dart over his figure a second time, you notice the gold albert chain glinting at the left side of his waist, and an amber tie pin tucked neatly below the knot. He’s tall, but not overly so, with dark brown hair that seems to be doing everything it can to escape its styling. As you warily march up the stairs, your feet seeming heavier with every step, you can make out his features. His lips are soft and plush, his eyes dark as he watches your approach. He might be a decade your senior, but his looks are still boyish and youthful. 

He stands rigidly and formally: his arms ramrod straight at his sides, and his chin lifted. His jaw is tense, but you can see the flicker of nervousness in his eyes–an anxiety that matches your own.

It disappears quickly as you walk the final steps to come face to face with him, so much so that you suddenly wonder if you’d simply imagined it in the first place, projecting your own feelings onto the face of a stranger.

The man steps forward to meet you, stiffly extending his hand and clearing his throat. 

“What a privilege and an honor it is to meet you,” he intones, his tone just as uptight as the rest of him. 

For a moment, you’re frozen to the spot–until your mother elbows you in the ribs, hitting the boning of your too-tight corset and making you inhale sharply; it causes you to remember yourself and your manners.

“I am grateful for your generous hospitality, Lord Pike,” you say, your formal tone barely recognizable to your own ears. You extend a gloved hand for him to take, and he does–clasping it gently and drawing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

You drop your eyes, unable to look directly at the action.

“Marcus, please,” he says, much more quietly this time, and without the unbearable rigidity from before. “We are to be wed, after all.”

You don’t know what to say to the man, so you say nothing. 

The two of you stand in silence, almost daring one another to speak first.

“What lovely grounds,” your mother says cheerfully beside you. “So many delightful flowers.”

Lord Pike–Marcus–awkwardly clears his throat for the second time. When he speaks, his voice is formal again, and a touch too loud.

“I had tea prepared for us in the drawing room,” he announces. “You’ve come a long way, you must be in need of refreshment.”

“How very lovely,” you answer, imitating and even exaggerating the man’s too-formal tone. If Marcus notices your mocking, he doesn’t show it, but your mother shoots you a look of warning.

Flanked by your parents, you follow your betrothed to an ornate sitting room. At first, you head straight for one of the single chairs, but at your mother's stern look, you reluctantly sink down onto a loveseat–one whose other cushion is already occupied by one Lord Pike.

He smiles at you, but something about it seems disingenuous. 

"Lovely weather, is it not?"

"I find it rather disagreeable," you answer stiffly, even though the sun is shining and the temperature mild.

"Dreadful," Marcus amends, seemingly wanting to agree with whatever you say. "It smells of rain."

"According to the almanac, it won't rain for another week at least," you counter. 

"Quite true. Tea?" he asks, holding out a delicate cup that looks comically small in his hand.

You take the proffered teacup but don't drink. 

"What sorts of activities interest you?" he asks, with the air of someone who isn't actually interested in the answer.

"I find the process of setting water to boil quite enthralling," you remark, still using the same artificially formal tone. "I like to trim the hedges in the garden by picking one leaf at a time. And you?" You smile sweetly at your betrothed, who looks entirely confused.

"I… I enjoy reading," he stammers, "taking walks of the evening." He glances over at his own father. "Hunts, of course."

"How exhilarating," you gush. "Snuffing the life out of unsuspecting animals sounds thrilling."

Edward snorts into his tea. You don't dare venture a glance at your own parents, who must surely be wondering if the arrangement was going to end within the first five minutes of meeting.

Your brother, on the other hand, delights in Marcus’ apparent anxiety with a sardonic grin.

“So, Marcus, I hear you have traveled the continent quite extensively?” Edward asks with an air of geniality. Beside him on the settee, you try to force a grin down. You know where his line of questioning is headed, having fallen into the same trap yourself many times over. 

“Yes,” Marcus nods, “In that part of the globe, I’ve traveled quite extensively through much of France, Germany, Italy, and the middle east” 

“Ah, then you must be quite excited to hear we’ve been linked to the continent by telephone!” 

Marcus pales, fidgeting surreptitiously with his shirt-cuff. “I can’t say I was aware of that.” 

“It was in the paper at least this last fortnight!” Edward exclaims, feigning surprise and pointedly ignoring the heavy stare of your father from the other side of the room. 

“Well, I…” Marcus fumbles as that steadfast exterior of his cracks for just a moment, revealing the anxiety beneath. In mere seconds, he recovers his constitution, his expression blank and amiable once again. “I am afraid I haven’t spent as much time as I ought on events as of late, though I will be sure to rectify that.” 

“No matter, no matter,” Edmund smiles, putting on the air of a man much older than his years, as is his talent. “You are a very busy man, I’m sure.” 

“Indeed,” Marcus nods, watching you and your brother briefly lock eyes before quickly returning your gazes to your plates. 

"The church in the village, that shall be the venue of the wedding, correct?" your mother interrupts, attempting to salvage the conversation before the table falls into silence. 

"Indeed," Mrs. Pike responds. "It has been decorated handsomely for the occasion, of course."

The two women start their own conversation regarding tomorrow's ceremony, leaving you and Marcus to fall silent. 

"Does the tea not suit you?”

You frown and look over at your betrothed. “Pardon?”

“You have not taken a single sip.”

You stare down at the liquid in the too-ornate cup. In the comfort of your own home, you enjoy sitting by the window and looking out over the garden, a steaming cup of tea in your lap. Here, however, the thought of drinking anything this rigid man gives you turns your stomach.

“I hate tea,” you lie.

Marcus blinks dumbly, taken off-guard by your blunt statement. After a split second of staring, he recovers; he schools his expression back into aloof disinterest. “I sincerely apologise for the misunderstanding. I can have some coffee brought up, or some hot water with lemon. I can arrange for milk–”

“No.”

At your interruption, he falls silent, and doesn’t attempt to speak to you again for the rest of the afternoon. 

When evening falls, you and your family are shown to the guest wing of the manor. You’ll sleep here tonight, but tomorrow… you shudder. Tomorrow, you’ll be sleeping in the bed of a man you barely know, on the night of your marriage.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Edward is already snoring, and your parents’ breaths are deep and even with sleep as well–all three of them apparently unconcerned and unbothered by the fact that, two days from now, they shall ride away in their carriage, leaving their oldest child in the arms of a stranger.

You do not know how long you drift, prisoner to your own rapidly-swirling thoughts, but when sleep finally claims you, your dreams are likewise disquieting.

Your body doesn’t feel like your own. You’re an outside observer, looking down on the girl–woman–in an ornate white dress. 

Part of your lightheadedness, you suppose, is the fault of the corset underneath–laced perhaps a bit tighter than medically recommended. That, combined with the suffocating silk fabric of the wedding dress and the weight of the veil on your head, and you’re hotter and more uncomfortable than you’ve ever felt in your life.

You stand outside the doors to the church like a statue, your expression as grey and somber as stone, when your mother joins you.

“They’re nearly ready,” she explains. “The organist was late.”

You nod, about to place your hand on the door handle, when she stops you.

“Wait. We didn’t talk about—about your duties, about what you should come to expect tonight.”

“Mother–” you mutter, shaking your head, but she continues.

“Please,” she says, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard, making you frown and look at her face–which is etched with concern. “I want you to be prepared. I want you to understand and expect that there will be pain, so that you do not react unfavorably in the moment.”

“Pain?” you repeat, the nerves you didn’t think could grow any higher reaching a crescendo–and just moments before you’re to walk down the aisle.

“It won’t always be painful,” your mother adds. “It may not be enjoyable, but in time, you will come to appreciate it.”

“If it’s not enjoyable, then why do people do it?” you ask pointedly, arching an eyebrow and glowering in her direction.

“He will find it to be enjoyable,” she explains gently. “And it’s your duty as a wife to please your husband.”

With that, she ushers you–stunned and open-mouthed–through the church doors to meet your fate.

The cacophony of the organ is drowned out by your heart hammering in your ribcage as you slowly walk down the aisle. Your betrothed is already there, of course, and staring intently with those deep brown eyes of his. As you enter the room, his lips part almost of their own accord, and he looks almost stunned to see you. 

His gaze is intolerable–boring into you as you turn and face him at the dias, and you wish you could tell him to look somewhere else. The preacher speaks, but you don’t hear the words over the rushing of blood in your ears. Your chest hurts, the top of your too-tightly fitted corset digging into your ribs and your hips painfully, and above all else, you’re simply angry. 

You recite your vows in a monotone, staring blankly at Marcus’s chest as the ceremony proceeds. You don’t even realize the officiant has said the words “man and wife” until Marcus–your new husband–squeezes your hands to get your attention.

“We’re supposed to kiss,” he announces, as if you didn’t understand how a wedding worked.

“Yes,” you agree flatly, but remaining where you are and not stepping closer at all. In the end, Marcus is the one who moves, stepping forward to press a stiff, chaste kiss on your unpuckered lips. 

And just like that, you’ve become somebody’s wife.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to eat anything, trussed up the way you are. You barely have room for air, let alone any of the mountains of food on the table in front of you. You push some potatoes around your plate with your fork, listening to Marcus make unbearable small-talk with your father. His mother and yours are deep in a discussion about embroidery, and your brother is telling Marcus’s father about his schooling. You’re the only one without a conversation partner.

"Is the food not to your liking?"

It takes you longer than usual to realize someone is speaking to you. You glance up and realize that your new husband is watching you with concern written all over his face. 

"What?"

"The food," he repeats. "You've barely eaten."

"Not hungry, I suppose," you lie. You're starving, but the cursed undergarments your mother forced you into are digging into your stomach uncomfortably already.

"Better eat up," Marcus's father says with a laugh. "You'll both need your energy!"

The men at the table erupt with laughter, alongside a few tittering giggles from the other married ladies in the room, but you and Marcus sit awkwardly silent and unsmiling. 

"Indeed, we've kept these two newlyweds apart for long enough," your mother adds, as though the two of you are deeply in love and not mere strangers until just yesterday.

With your heart in your throat, you allow yourself to be ushered up and away from the table by Marcus’ mother. She leads you through the large manor house, chattering gently at your elbow. If you had any room in your mind to think much about her, you might have thought she was attempting to be kind–removing you for a while from the icy gaze of your mother–but your thoughts are too full of dread to take much notice of her. With a small smile, she takes your hands in hers and bids you a good night, informing you that Marcus would join you in only a moment. 

Then, down another corridor, she disappears. 

Again, anger simmers up inside you at the fact that you’ve been left like a child waiting to be collected from school. However, instead of waiting for your governess, you’ve been left to wait for your husband to collect you, as if you were no more than a piece of chattel to be moved from one location to the next. 

Still, you don’t dare move from in front of the large oak doors. 

At either side of you, the corridor stretches out, funneling all sounds down toward you. You can hear other family members retiring for the night, guests finding their rooms, and the soft, whispering chatter of staff and maids as they receive instruction. 

One voice you recognise out of the rest–the voice of your mother somewhere to your right. You listen, straining to hear her words as she speaks in quiet tones to some other unknown person. 

“Ensure that in the morning you personally collect the linens from the room,” she murmurs, her voice fading as she disappears somewhere into the unfamiliar halls of the house. “Any sheets are to be brought to myself and the countess so it may be proven that she wed her only son to a proper young lady of good morals.” 

With that, your anger boils over. It becomes a growing, frothing thing in your stomach, filling you up until you think you might scream out at the indignity of it all. 

Does the whole house know of the humiliation you are about to suffer? Are they all listening at keyholes and in servant corridors? It seems that even the most intimate moment of your life is to be a public spectacle! 

Before you can stalk after her in a fit rage, heavy steps to your left freeze you in your place. 

Your new husband and his father–who looks a little worse for drink, in your opinion–round the corner of the corridor to your left. 

Something akin to relief passes across Marcus’ expression. 

The Earl, leaning over to his son, whispers something in his ear–something that has your new husband forcing a smile. Without a word to you, he politely bids his father a pleasant evening before gently guiding you into his bedroom with a hand at your lower back. The moment the door closes behind you, however, he immediately moves away, nearly retreating across the room, and his smile falls.

“I would not–” he swallows, looking down at the floor. “I cannot, in good conscience, accept a partner who is unwilling,” he murmurs.

“I am willing, my lord,” you say stiffly, because you know it’s what you’re supposed to say. Inside, however, your heart is racing as you remember your mother’s words from earlier. I want you to understand and expect that there will be pain, so that you do not react unfavorably in the moment. You suppress a shudder of nerves.

Marcus’s eyes shoot up to meet yours, his gaze dark and discerning. 

“No,” he says softly. “No, I do not believe that to be true.”

It’s your turn to swallow and look at the floor. It’s not–of course it isn’t. You’d rather sleep in this corset all night than consummate your marriage, but surely, if like your mother said, he’d find the act enjoyable, he would want to fulfill this expected–and anticipated–duty? You shake your head, not understanding, but Marcus doesn’t budge.

“Listen,” he entreats. “I cannot ask such a thing from you. You can have your own quarters if you like, after everyone leaves. I had a wing of the manor prepared; it can be yours, all yours, if you’d rather not share–well, if you’d like your own space.”

You nod, too stunned to speak at first, but then you remember: “But how will we… the sheet,” you say weakly.

Marcus smiles–and you realise that it looks different than all the other expressions on his face that you’ve witnessed thus far, but you’re not sure why. You watch, confused, as he strides over to a small cabinet and opens it, withdrawing a small vial.

“What on earth–” 

“It’s paint,” he explains. “A bit of crimson pigment. We spill a few drops on the sheet, and no one will know the difference.”

“Why–” you begin, shaking your head in disbelief. “Why would you do such a thing? Lie to our families?”

“I’ve made quite a few vows today already, but I’d like to offer one more to you now,” your husband says quietly. “I vow to never hurt you. I vow that I will never share this bed with you unless you wish it. You are to be my partner in life–equals–and I will not take that which isn’t enthusiastically offered to me. On my life, I swear this to you.”

The man’s sincerity stuns you into silence. He stares at you entreatingly, his eyebrows upturned and his eyes wide with uncertainty.

“Is this… amenable, to you?” he asks awkwardly, holding up the vial of red pigment again.

“Y-Yes,” you answer, nodding quickly. “Yes. I–thank you.”

You watch, fascinated, as Marcus pulls out a little eyedropper and spills a couple of droplets on the sheet. The colour stands out sharply against the white fabric, and you find yourself entranced by the way it bleeds into the fibers of the material. 

“There,” he says simply, replacing the lid and hiding the vial in the cabinet again. 

You take a deep, relieved breath in. Or you try to–it feels as though your lungs can only inflate to half of their capacity. You have to get out of these torturous clothes. 

“Would you ring for a maid to assist me with my outer garments?” you ask, your voice stiff with formality again as you grapple with the prospect of undressing in front of a near stranger. Although you’ll be able to keep your chemise on, shedding your outer layers still brings more vulnerability than you’re comfortable with.

“That would surely give our little game away,” Marcus says with a little half-smile, “and alert the entire manor to what we aren’t doing.”

“Oh.” You stare down at the floor again. He’s right, of course. 

“You’re uncomfortable,” he observes quietly. “You’ve hardly been able to breathe all evening.”

“My mother was a bit ambitious with the laces,” you say dryly. 

“Let me help,” Marcus pleads softly. “I–I’ll be careful, and I won’t… look, or anything but I–you can’t possibly sleep in all of that.” He takes a cautious step toward you, his expression open and unguarded as he approaches. “Simply say the words, and I’ll–”

Rather than speak, you turn your back to him, wordlessly offering the row of tiny buttons on your wedding dress for him to undo. He doesn’t speak either, silently starting at the top of the row and gently working his way down. The quiet is almost companionable as he works, undoing button after button until he’s able to carefully draw the garment down your shoulders.

“Good heavens, this thing weighs a ton,” he muses, letting the ornate white fabric crumple to the floor in an inelegant heap. “How on earth do you stay upright with all these skirts as well?”

Despite your anxious and dour mood, you cannot stop the quiet laugh that escapes your lips at his gentle teasing. 

“We womenfolk are secretly stronger than anyone realises,” you joke as you begin removing your petticoats and your bustle cage, letting them all pool at your feet before stepping out of them. 

“I’m certain that’s the truth,” your husband responds, a small smile colouring the tone of his voice, softening it.

With your underclothes now out of the way–save for your chemise and drawers–you can feel the warmth of Marcus’s hands as they come to the laces of your corset. 

“My God, this is–” he murmurs with a frown. “However do you endure such a thing?”

You shrug, not knowing how to answer. It’s not like you had a choice in the matter.

“I had no idea,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.” He quickly loosens the garment, his hands working far quicker than they had while unbuttoning your dress in his apparent urgency. As you undo the hooks at the front, he helps to draw it away from your body and then casts it aside with a soft tsk. “If you’d like to burn it, I would gladly supply you with a match.”

“It’s my finest corset,” you remark, tipping your head back and taking in your first full breath since that morning, sighing in relief as you stretch at the waist, finally unencumbered by boning meant to keep you upright. 

“An oxymoron,” he says dryly. 

Suddenly remembering himself, Marcus steps back comically fast, turning around and averting his eyes in your state of undress. Cheeks heating with embarrassment, you quickly rid yourself of your shoes and dart over to the bed, pulling the covers up to your chin.

You keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling as you listen to the sound of your new husband undressing. You can only glance out of the corner of your eye as he slips into bed beside you, and you realise he's still wearing his undershirt and trousers just before he extinguishes the lamp.

Marcus’s bed is large enough that a wide gulf of unused mattress spreads out between the two of you, even without hugging the very edge of it–which you do. You curl into yourself, listening to the unfamiliar sound of another person breathing beside you as you attempt to relax your body and mind enough that sleep will claim you.

It's a big undertaking; your mind continues to whirl for what seems like hours before you feel the pull of dreams.

Neither you nor Marcus speak again until morning. 

Come daylight, Marcus calls for the footman to have your things brought to his room, immediately excusing himself to give you privacy as you wait for your lady’s maid–your own having been relieved of her position by your parents despite your protests. She introduces herself as Bridget in a somewhat anxious voice. She’s about the same age as yourself; meek, though she has a warm smile as she shows you to the ladies bath and dressing room. Through the door, you watch another maid enter and begin her duties. Another maid, this one obviously of higher rank, gathers the bedding to be washed, and you watch as the little red stain is carried out of the room. 

"Are you feeling well this morn, Lady Pike?" your lady’s maid asks timidly as she begins setting out your clothing.  

"Quite well," you answer tightly, hoping the waver in your voice doesn't betray you. 

Once dressed in your favorite maroon day-dress, your new husband escorts you to the dining room for a small breakfast before your families depart. The meal is dreadfully awkward; every head in the room is turned toward the two of you as you pick politely at a piece of toast. You know your mother would disapprove if you attacked your food with the hunger you secretly felt–having not eaten a true meal since yesterday morning. You wonder to yourself if the breakfast will still be available when everyone leaves and you can gorge yourself freely.

You sneak a glance at your husband. Would he think you rude, too? 

Perhaps you could steal down to the kitchens later and help yourself. Besides, if there is  anything finishing school has taught you, it is that being on the side of the staff will make your life exponentially easier. 

Again, neither you nor Marcus speak to one another. He’s stiff and formal again, and you suddenly find yourself longing for the way he spoke to you last night when you were finally alone–for the first time since meeting. The upright rigidity with which he holds himself in public was gone, then–replaced with concern, sincerity… and warmth. 

He had looked upon you with kind, understanding eyes. Eyes that are now staring at the food on his plate with vague disinterest.

Finally, after Marcus’ own family has departed, your parents prepare to take their leave. You hug each of them in turn, before wrapping Edward in a tight embrace. 

“Be good,” you whisper to him, your voice filled with emotion. “Don’t neglect your studies. Don’t play pranks on your tutors.” 

“What if they’re very good pranks?” your baby brother whispers back.

You laugh quietly, and a lone tear escapes, rolling down your cheek. “Only if you promise to describe it in detail in your letters.”

“I will if you promise to not turn into an old, boring hag, now that you’re married,” he returns.

“By my life, I shall be just as difficult as before.”

You watch your family depart with shining eyes, willing your tears to hold themselves at bay until you can retreat to your own chamber–wherever it may be–and cry in private. For now, you force a smile on your face and join your new husband in waving farewell as the last of the wedding guests depart, leaving the two of you alone.

“Never have I been more relieved to see the departure of guests,” Marcus remarks beside you. 

Your mirth takes you by surprise, and a watery giggle escapes your lips even as another tear falls.

He turns to look at you, his brow furrowing in concern as he sees your tears. 

“We shall visit often, if you would like,” he says quietly. “And we can have them over anytime you please.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You’ll miss them, of course, but it’s the finality of the situation that’s truly the source of your grief. You’re alone. In an unfamiliar house. With a stranger.

Your husband.

“I should like to show you around,” he says carefully. “If you’re amenable to such a thing? Or if you’d rather I begin and end the tour with your chambers, I’d be more than happy to do so.”

Your first instinct is to immediately lock yourself in your quarters and never come out, but before you can tell him, a moment of clarity causes you to pause. You could certainly spend this day and all your days sulking in your rooms, but in the end, the only one that hurts is you. That’s no way to live in your own house, now is it?

“It is quite a large manor,” you say carefully, “and I’ve yet seen very little of it.”

A wide, toothy smile spreads across your new husband’s face, and you finally realise what’s different about this particular expression: 

It’s completely and utterly genuine.

“Of course.” He seems surprised that you agreed to his request, but he quickly schools his expression into one of practiced formality–although his eyes still twinkle with mirth as he offers you his arm. “My lady.”

Despite yourself, you offer him a small smile and carefully tuck your hand into the crook of his elbow, and, placing his hand over your own, he gently guides you back inside.

Though your new husband’s manor house is quite large, it’s older and far less grand than most country houses you’re used to–houses filled to the brim with highly polished marble, bright rooms, and brightly dyed drapings that hurt your eyes. The main halls and the rooms used most often by guests have obviously been updated quite beautifully to suit current fashions, but as you allow Marcus to lead you slowly through the house, you see that the smaller halls and rooms used only by the sole owner of the home have remained mostly untouched. The tapestry lined rooms are somewhat dim, but at the same time they are cozy and warm–reminding you of the castles and knights that your governess used to tell you stories of to help you fall asleep.

The silent and unmoved man you married disappears once again, and the excited, talkative man that piques your curiosity takes his place. Marcus points out where additions have been made over the centuries, where old stone walls have been rebuilt and repaired, where the original 12th century walls once stood. He tells you stories of boyhood summers here, of the nooks and crannies of this old house that he explored as a youth. 

It isn't until the tour of the home is entirely over that you finally gather up the courage to speak. 

“If it is not too much to ask, why do you live apart from your family? Surely your father has a much larger and grander home than this?”

“That he does,” Marcus says, politely taking your hand as he leads you down the stairs. “Although I cannot call it home. I recall very little of my time there as a young boy. Once I was old enough, I went to Eaton for my schooling, then on to Cambridge.” 

“That I can understand,” you answer. “I never felt much at home in my own house, and most of my girlhood was spent away at school.” 

Your husband nods, falling silent again for a brief moment. He seems to be turning words around in his mind, or perhaps deciding whether or not to speak or to move on.

“This house was my uncle’s–my father’s younger brother,” he begins, quieter and less assured than before. “He was a bachelor all his life, and so he was almost a second father to me, just as I was the son he did not have… and when he died, he left the manor and the land to me. He knew I’d get far more use from it than anyone else–that I would find a home in it, rather than just another house.” 

At the bottom of the stair, your husband stops, his hand still holding onto yours. 

“I want you to feel at home here, just as I do,” Marcus says. “For it is your home too, after all.”

“And yet one door remains closed to me,” you remark, thinking of the one room you had passed by without entering.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Just my–my study.”

“Oh.” you look down at your hands. “Of course. I–I apologise, I overstepped.”

“No,” Marcus says emphatically. “No, of course not it’s just–”

“–private.”

“–messy.”

The two of you speak at the same time.

“Oh.”

“I–here, let me show you.” Grabbing your hand, Marcus pulls you down a side corridor, back to the large oak doors that had remained closed. 

On opening the door, your husband lets you step into the room first, though you find yourself frozen at the sheer overwhelming number of things to look at. The room is littered all about with papers and open books on every available surface. Workbenches and small tables are scattered about haphazardly, and pressed up against the single window sits a grand desk covered over with test tubes, flasks, bunsen burners, and the like, making the room look more like a chemical laboratory than a gentleman’s study. There’s a comfortable armchair tucked into one corner of the room, and a well-worn sofa in another corner. Each wall is lined with tall bookshelves that reach right up to the ceiling, packed with every sort of books you could imagine, interspersed with artifacts and small sculptures. 

However, what captures your immediate attention is the two large easels stood side by side against one wall, yet another table holding a curious brass instrument between the two of them. 

On each easel stands a painting which, to your eye, looks identical to the other. 

"Why do you have two of the same painting?" you ask.

"Oh!" Marcus looks excited as he stands by your side and joins you in staring at the wall. "It's quite the interesting story. See, one of these artworks is worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. The other is a rather convincing fake someone was trying to sell off to the British Museum."

"Which one is which?"

"Ah, that's the question, isn't it!" Your new husband claps his hands excitedly, looking more animated than you've ever seen him. "And it's a question that stumped even Scotland Yard. But look!" he dashes over to a paint-splattered workbench, which is covered with hundreds of little vials and dishes. 

"At what am I looking?" you ask, eyes raking over the untidy desk with a confused frown. 

"Pigment analysis. If you take samples from each canvas, you'll find that one was made with the most high-quality oils, and the other with a cheap imitation."

"What… what is all of this?" you ask, inspecting the little vials scattered all over the table.

"Paint. It's… my specialty, in a way."

“Your specialty,” you repeat.

“In my travels, the subject that has always interested me the most is art,” Marcus explains. “My uncle left an extensive collection, of course, but what truly fascinates me is the thriving market for forgeries.” He walks over to his desk and retrieves a pile of papers, looking down at them with an eager expression as he talks. “Do you know how many museums around the world have fallen victim to an extraordinarily convincing fake?”

“Quite a lot, I’m guessing?” you answer with a shrug.

“So many!” he exclaims, smiling happily at your response. “It intrigued me. I began to study the techniques of forgery; how to determine the genuine from the counterfeit. I’ve worked with the British Museum, with the Louvre, the Alte Pinakothek in Germany…”

“So you are a detective?” you ask, astounded at this new revelation about the man you’d just married.

“I am… an independent contractor, I suppose you’d say,” Marcus answers, picking up a test tube of old paint and examining it as he talks. “I’ve worked with the police in various countries, but I also take cases from individual collectors across the continent. I’ve invented several different methods of pigment analysis, as you can see.” He pauses, taking in your bewildered expression. “You think me strange,” he chuckles, though you can hear the self-deprecation clear through his geniality. 

“Yes.”

If he’s hurt by your blunt answer, he doesn’t show it. Slowly, ever so slowly, he approaches you–as one would a wild animal. You stare at him as he stops in front of you–closer than he had been at your wedding–and gently takes both of your hands in his.

“I know I’m nobody’s first choice,” he says softly, staring down at your clasped hands. “I know you had little say in the matter. But I hope–” his breath stutters, “–I hope you can eventually see me as a companion. That we could become friends, even. I would only wish for you to be happy here. You will want for nothing–not if I can help it. Anything you desire, anything you wish for, you will have it.” 

“I can’t say I want for many things. Books. A garden I can disappear into whenever I please.” 

“My library is yours. Anything you wish to read.”

Your eyes rake over his cramped shelves hungrily. “Are you certain?” 

“Of course,” Marcus answers, sounding surprised. “What is mine is now also yours, now that we are man and wife.”

“Oh,” you intone quietly. Of course–you didn’t even think of the possibility that these books could be considered yours as well.

“I’d like to show you one more thing,” your husband says softly, interrupting your train of thought.

“Of course.”

He extends his arm, and you take it again, surprised at how natural it feels for your hand to be gently enclosed at the crook of his elbow. You walk together down the stairs of the front hall and outside.

“The grounds are quite extensive,” Marcus explains as you walk. “It would take quite some time to explore them all, but in light of our conversation, I want you to see something.”

You walk for what seems like ages, until you come up to an old and obviously unused garden. Unlike the rest of the immaculate landscaping, this portion has grown over quite a bit with vines and weeds, although the structure is still sturdy, if weathered by age.

“This section was my uncle’s garden. It has fallen into disrepair, obviously,” he remarks. “But with a bit of care, it could be a beautiful little hideaway once again. It’s private, lush, and a perfect place to disappear into any time you wish for an escape.”

Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, touched as you are by the man’s thoughtfulness, and also at the trust he bestowed in you by giving you free roam of something that once belonged to his beloved uncle.

“It can be yours to do as you please,” he continues. “Any type of greenery you wish, any decoration you desire. You can set one of the groundskeepers to toil in it, or you can do the work yourself if you prefer. Anything you want or need–it’s yours.”

“I’d like to do the work myself, if that’s all right,” you tell him quietly. “I’d–I’d like a project. Something to occupy my days.”

“I fully understand,” Marcus says with a smile, and you smile too–thinking of his chaotic study.

He pulls out his pocket watch and examines it. “Would you look at that,” he remarks. “It’s lunchtime.”

Your stomach rumbles loudly–and to your mortification, Marcus hears it.

"Hungry?" he chuckles. 

"By either etiquette or corset, I have not had a proper meal since yesterday morning," you say truthfully. 

Marcus’s mouth falls open. "Surely you jest."

"I'm afraid not."

"And I've had you walking all over the countryside," he mutters to himself. "For goodness' sake, come eat."

You take his arm again–leaning against him somewhat, because you are rather dizzy–and trek back to the manor.

The luncheon is quite meager, not intended to be a proper meal, but Marcus quickly pulls one of the footmen aside.

"If you could, George, have Mrs. Stoker prepare a second course for luncheon? I think we will require quite a bit more than what she prepared," he tells him, eyes flicking anxiously toward you. "The poor thing is famished, please."

As the footman nods and retreats from the room, Marcus guides you to a chair and pulls it out for you to sink down. He immediately hands you a piece of bread and butter, which you accept and start to chew gratefully, no longer caring about proper etiquette. 

You tear through all the food on the table, refilling your plate when the footmen bring more as requested by your husband. He digs in too, and the two of you eat in content silence for quite some time before he speaks again.

"I've neglected you. I'm sorry."

You shrug your shoulders dismissively. "It is quite alright."

"A good husband should see to the needs of his wife," Marcus says seriously, and for some reason, the words cause warmth to course throughout your body.

You don't know what to do with the feeling, so you push it–and him–away. 

"I don't need someone to fuss over me," you remark shortly.

"Of course," he says immediately. "I'm sorry. In truth, I don't know how to be a good husband. I regret the many mistakes I will surely make."

"In this, we may be a good match," you comment. "I know nothing of being a wife, and I fear I may be a lousy one."

"I don't think you possibly could be," Marcus says, so softly that the words are barely audible in the room.

Taken aback by the quiet sincerity in his voice, you suddenly want nothing more than to be by yourself. After all, you haven’t had a single moment alone in days, and you find yourself longing for solitude. 

"I should like to retire to my bedroom for a little while to rest," you announce, standing from your chair abruptly. Marcus stands too, ever clinging rigidly to etiquette. You give the man a curt nod before turning and fleeing from the room.

When the door to your bedroom clicks shut behind you, your chest heaves in relief, and you sink down to the floor where you stand, too emotionally exhausted to go any further.

Looking around the room, you note that your trunks have already been opened, your things put away. The work of the manor's servants, you think with a sigh. This, more than any other of the overwhelming events of the past two days, makes your situation feel real. You live here, now. All your belongings are here. 

With a shaky breath, you stand and begin to look around the room, starting with the little writing desk by the large bay windows. Lifting the lid, you find that all of your stationary and ink has been put away in the little compartments and shelves within. Despite your exhaustion, you smile. Whoever had put your things away had done it in almost exactly the same manner as you would have done yourself.

Even more curious now, you continue walking around the room. What few books your parents had allowed you to own have been put away on the bookshelves. Mostly etiquette manuals, you found their value in making witty annotations and jokes in the margins. Your journals are here also, and you open the oldest one, smiling sadly at the careful cursive of your seventeen year-old self. 

Putting that one aside, you instead pick up the one on the other end with the deep blue cover and only around half of the pages filled. Head over-full of thoughts and worries, you sit down at the little desk to write.

"Your Lady!" a timid voice calls out, interrupting your reverie some time later. 

“Who is it?” 

“It is Bridget, your lady.” 

“Oh, yes, come in!” you call back, quickly trying to wipe away the frustrated tears that have escaped at steady intervals as your pen scraped across the paper of your journal.  

You turn to see the young woman smiling at you expectantly with her hands clasped in front of her body. 

"It is about time to get you dressed for dinner, your lady," Bridget announces, already headed for the smaller bath and dressing room adjoining your bedroom. 

Dinner is a formal affair, just as it was at your parents' home. Your new lady's maid helps you to dress in one of your nicest gowns and pulls your hair back into delicate plaits that cascade down your back.

You meet Marcus in the large banquet hall. Despite having seen each other just a few hours before, he takes your hand in greeting and kisses it gently. 

"My lady."

"My lord," you return stiffly, wanting to remain aloof.

He appears as though he has more to say, but he suddenly shuts his mouth and extends his arm. "Shall we?"

Unlike the lunch parlor, the dinner table is long and foreboding. You sit at one end, and Marcus sits at the other, so far apart that you can’t distinguish his expressions–nor his words. 

"What?" you call out in response to something you didn't understand. 

"The soup is quite good!" Marcus repeats, raising his voice so that it rings out in the large, formal dining room. 

"Yes!" you return at the same volume. "I wanted to thank you, husband, for taking me to see that garden earlier. It truly meant–"

"What?"

"I said—oh for goodness' sake." You abruptly stand, causing Marcus to shoot to his feet as well. He, along with the footman, watches in alarm as you grab your cutlery and march down the endless table and sit down in the seat next to him, instead.

He seems stunned beyond words, at a loss of how to respond to your actions. You help yourself to another serving of ham while he hesitantly sinks back down into his seat.

"This is quite a large table," you comment lightly. "I prefer to be able to hear my dinner-mates."

"I usually eat in the drawing room," Marcus confesses quietly. "This room is too large and formal for one man."

"It is hardly different with two."

"That settles it," he says, smiling. "Tomorrow we shall have dinner there, instead. The sun comes in through the windows at this time of evening; it's quite lovely in there at this hour."

You cast your eyes around the banquet hall. It's an interior room; all the lighting comes from the lamps on the walls. It might be the grandest space in the entire manor, but to you, it’s stuffy and imposing.

"I would like that, my lord."

"Marcus."

"...Marcus."

Your new husband smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with contentment.

"May I ask a question of you, Marcus?"

"Of course."

"I'd like to know more about the pigment analysis you were talking about earlier, and the scientific method. I find it quite fascinating."

Marcus’s eyes widen in surprise and confusion. "Truly?" 

"Why, of course. My father forbade me from learning such things–said science was too complex for a woman's brain to handle."

"Nonsense. I know of quite a few women in the scientific field who could best some of the most learned scholars.” His voice rings out in the room with a conviction that surprises you–and him. Blinking rapidly, he continues, quieter and more cautious. “I could teach you," he offers quietly. "If–if you'd like."

"You would do that?"

"Of course! We can go there after dinner. I can have coffee and a light dessert sent up for us as well."

You find yourself smiling–really, truly smiling–for the first time since coming here. Eating sweets after dinner? Reading books? Discussing science? It's everything your parents used to forbid in one single evening.

"I would like that," you tell Marcus, and he grins back. 

You stay in his study until the last candle burns down to the wick. When the light flickers, the man looks up from his book in alarm and looks at his pocketwatch.

"Good heavens, it's nearly midnight. Come, let me walk you to your rooms," Marcus says quietly. 

"Oh, but I'm still–" you protest, clutching your own book defensively. 

“Take it with you,” he insists. “Take an entire armful, and then come back tomorrow for an armful more. I meant what I said–these books are yours, too.”

In the end, you only leave with the one you’re currently looking through. You tuck it under one arm and slip your other hand into the crook of Marcus’s elbow, allowing him to escort you through manor and back to the rooms he’s designated to be yours. After bidding you good night, he gently takes your hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For the book, the–the garden, for… everything, really. I was afraid I would be quite sad today but… I had a nice time.”

Something about your words causes Marcus to stiffen. Gone is the excitement in his smile as he had explained his experiments with pigment. Gone is the fondness in his eyes as he had told you to take every book in his study if you so desired. Gone is the warmth against the back of your hand; he drops your hand and clears his throat awkwardly.

“It is quite late,” he remarks stiffly. “Far too late to be up wandering the halls. Sleep well, my… my wife.” His expression, just before he turns and marches back the way he came, is troubled. 

Confused by the sudden change in his character, you open the doors with a frown and slip inside your chambers.

A strange man, indeed.

The days that follow surprise you in their companionability. You and your new husband fall into a pleasant routine: You have breakfast together before retreating to your separate occupations–you to toil in the garden and he to his study to work on his cases. After a light lunch, he will often accompany you on the grounds, complimenting the rapid metamorphosis from overgrown weeds to flowers and shrubs, neatly planted in a row and perfectly maintained. When you tire of gardening, you join him in his study–sometimes simply reading in his leather armchair while he works at his desk, and sometimes listening curiously as he explains his methods.

As Marcus had promised, you have quickly grown to see him as a companion of sorts. His company is pleasant, his conversation enjoyable. He is, on occasion, dreadfully formal–but you like to hypothesize that this is more a product of his upbringing than a true indicator of his personality. 

It does grate on you, though–especially when the weight of expectation seems to stop his mirth dead in its tracks. He will laugh at something silly you’ve said or done, and then abruptly clear his throat and look away, making you feel as though he finds your joking distasteful. 

You enjoy him most in his study. He seems most at home among the chaos of the room, and it is where he is most likely to forget himself–becoming animated and eager rather than stiff and unsmiling. True to his word, he teaches you; reading introductory tomes on the scientific method and recreating some of the experiments outlined within. Despite your inexperience in this field, Marcus never talks down to you–he seems to delight in having a conversation partner, especially one who takes interest in the same subjects.

In the evenings, you dine in the less-formal parlor rather than the banquet hall you detest so. The sun illuminates the entire room, sending multicoloured prisms across the table wherever a beam hits the crystal glassware. 

Before the sun sets entirely but after the summer heat of midday has abated, you stroll across the grounds on Marcus’s arm. He tells you of his upbringing, of his schooling, and of his travels across the continent, and you cannot help but listen with rapt attention. You study his face in profile, following the line of his aquiline nose and watching the shape of his lips as he speaks. The evening light bathes his skin in golden light and makes his dark eyes appear almost amber.

You cannot deny that your husband is quite a handsome man.

Yet every night, Marcus escorts you back to your quarters, presses a soft, warm kiss on the back of your hand, and quietly–and formally–bids you goodnight. Not once does he ask for your company, nor does he ever seem to touch you anywhere else but your hands. A large part of you is grateful, of course, but a much smaller–and quickly growing–part of you is beginning to wonder if your marriage will remain a chaste, cautious friendship for all of your days. 

It is the same part of you that pretends to feel the warmth of his lips on your hand hours after he’s wished you goodnight.

Approximately a month after your arrival at Pike Manor, your husband announces over breakfast that he has been called to London for a case. 

“When are you to leave?” you ask, looking up in surprise.

“Right away; I should be on the road already, but I did not want to be hungry for the journey.”

“I see.” You nod, choosing to ignore the pang of jealousy in the pit of your stomach at the prospect of seeing the city. “I wish you great success in your sleuthing.”

Marcus grins. “It’s quite an interesting one,” he says, taking a folded letter out of his waistcoat pocket. “Several paintings intended for auction at Sotheby’s have simply disappeared into thin air, only to be mysteriously replaced several days later.”

“Why on earth would the thief bring them back?” you ask, intrigued. “Unless… oh! You don’t believe they were truly returned, do you? They were replaced with forgeries.”

Your husband’s smile widens. “Such an astute observation, indeed. That is why I have been called to investigate.” Stuffing the last of his breakfast into his mouth rather inelegantly, he stands and walks hastily to the front hall.

“I may be back quite late in the evening, so do not feel the need to wait up for my return,” Marcus says, pulling on his ulster coat at the door. “While I am in the city, is there anything you should desire I retrieve for you?” 

“None that comes to my mind,” you answer cordially. “Have a good trip.” 

“I think I am beginning to learn your little expressions. Come, be truthful with me.” A mischievous, teasing look twinkles in his dark eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Anything you desire shall be yours. That was my promise, was it not?” 

Your face heats. “It was.”  

“Then I shall ask again, is there anything you are wanting of?” 

“If it isn’t much trouble, could you bring back some blank notebooks and…maybe more ink?”

“The ink you use to write your letters?” 

“Yes. If it isn’t any trouble, of course. I could retrieve the empty bottle for you if–” 

“No need, I already know the one you’re speaking of. I’ll return with a new bottle and a spare for you.” 

“Thank you, husband.” 

Hesitatingly, Marcus leans toward you. Then, with the utmost caution, he leans down and presses a single chaste kiss to your cheek. 

The soft press of his lips to your skin sends a little thrill through you, rooting you to the spot where you stand. When he straightens up once more, the softest of expressions washes over his features. 

“I shall send a wire should I be kept in the city any longer than expected,” he says, reaching out to give a gentle squeeze to your hand. “Have a good day, my darling.” 

His affectionate endearment has your heart fluttering in your chest, unsure if you should smile or if you should pull away. 

“I shall. Have a safe journey, Marcus.” 

You watch through the curtains as the carriage pulls away from the manor and eventually disappears from sight. Only when you can see no trace of your husband do you slowly bring your hand to your cheek, pressing lightly against the spot where his lips had touched.

You sit in your chamber and attempt to write, but the open window, with its curtains blowing gently in the breeze, calls to you. A picnic in your garden is what this day calls for, you decide. Grinning, you snap your journal shut and wander down the hallway to Marcus’s study. You shall retrieve a new book to read, then steal down to the kitchens to cajole Mrs. Stoker into giving you a parcel of snacks to bring outside with you. It won’t be a difficult task; Marcus’s cook is already rather sweet on you, and always sends extra treats up to his study for you after dinner.

No, the most difficult undertaking will be to select your reading material for the afternoon. You’ve gone through so many already; you started with his many science books–being eager to read on an as-of-yet forbidden topic, but today, Marcus’s collection of fiction calls to you. 

You walk by the worn leather armchair that your husband often reads in, and the book resting on the side catches your eye. You cock your head to the side to read the words emblazoned on the front: 

The Transmission of Life: Counsels on the Nature and Hygiene of the Masculine Function

What on earth? Frowning at your husband’s choice of reading material, you open to the bookmarked page and read the heading a little more than halfway down the page–Of Marital Relations.

Why is he reading such a thing? Both curious and emboldened, you read on. ‘The best mothers, wives, and managers of households know little or nothing of the sexual pleasure. Love of home, children, and domestic duties are the only passions they feel. As a rule, the modest woman submits to her husband, but only to please him; and, but for the desire of maternity, would far rather be relieved from his attentions.’ 

You can see that the book has quite a lot of notations written in the margins; however next to this passage, there is simply one solitary question mark inscribed in pencil. You understand the sentiment; reading such words causes your heart to pound rapidly in your chest at the implications of the author. Is this true? Are home and children the only thing you are capable of loving? At the present moment, at least, you desire neither.

You flip backwards through the pages with a stormy expression, searching for more answers. A page with a great deal of markings-out catches your eye, and you scan what was, apparently, an offending passage to Marcus: ‘The husband should be aware that while as a rule the first conjugal approaches are painful to the new wife, and therefore that she only submits and cannot enjoy them, this pain should not be excessively severe, nor should it last for any great length of time.

At the mention of marriage consummation, your face heats; you snap the book shut in an instant and back away from the leather armchair as though the tome had burned you.

You don’t know what to make of any of it. First, the fact that Marcus has chosen such a title as reading material; secondly, that the content within the pages should speak about a wife’s role in marriage in such plain and unpleasant-sounding terms. Thirdly, you cannot decipher the meaning of the marginalia. Does it suggest that Marcus is seemingly just as disturbed by the idea of your apparent frigidity as you currently are–backed against his bookshelf, your hand over your mouth as you take in what you’ve just seen? Or do they mean something else entirely?

You cannot come to grips with the words written, in plain ink, on the pages of the book–in direct opposition, it seems, to the feelings that stir within you at times. Are women, as the book suggests, without any passions outside of raising a home and children? In your own experience, sometimes you feel as though you are so overcome with emotion that you may explode–and oftentimes this is what brings you to such ‘unladylike’ ventures as running through the woods, shouting curses at your younger brother when he vexes you, or, most recently, being unable to take your eyes off of your husband as he simply goes about life.

You study his fingers as he turns the pages in his books; you watch his lips move every time he so much as utters a syllable; you analyse his gait out of the corner of your eye when he approaches you. The modest woman submits to her husband, but only to please him. Perhaps this is the issue; you have hardly been considered a ‘modest woman’ at any time in your life, and could not care less about pleasing a husband, especially if it is to your apparent detriment. 

Indeed, if your headmistress at finishing school could see you know, she would attribute your immodest behavior to remaining unmarried for so long. Now that you are somebody’s wife, it is quite possible that you may never be the type of woman the author thinks you must be. Is this what Marcus wants? Does he read the book because he is intent on modeling this image of masculinity? And what, if any, is your place in this picture?

After this puzzling revelation, you wish for an escape more than ever. An adventure. You now know exactly which novel you wish to read. Humming to yourself, you grab the copy of Around the World in Eighty Days and quickly flee the study, leaving Marcus’s book–and hopefully the feelings it stirred within you–far behind you. 

Mrs. Stoker fills a picnic blanket with nearly more food than you can carry before shooing you out of the kitchens, scolding you in her low, scratchy voice about “unbecoming behaviour for a lady”–but delivered with a fond twinkle in her eye. Arms laden with bread, cheese, and fruit, you make your way across the grounds and into the familiar little garden that you’ve made your own. You’ve tried your best to retain the wild, lush feeling of the setting–planting lots of creeping vines and winding morning glories around the lattices. It feels like escaping into a jungle, or into a secret little world that’s yours and yours alone. As you find a place to settle for the afternoon, you wonder idly if this was the very same place Marcus’ uncle came to escape the world–a world he never felt he belonged to. 

Spreading the blanket (and your feast) out around you, you settle on the grass, kick off your shoes, and wiggle your toes contentedly in the sunshine. You pull off a chunk of warm bread and take a bite, humming in satisfaction as you open your book and begin to read.

You lose yourself in Phileas Fogg’s adventures for quite some time, not coming up for air until the shadows have switched places and begun to lengthen in the late afternoon sun. You could stay out here all evening, but your body is beginning to ache, sitting on the ground as you are, and even though nothing remains of your little feast–you threw quite a lot of bread to the birds–you are feeling quite hungry again. 

You don’t bother dressing for dinner, and you tell Bridget so when she arrives at your room, dismissing her and telling her to enjoy her own evening. You have a small supper in the parlor, and you’re taken by surprise at how much the silence unsettles you. In so little time, you’ve become accustomed to Marcus’s presence in your life. Just as you now feel perfectly at home in what was once an unfamiliar and forbidding house, you feel at home with the man who inhabits it, as well. 

It is almost as if… you miss him.

At any rate, being without him in this large house is strangely unsettling. You find yourself retreating to the study, seeking out the familiarity of habit, and; you must admit to yourself, surrounding yourself with things that remind you of your husband. It smells of him, this room–like leather, paint, and old books, and if you close your eyes, you can detect something underneath–something deeper, muskier, and more masculine.

You settle into the soft settee rather than his armchair–not wishing to acknowledge the book you’d snooped through earlier that day–and open Jules Verne again. You read as the night falls and for quite some time after; and still, Marcus has not yet returned. It is so late that you have to retrieve more oil for the lamp, but you continue to keep your silent vigil rather than retreat to bed. You’ve waited this long, after all, and he surely cannot be much longer…

Not a quarter of an hour later, you hear familiar footsteps approaching down the hall. The sound of passers-by is quite common, with all of the manor’s staff, but these are not the light feet of scullery maids. No, they are heavier, confident–striding with purpose as they reach the door to the study. The door opens, and there, looking at you with surprise, is your husband. Lord Pike.

“The hour is late,” he remarks softly. “I quite expected you to be already asleep.”

“I have been absorbed in a book,” you tell him, “and did not realize the time.” It’s not quite a lie.

Marcus glances at the spine and grins. “Have you circumvented the world in the time it took me to go to London and back?”

“I have indeed; your train must have been delayed,” you tease. 

“It was indeed. Twice, in fact,” he laughs. “Next time, perhaps, I shall travel by balloon.”

You snort, rather unladylike, at his playfulness. “I should like to see such a sight.”

His eyes are bright and full of mirth as he responds. “Seeing as you have already done it, I should like you to come along as my navigator.”

“Ha! We shall find ourselves in the middle of the ocean, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps we will just take the train, then.” Your husband smiles warmly and pulls a small parcel out of his coat. “Your new journals and ink will not last forever, after all.”

You gasp softly as he deposits the package in your lap. The ink is the same–just the type you prefer–but the journals are far more ornate: bound in leather, with thick, cream-coloured paper. You examine each one in turn, carefully holding them in your hands to look at the beautiful cover designs, then flipping through the blank pages. At the bottom of the pile is a magazine–a copy of The Strand–which you hold out to him, expecting it to be something he purchased for himself that was mistakenly wrapped together with your journals, but Marcus simply shakes his head and gently pushes it back in your direction. 

“The new Holmes story has been published. I read it myself on the train, and… well, I thought of you and how you might enjoy it.” He clears his throat awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he watches the realisation wash over you.

“This is… for me?” you ask, eyes widening.

“But of course.” He smiles softly, extending his hand to you. “But I’d caution against starting it at this hour; it’s one of those stories that you cannot put down again until finished.”

When he escorts you back to your quarters, he seems hesitant to let go of your hand after he kisses it. His eyes search yours; that strange, unfamiliar fire seems to dance within his pupils. Before you can stop yourself, you suddenly throw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder and giving into the urge to breathe him in. His arms are so warm; his chest so strong and broad, and for a moment, you simply allow yourself to melt into his embrace. 

Marcus stiffens at first, his sharp intake of breath indicating his surprise at your actions, but after just a moment, you feel his hands press against your back, pulling you closer.

“Good night, Marcus,” you whisper into his suit coat.

“Good night, my darling.”

He releases you and steps back, but his hands still seem to gravitate toward you even as you separate–although they stop short of touching you. You can’t bring yourself to move, even though you’d both already said good-night. Unsure of what to say, you simply stand before him in awkward silence for a few torturous minutes before growing skittish and retreating into your bedroom.

When the door clicks shut, however, you turn and gently place your palm on the wood. Closing your eyes, you imagine the warmth of Marcus’s palm pressing back.

The next day is oppressively hot. Too hot to continue working in the garden, but sitting indoors in the still air seems almost worse. You take your leave of Marcus in his study and retreat to the woods at the back of the property. The shade and the breeze finally makes the heat tolerable, and you smile to yourself as you start to explore. You've always loved wandering through your own woods, and this is your first opportunity to walk through the forest at Pike manor.

As you delve deeper into the trees, you realize that you can hear the faint sound of water. Grinning wider, the sound propels you forward, ducking under branches and stepping around bushes until you find the source: a little stream babbling through the undergrowth. 

Seeing the water, you suddenly feel as though you cannot tolerate your shoes a moment longer; you sit down on the ground–likely getting dirt down the back of your canary-yellow dress, but you hardly mind–and start to unlace your boots. 

The first step into the cool water causes a giddy laugh to escape from your throat. For the first time since coming here, you feel like yourself again, just for a moment–happy, wild, and free.

Your focus is on the little minnows darting around your toes, and you don't hear the sound of footsteps moving toward you through the leaves. 

"What on earth are you doing?"

You startle, turning around at the sound of your husband's voice behind you. 

"M-Marcus! I–I'm cooling my feet in the stream I found."

 "You've wandered quite far away," he comments, his expression slightly wary. 

"Am I not allowed to do so?"

"No! I-I mean yes! Of course you're allowed, I was simply… surprised at how deep in the wilderness you are, Lady wife."

"I won't get lost," you promise. "I used to do this all the time back home."

Marcus is silent for a few moments as he watches you.

"...Is the water quite refreshing?" he asks, looking curious. 

"It feels wonderful," you answer. 

You study him as several conflicting expressions seem to flicker across his face. Uncertainty, curiosity, wariness, and then–longing.

"Could… could I join you?" he asks quietly. 

Your grin must be incandescent as you nod rapidly up and down.

Marcus swings his head around, looking for somewhere to sit. When he finds nothing, to your surprise, he plops down on the ground and starts to untie his shoes. 

You watch giddily as he tucks his socks inside his shoes and sets them aside before carefully climbing down the bank. 

He lets out a rather undignified yelp at the first touch of water to his bare feet. 

"Cold!" 

You laugh outright at the shock on your husband's face. 

"Does it not feel refreshing?" you ask playfully.

"As refreshing as running barefoot into the snow in January."

"That's quite the overreaction; this water must be twenty degrees cooler than snow, at least."

"It must be the difference in temperature between the outside air and the water that makes it so very shocking," Marcus says with a little chuckle. 

"You just need to get used to it," you say with a sly grin. 

"How exactly am I supposed to do that?"

Before you can evaluate the wisdom of the idea, you kick your foot through the water, sending a wave of water to splash against his trousers.

Marcus gasps, staring down at the dark stain in shock. You stand frozen to the spot, suddenly worried that you've gone too far. 

"I cannot believe you did that," he murmurs, but a small smile is spreading across his face as he talks. "You wild creature."

And he bends down, sticks his hand in the current, and sends a cascade of water back in your direction. 

You shriek in surprise and delight, kicking more water at him before taking off, splashing barefoot down the stream with your husband at your heels.

You let out another loud peal of laughter when you feel the cold water hit your bodice from behind. 

"You'll wish you hadn't done that!"

"Is that so?" he teases, just as you turn and cup the water again, sending it as high as you can into the air. 

It hits him squarely in the chest. He gasps in shock as his white shirt is drenched through, the sopping material plastering to his skin. He looks down at it, then back up at you with a glint in his eye that you've never seen before. 

Giggling nervously, you take a few steps backward, but your foot lands on a smooth, flat stone slick with algae, and suddenly your legs are out in front of you as you come down hard into the deepest part of the stream.

For a moment, neither of you move. Your chest heaves from the surprise submersion into the water. You're completely soaked from head to toe; droplets of water drip from your hair, down onto your skin, and into your bodice. 

Marcus's expression has turned from playful to horrified. He surges forward, helping you back up to your feet in a panic.

"Oh my goodness," he mutters over and over again, and you start to giggle.

"Your dress is surely ruined," he says regretfully. "They'll never be able to get the mud stains out."

"I can simply wear it whenever I come down here to the stream," you tell him, but he's shaking his head and frowning. 

"This… my behaviour has been far from appropriate," he murmurs. 

"We were having fun," you say quietly, your face falling as that rigid, formal expression you hate returns.

"It is unbecoming for people of our station," he announces stiffly. "Where are your shoes; I shall bring them to you and help you home."

"But I'm–"

"We've gotten quite wet enough, I believe," Marcus says sternly. "Come along."

You trail after him stormily, feeling more like a scolded dog and less like a wife.

You remember his promise from weeks before, on your wedding night: that the two of you were to be partners–and equals. Right now, you feel nothing but.

"I'm going to bathe before dinner," Marcus announces as he marches through the front doors to the manor. "You should do the same before you catch cold."

"Mar–Husband," you murmur sorrowfully.

"I'm afraid the mud will never come out of this shirt, either," he comments, talking more to himself than to you. 

Heart heavy, you climb the stairs after him and head for your chambers. You don't quite understand your husband. At times, he seems to be a warm and playful person; other times, he's cold and forbidding. 

It's as though he's two different men at once. One of those men scares you somewhat. The other–well, you aren't quite sure what to call the feeling that stirs in your belly when he looks at you with those mischievous, yet kind eyes.

That man–he's a friend, a companion. He reads with you in the evenings and laughs at your silly jokes. He kisses your hand at the end of every day when he bids you good night, and it's becoming your favorite part of the day. His lips are warm and soft on your skin, and every night you go to bed wondering what they'd feel like on your lips.

You wish you could call up how it had felt when he had kissed you at your wedding. You can barely remember the day, much less the brief moment that his lips had been on yours. Even if it was purely for the ceremony, even if it had no feeling or meaning behind it, even if his face had been contorted into that formal mask that you've grown to despise…

You wish you could feel it again. 

"My goodness! What on earth happened to you, my lady?" your maid cries at the sight of you: wet, bedraggled, and covered in mud in your doorway. 

"T'is a hot day; I was playing in the stream."

"I fear your dress is ruined, my lady." 

"Why is everyone so concerned about my clothing?" you snap, exasperated and grief-stricken. "Is this entire household so very preoccupied with what I do and where I go?"

"I'm sorry, my lady."

"Is anyone allowed to have fun, or is that forbidden as well?"

"Pardon?"

"Your lord is the most frustrating, confusing man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing," you mumble as the wet material of your dress is peeled away from your skin and discarded on the floor with a wet plop.

"Lord Pike is your husband," she points out.

"And who is my husband? I'm afraid I do not know the man I married. He's kind, and then he's cold. He laughs, and then suddenly forgets how to smile. I do not know if he finds me to be a worthy companion or if he simply tolerates my presence."

"My lord has been alone for quite some time," Bridget says quietly. "He does not know how to have a friend, much less a wife."

"Does he even want one?"

"Did you wish to become one?" she asks pointedly, and you fall quiet again.

"Pardon my boldness, Lady, but I have not seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

"What, with disdain?" you snort.

"Your bath is ready," Bridget says quietly.

You slip into the water–blessedly cool, thank goodness–and close your eyes.

"I hear the weather will break tonight," your maid says conversationally, and you can tell she's desperate to change the subject. "We are long overdue for some rain."

"We are," you agree. "My garden needs it sorely."

"As do the crops, of course."

"Of course."

You’re dressed in deep emerald green velvet. Gold brocade is embroidered into the bodice of the dress and on the hem of your velvet skirts, your shoulders exposed to the cool, still air of the manor. It’s quite stunning, and if you weren’t feeling so affronted by your husband this evening, you’d delight in his gaze, in the way his wide eyes always dart back and forth over your form as he reverently breathes “Beautiful” every time he meets you at the top of the stairs for dinner. 

You meet Marcus there as always, but when he begins to turn away from the parlor, you make a questioning noise in your throat.

"The evening sun is currently streaming into the parlor," Marcus says by way of explanation. "With today’s heat, it is intolerably warm in that wing of the house, and far cooler in the banquet hall."

"I see," you answer tightly. You allow him to escort you into the dark, stuffy room instead.

He’s quiet as he eats, seemingly not willing, or perhaps able, to make conversation as he has on previous evenings. He stares into the middle distance as he chews, and you can’t tell if he’s lost in thought or simply avoiding eye contact.

“Does a case occupy your thoughts tonight?” you ask, putting as much gentleness into your voice as possible to attempt to guide him back to you.

“Nothing you need to be concerned with,” Marcus says tightly, shaking his head and stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork. Looking down at his plate as he is, he can’t see your resulting ire. 

You don’t attempt to engage with him again for the rest of the meal. Afterward, when the footmen start to clear the dishes, you abruptly excuse yourself, walking quickly out of the darkening banquet hall and heading straight for the heavy oak doors at the front entrance to the manor.

It's already beginning to sprinkle as you lift your skirts and run across the lawn toward your garden. It hardly matters; you can tolerate the stuffy house and your equally-stuffy husband not one moment longer.

The droplets cool your forehead and you laugh humorlessly at the notion that you may be scolded for turning up soaking wet twice in one day. It isn't simply the weather making you hot. Anger and some other emotion you cannot begin to name simmers in your blood. 

You cannot stand him. You simply cannot stand him and yet—why does the sight of your husband make your heart ache in your chest? Why can you not seem to erase the image in your mind's eye of Marcus standing in the creek shaking with laughter, the planes of his chest showing through his soaked shirt? 

But no–that behaviour was unbecoming. For him, or for you? Could he, as your mother warned, not abide by your carefree nature? Did he think himself above simple joys such as splashing one’s bare feet in cool water?

A tear mixes with the rain on your face as you run, but you hardly realise it. In no time at all, you're collapsing on your favorite stone bench in your garden, head in your hands. As you sit, the rain begins to pick up, turning from light sprinkles to a veritable downpour. You straighten, watching the droplets pelt the leaves of the vines climbing up the lattice next to you.

The night is already beginning to fall, but in the twilight, you can still make out the figure of Lord Marcus Pike running in your direction carrying an umbrella, and you sigh loudly in consternation.

"Insistent on catching your death today, are we?" he remarks when he reaches the bench, somewhat out of breath. 

"I’m confident that no one has died from a rainstorm in the middle of July."

"Still, to find you sopping wet on not one, but two occasions in the same day suggests a pattern of behaviour."

"Of unbecoming behaviour?" you mutter, turning away from him to stare at the rain. Silence falls. You make no effort to move from your spot on the middle of the bench, nor do you acknowledge the man again until, finally, he speaks.

"Please, tell me what have I done to upset you so?"

"I'm not upset."

"You are sitting in the dark in the rain," Marcus points out.

"I can do what I wish; it is my garden. You said so yourself."

"I did not imagine this particular situation when I said it."

"You should have considered every possible outcome before making promises like that."

"You are being ridiculous."

"I'm not."

You turn to meet his gaze–glaring at him, allowing all the indignance and fury show through in your expression. He glowers back with pursed lips and a clenched jaw, but his eyes are swimming with… some strange, unidentified emotion that makes them black and shining as coals.

"You vex me, you know that?"

"Oh, I vex you?" you retort.

"I don't know what to do or say around you. You're so… beautiful, and I lose all sense of reason whenever I'm near you."

“That is hardly an excuse for being horrid.”

“You think me horrid? All I ever wish for–all I strive to be–is to be a good husband and a good man.” 

"Yes, and every time I think I get close to knowing the type of man you truly are, you close yourself off to me, and I'm left wondering if I married a ghost."

"I did not want you to think me improper–"

"Propriety be damned!" you shout, standing up to advance on your husband in a fit of fury. "I'd rather spend my days reading science books and running barefoot through the creek then do another cursed thing that everyone else considers to be 'proper'!"

Marcus is silent for a moment–his expression blank as he regards you, standing an arm’s length away and breathing hard from your paroxysm of hostility. You’re afraid your outburst has angered him past repair–that he’s going to tell you to pack your things and go back to your parents’ house to live out the rest of your days–but when he opens his mouth, it’s not an admonition that spills from his lips, nor is it an order to leave. It is a soft plea, barely audible over the cacophony of the rainstorm.

"I should like to kiss you."

No sooner do the words leave his lips than you find yourself stepping into Marcus’ arms. Your mouths collide in a fit of fervency, his lips hot against your own rain-chilled skin. What feels almost like an electric shock courses through your body. Months of restrained passion–whether it be out of pining for the man you’d married, or because he rankles your nerves so profusely–pours out of your body and into the kiss. You clutch at him, your fists balling into the material of his dampened shirt as you drown in the feel of his lips on yours.

A gasp inadvertently draws itself into your lungs as you pull away, looking up into the eyes of your husband and finally seeing the man you’ve grown to admire–to love–staring back at you in astonishment. He says nothing, but simply shakes his head in utter disbelief, cradles your cheeks in his hands, and pulls you back to him. 

When once you’d stiffened at the touch of his lips, you now melt into the feeling of it. After the first tentative kiss, Marcus is emboldened; his hands gently guide your head to one side, and he to the other–slanting your mouths together in a deeper and more tender kiss. Nothing exists outside of this moment–not your families’ arrangement without either of your choosing, nor the expectations thrust upon you as a wife of a high-born aristocrat. Even your husband’s unbearable rigidity is nowhere to be seen as he presses closer and closer still, one of his hands coming to your lower back and bringing your bodies flush together.

No, the only thing you can feel from Marcus is passion. Even the rain pelting on your head is a distant notion–merely a trivial inconvenience–compared to the love and tenderness in his embrace. He holds you as one might a priceless artefact–rare, precious, and utterly cherished.  

Your shiver when the wind picks up has less to do with the rapidly falling temperatures and more with the way Marcus is still holding your cheek in his palm as though you'll break, and yet at the same time kissing you like he'll never need air again.

Even so, the action makes him pull back with a little chuckle. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and you can't help but giggle back.

“Let us go inside before we catch our deaths,” he whispers, still smiling. He extends his hand, and, still looking up at him with wide-eyed disbelief, you take it. The wind whips around you as you both run toward the manor. Marcus tries in vain to keep the umbrella over your head, but after just a few minutes, the whole thing turns inside out in a particularly strong gust of wind. 

“Leave it,” you laugh as he tries to right it again and cover you from the rain. “I can’t get any wetter.”

The wind finally wrenches it from his grasp, and he joins in your laughter as it sails away into the night. Hand in hand, you run through the storm until you’re crashing through the front entrance, laughing hysterically, out of breath, and drenched from head to toe. The moment you’re safe inside, Marcus reaches for you again, winding his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours. 

You respond in kind, the fire in your belly igniting despite the chill in the air. You can’t get enough of the feel of them–they’re soft, warm, and pliant, and they move against you with a passion that causes a soft sound of pleasure to escape your throat. It’s a foreign sound to your ears–one you’ve never heard yourself make before, but Marcus groans softly in response. 

“Marcus,” you sigh softly. 

“Darling,” he murmurs against your lips, and you shiver again. “You’re shaking. Should I… should I escort you to your chambers so that you may… get dry, and go to bed–if that’s what you wish?”

“No, please,” you shake your head, looking frantic. “Please, I–I need–”

You can’t give voice to what stirs inside of you, but you know you can’t bear to part from your husband for a moment. Marcus seems to understand somewhat; his eyes soften even further, and he takes your hand again, pulling you forward until you're standing at the doors to his own quarters. Rather than enter, though, he turns and palms your cheek, his eyes raking over you in desperation. 

“On our wedding night, I made you a promise,” he whispers. “I promised that I’d never share my bed with you unless you wish for it. I need you to tell me—is this what you truly wish?”

“I don’t know,” you admit in a small voice. “I simply know I do not wish to be parted from you at this moment.”

“Then come,” Marcus murmurs softly. “Come in, and let us at least get dry and warm again.”

He takes your hands in his and pulls you gently forward–and all the while, his eyes never once leave yours. 

You can't help but think about how different tonight is from the first time you were in this room. He had barely looked at you then; you were terrified and upset and couldn't stand to be near him. Now, you cling to him, seeking the comfort of his lips again as he walks backwards into his bedroom with his arms around you. 

When you finally break apart, you make a soft noise of protest, but Marcus holds out his hand placatingly, disappearing for a brief moment before returning with an armful of large Turkish bath towels that he drops onto the settee next to him. He takes one, and, with a playful smile, gently covers your dripping hair and squeezes the water out of the ends.

"Turn around, if you would like," Marcus murmurs, a little quiver in his voice.

You obey with your heart in your throat. This, too, feels much different than your wedding night. He gently moves your damp hair to the side and slowly begins to unfasten the buttons at the back of your dress. One by one, he gently sheds your clothes, casting aside the wet emerald dress and your undergarments. Each layer brings you closer to being bare in front of him for the first time, and when you're down to just your chemise and your drawers, you can feel yourself trembling slightly. 

"It's all right," Marcus whispers softly in your ear. "I won't look–not yet."

He helps pull your chemise over your head as you kick your drawers away, and then blindly reaches for another large bath towel and wraps it around you, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder as he does.

His kindness and patience makes something swell within you. You turn to face him, eyes wide as you slowly lift your hand to his cheek. His eyes flutter open again at your touch, and his gaze is dark and longing as he turns slightly to kiss your palm. 

Holding your eyes, Marcus's hands come to the buttons of his vest, quickly shedding the outer garment before undoing his shirt. You swallow thickly as each inch of bare skin is revealed to you. 

You want this. Oh, God, do you want this. But why? Each touch, each kiss makes you feel as though you're burning from the inside out, but if your mother was right that it would only bring you pain, why does it feel as though you'll die if you stop?

Marcus hastily towels off his hair, making it stand on end, before drying his chest and unbuttoning the front of his trousers. You tear your gaze away and stare at the floor as your heart hammers loudly in your chest. You focus on breathing until you feel him gently take your hand and lead you forward until you’re standing next to his bed. Rather than guide you to lie down, however, he simply steps closer, slowly encircling you with his arms and bringing your bodies close. The large bath towels cover both of your delicate areas, but the feel of his bare arms and chest still causes heat to work its way up your spine.

You sigh softly–you can’t describe how comforting it is to be in Marcus’s arms. Any latent fear about what’s to come is pushed aside as he slowly guides your mouth to his again. And again. And again. Soon, you’re clutching at him, panting softly into every kiss as he makes fire ignite in your chest. 

As naked as you are to each other, Marcus’s hands remain chaste. One gently clasps the back of your neck, keeping you just as he wants–against his lips. The other palms your jaw, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth against your cheekbone. You gasp ever so slightly into his kiss, and, as you part your lips, his tongue gently slips inside. 

The gasp turns ragged. A surprised noise is trapped in your throat and you all but throw your arms around his shoulders, hardly even realising how your nails are digging into his skin or that your chests are pressed together with the towel trapped between you. You aren’t entirely sure what you’re doing, but you return in kind, parting your lips and cautiously touching your tongue to his. 

Marcus groans softly, the grip on your neck tightening imperceptibly as you open to him. It feels wild–you aren’t in control of your own reactions; you can hardly contain your response to his kisses. You’re barely aware of the little whimpers coming from your own throat, let alone being able to stop them from escaping. Yet Marcus only presses closer.

“Come–” he murmurs–shakily, but smiling–against your lips, “–Please, God, before I fall over.”

You giggle breathlessly and allow him to guide you gently down onto the bed. As soon as you’re horizontal, with your husband hovering over you with awe etched into his expression, however; the fear returns. Your mother’s voice returns. When Marcus ducks his head to kiss you again, you know he feels the change in you; he pulls back quickly, eyes raking over your face in confusion and alarm.

“Darling, what troubles you?” 

“I am fine,” you answer, but the waver in your voice makes the words hardly convincing.

Marcus studies you, two little creases on his brow as he tries to make sense of the change in mood. His gaze softens; his lips part in worry.

“Are you frightened?” His lips barely move as he speaks.

“I was told that it would be painful,” you answer. You feel as though maybe you should have lied to protect him, but the honesty comes to your lips quickly at the open concern in your husband’s eyes.  “And that I will not enjoy it.” 

Understanding and horror washes over Marcus’s face. 

“No. No. I cannot–I could never—” he stammers. “Darling… I will never hurt you.” The words are thick and rasping with heavy emotion. “I would sooner die.”

But your own mother had said—

“Can you even promise such a thing?” you ask skeptically.

Marcus takes your face in his hands and presses a soft, warm kiss to your forehead. “I can, and I will. It does not need to hurt,” he promises. “It shouldn’t. I can–I can bring you pleasure. If you would trust me–?”

You want to be wary, but all you can see in his eyes is honesty and sincerity. Despite the man’s stiff demeanor, despite his rigidity, despite his awkward, stilted small talk–he’s never been anything but kind to you. 

You believe him. Of course you do.

“I trust you,” you answer softly.

Marcus smiles shakily. “I am glad,” he whispers. He kisses you again–urgently, and full of passion. This time, you return his affections.

“I should like to see you,” he confesses quietly. “May I?”

Breathlessly, you nod. Your heart is in your throat as he gently takes hold of the edge of the bath towel and slowly draws it out from where it’s tucked neatly around your chest. He keeps his eyes on yours the entire time instead of looking at the skin that he’s exposing. He doesn’t stop until you’re entirely bare, your nipples pebbling slightly in the cool air of the bedroom. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers–and yet, he hasn’t taken his eyes off of yours. Only when you smile back does Marcus finally drop his gaze. His breath catches as the sight of you, and at the utter longing in his expression, you find yourself feeling… beautiful. Enticing. Like a woman.

“I think it is only fair,” you say with a playful formality, “that you render yourself likewise uncovered, my lord.”

Marcus’s grin is cheeky, full of mischief and affection. “I cannot possibly refuse such a polite request,” he teases. 

At your behest, he slowly draws the towel out from around his hips.

You gulp. 

“Shhh,” Marcus urges, winding his arm around your waist and pulling you against him. “I do not want for you to be afraid of me.”

“Oh,” you exhale quietly, overcome by the feel of so much skin. He kisses you again, and his hands wander–skimming down your spine, clutching softly at your waist, and–oh, God–moving down to grasp your hip as your bodies slowly move together. 

True to his word, it does feel… pleasurable, thus far. The warmth and softness of his skin against yours makes you dizzy with need, and when his lips leave yours to trail a path of kisses down to your neck, you find yourself arching your spine to bring him closer. You can feel the stiffness of his length pressing insistently against your thigh, and you find yourself wondering when he will… well, when he will put it inside.

Instead, however, his hand slowly moves inward from its place at your hip, until his fingers are brushing gently at the little bud between your legs. The light touch is at the same time foreign and perfect. You gasp wantonly at the feel of him touching you in a place so very intimate in nature. His breath is hot against your neck as he pants, open mouthed, while his fingers explore the uncharted territory. 

"How I've longed for this–for you," he groans raggedly into your skin. “Oh, my darling wife. Tell me—Tell me that you have desired for this moment.”

“I–oh–” you whimper as his fingers begin to slowly circle around the little bundle of nerves. “I did not know that–M-Marcus–I did not know it could feel–” Sparks of desire–of pleasure–shoot up and down your spine at his touch. “I have… thought of you,” you confess to him. “I have imagined your lips on mine many times, but I did not know–”

“Did not know… what?” Marcus asks gently, pulling back to look into your eyes as… something within you… builds. 

“That this could feel… s-so…” 

“Yes?” Your husband’s eyes are wild, his voice breathless and rough with pleasure, and as he watches you try to form words, that feeling inside of you reaches a crescendo.

“Wh–oh!” you cry out, your lips parting of their own accord. Your core pulses rhythmically, and all the tension seems to leave your body, somehow pulled out of you by the movement of Marcus’s fingers. 

“Oh my,” you gasp, as soon as you regain the ability to speak. “Oh, God.”

Marcus is breathing just as heavily as you are. His eyes are greedy, raking over your face and watching how you writhe on the bed as a result of his actions.

You slump, spent, on the pillows as the strong surge of ecstasy finally abates. “Marcus,” you murmur, staring up at him in utter disbelief.

“I did promise,” he says with a shaky grin. 

“I want—oh,” you sigh. “Can you do that again?”

“I will do it as many times as you ask,” Marcus grins, palming your jaw and giving you a gentle–yet somehow still passionate–kiss. “And perhaps a few more besides.”

Holding your gaze, he sucks a finger into his mouth and then brings the hand back down between your legs. This time, his hand explores deeper, past the little bundle of nerves and down to your centre. His touch is light through your folds at first, then grows bolder as the finger slips gently inside of you. 

You cry out in pleasure again. The feeling is the same as before, yet somehow different. It causes the same thrill to rise inside of you, but with his finger now inside, that feeling is stronger. Deeper. 

“Oh, yes,” Marcus whispers reverently as he pushes the digit even further inside. You can only pant open-mouthed as he buries it to the hilt, sheathed inside your heat. “Oh, my darling, I fear I will never tire of this,” he murmurs, a small smile on his face as he watches your intense reactions. And then… and then… the finger starts to move, thrusting slowly in and out of your channel, and you lose all sense of reason.

“...believe… I… should be the pers–oh! …saying that,” you manage to stammer.

“Yes,” your husband urges, the heel of his hand pressing flush against you as he continues the dizzying movement of his finger inside of you. “Yes, never tire of it either, I beg of you,” he murmurs, kissing your jawline, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead– “Let me have you like this always. In my bed, at my side, just–oh, love, just say you will stay.”

“I will,” you promise, as the coil of heat and tension inside of you tightens, tightens, tightens. “I will, Marcus, I will.”

With a little choked-off gasp, you fall apart around his finger as waves of pleasure crash against you for the second time. Marcus leans forward, his forehead touching yours as your heartbeat gradually begins to slow. 

“Tell me,” he whispers roughly. “Tell me I can–oh, please.”

“Yes,” you agree, nodding rapidly up and down. “Yes, Marcus.”

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises again, desperation and longing in his voice. “On my life, I will not.”

“I know.” You nod again. 

Slowly, keeping his eyes glued to your reaction, Marcus moves between your parted legs and covers your body with his, keeping most of his weight on his elbows so that he doesn’t cause you any discomfort. He kisses you again–softly, slowly–as one hand reaches in between your bodies. 

You feel him notch at your entrance, and you whimper softly–in anticipation or trepidation, you do not know.

“Eyes on me,” Marcus whispers. “Don’t be afraid.”

He pushes forward, and just the tip of him slips inside, but merely that seems already enough to fill you to the brim. He continues until he meets some resistance part of the way in, and stops. His eyes are wide and anxious, those two little creases returning to the center of his brow, and you know, suddenly, what he needs to do. 

“Just do it,” you nod, closing your eyes.

He lowers his head, and you feel his lips, warm and gentle on one closed eyelid, just before he swiftly sheathes himself to the hilt, pushing through any barrier that yet remained.

You cry out softly–although more in shock than in pain–and Marcus makes little soothing noises in your ear as he stills again and waits for you to adjust. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, kissing your face over and over again. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m all right,” you assure him. “I am. You didn’t hurt me.”

“I want all that you feel to be pleasure,” Marcus whispers. “Only that. Never pain.”

“I know.”

He flexes his hips experimentally, and you feel the movement deep inside of you. 

“Oh–” a ragged, wanton noise tears its way out of your throat.

“Yes?”

“Again,” you demand.

Again, your husband moves, and something stirs in your belly, at the base of your spine. Rhythmically, he undulates against you, his skin sliding against yours and his shaft hitting something you’ve never even dreamed of, bringing you an ecstasy you never knew existed.

Your hands scrabble at Marcus’s shoulders as you desperately seek out his mouth, kissing him messily as the pleasure yet again begins to rise within you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before–God, you never knew such a feeling could occur within you, that your body could be so alight with desire.

Your bodies become slick with perspiration as you move, but it only makes the experience even more sensual. Marcus’s hair is falling forward over his forehead, his eyes dark, burning coals as he takes you over and over again. Feeling your enthusiastic response, he speeds up–hitting something deeper and harder as he does.

You keen for him. With no thoughts left in your head, you babble incoherently as your pleasure builds, and it only seems to spur him on. 

“I–oh! I–Marcus, oh, love, it–it feels so—please, never–never stop. Oh, my love, it–ah!” 

Something deep within you snaps, and your entire body convulses with ecstasy as you come undone. Marcus groans in response, a broken, pleasure-soaked sound that sends chills down your spine. 

“Feels so good,” he moans. “Oh, darling, I’m going to–” 

He seems to lose his rhythm; his hips stutter once, twice, and then he stills, burying himself to the hilt and nearly crushing your bodies together in his passion.

Some time passes; although exactly how much, you do not know. All you know is that Marcus is wrapped around you–or you around him, perhaps–and his length is still buried within you. The deep stretch of him abates as you lie there, forgetting all else but the feeling of being held so closely, and so tenderly. After minutes or hours, he stirs–making you groan softly in protest–but he only chuckles deeply and pulls back to look at you with fondness in his eyes. 

“Darling,” he murmurs. “My darling wife.”

“Marcus,” you answer back, voice still full of awe and amazement.

“You are so beautiful like this,” he says reverently. “Please–would you stay here with me tonight?”

“If this is what happens when we are in the same bed, I fear I may never return to my own quarters,” you grin.

Marcus chuckles. “And I fear we may lose a little sleep over the coming days if you allow me such privileges.”

Kissing the tip of your nose, he finally slips from within you, eliciting a little hiss of discomfort from you that causes his eyes to widen in alarm.

“Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “It is not pain, exactly; I am not entirely sure how to describe it. I simply feel… different. As if I’ve just run a great distance, and my legs are burning from overuse, and yet it does not detract from the exhilaration of running in the first place.”

Your husband laughs softly again. “Then I will let you rest for tonight, I think,” he teases. “Let me get these bath towels out of the way, and then I’ll turn out the lights.”

You shift your weight as Marcus draws the towel out from where it’s still resting underneath you and casts it to the side of the room. As you roll to one side, his sharp intake of breath makes you startle slightly, unsure of the cause until you follow his gaze to the sheet below. You exhale softly in surprise at the small smear of blood–barely larger than that which would come from pricking one’s finger–staining the linens just underneath where you had been joined.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Marcus asks quietly.

“I am,” you promise. 

“I suppose our families got what they wanted after all,” he says, shaking his head with a chuckle. 

“And it serves them right that they’re not here to see it,” you say, your voice clipped and short. “I much prefer these matters to be private and on my own schedule, thank you very much.”

“On this, my lady, we agree completely.” 

Marcus shoots you a smile–that lovely, crooked, mischievous grin that you adore so much–before getting up and extinguishing the lamps, bathing the room in darkness. You feel the mattress dip as he slides back in beside you, but he seems to hesitate before touching you again.

“Marcus?” you whisper.

“Yes?”

“Will you hold me as you were before?”

Arms immediately wind around you and pull you flush against him, your back to his chest. He holds you tightly and tenderly, burying his face in your skin where your neck and shoulder meet.

“Marcus,” you whisper again, even softer than before.

He makes a soft questioning noise against your skin.

“Don’t be distant to me in the morning,” you plead softly, before you can think better of it. “I can’t bear it.”

“Distant?” Marcus sounds confused.

“You are playful one moment and standoffish the next. You look at me with fondness, but then speak to me with a rigidity that doesn’t fit your expression. You laugh, but then you stop yourself as though you’re afraid to do it. I do not know which type of man is the one I am married to, but I must tell you I detest the man who acts cold and aloof.”

Your husband is quiet for a long time–long enough that you aren’t sure if your outburst has angered him, or if, perhaps, he’s fallen asleep. When he speaks, it nearly startles you, despite the low volume of his voice in your ear.

“I am truly sorry,” he begins, and you can hear the regret in his tone. “I did tell you, I–I do not know how to be a good husband to you. I only know what I’ve been told; I was assured repeatedly that no woman would want an eccentric or unserious husband."

“Oh. Oh,” you say softly, as the realization washes over you. Suddenly, all of your husband’s strange and erratic behavior makes sense as the puzzle pieces fall into place. “You know, I was told no man would want a strong-willed and stubborn wife."

Marcus’s grip tightens at your words. You can feel his mouth open and close, but he stops short of speaking, so you continue.

“I like you this way,” you admit quietly.

“Which way is that?” he rumbles.

“Warm. Smiling. Luminous.”

His sharp, stunned intake of breath cools your skin. 

“And I like you wild and barefoot and running through my creek,” Marcus murmurs back. “Although that image does pale in comparison, now that I know how you look in my bed.”

“I quite believed that you didn’t like me at all,” you confess. 

“I believed the same, especially when you disagreed with every word upon our first meeting.”

You giggle softly. “I am sorry–I was rather upset by the entire situation.”

“And now?” Marcus’s voice is careful. Vulnerable.

“I did not know you then,” you tell him. “I did not know the shape of your smile, nor the sound of your laugh. I did not know your desk is splattered with paint or that your shelves are covered with books that you read to me in the softest, sweetest voice. I did not know the mischief in your eyes or… or the warmth of your lips,” you say, dropping your volume to a whisper. “Nor the feel of your bare skin against mine just as it is now. All I knew was the rigid, closed-off man I saw before me, but now I know his secret,” you tease. 

“And what might that be?”

You wiggle your hips playfully as you settle into Marcus’s arms, your eyes finally starting to feel heavy with sleep.

“That you’re just as wild as me.”

*

fin

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #pedro pascal

[davnittbraes]

Affirmations - Part One

Part of the I’m Here universe.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit (not this part but the next one 😉)

Word Count: 2750

Warnings etc: anxiety, lots of negative self-talk, a lil bit of dissociation, LOVE YOURSELVES BABES, Marcus being a danger to my ovaries, brief reference to previous sexytimes

Reader-insert physical descriptors: none here but in Part Two hair long enough to comb fingers through

Notes: takes place a week after I’m Here but you don’t necessarily have to read it before this. Marcus and reader are in a newish relationship, their last time being intimate they pushed some boundaries, and reader confirmed she’s got a thing for letting her partner take control. Wink wink nudge nudge. Aka this relationship is heading in the BDSM direction.

I wrote this for @shirks-all-responsibilities, who rants about I’m Here Marcus so much I thought it damn well time he show her some love in return. I mean I also very much wrote it for me, too, like what is fanfic if not absolute self-indulgence 😂

Oh my god, it’s so late. 

You pull into Marcus’ driveway, immediately cutting the engine, paranoid that the sound is too loud in the thick quiet of night covering the suburb. 

It’s too late, really.

But he had said he wanted to see you, no matter how late you finished work. That a week was too long without seeing your beautiful smile.

So incredibly sweet - and so very Marcus. 

Your gaze flicks to the illuminated clock on the car dash. 

Still…

Okay, well, he had replied to your text not long ago, when you told him you were leaving work, reassuring you that he still wanted you to come over, stay for the weekend. 

That had been the plan all week, you’d been looking forward to two whole days with him - the man who had rewritten your definition of romance. 

No, not just romance - relationships in general. What it means to be with somebody. 

To trust someone else implicitly. 

To put your soul in their hands and know they’ll treat it like the greatest treasure. 

And how that trust could lead to not only a depth of intimacy you’d never known possible, but also incredible, mind-blowing sex. 

Last weekend, he’d shown you that. Took control, pulled you out of your own head, stripped away every worry and concern and anxiety and made you come so hard you’d fallen apart in his arms after. 

Then, true to Marcus form, he didn’t push it. Didn’t force you to talk about it, just took care of you with his usual sweet gentleness.

But once the pleasure haze had faded and your thoughts came back together, anxiety had immediately started to gnaw at your throat. 

What exactly had happened? How had he made you give up control like that, become so immersed in the desire to feel good and make him feel good that everything else fell away?

That was so unlike you, always present, always aware.

Though, it had felt incredible - it had been good for you.

A release that went deeper than an orgasm. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t like it. Just that… it was…

Well, you never could stop analyzing every single thing that was brought to your attention. It’s not surprising that this was making you go around in circles trying to figure it out. 

Your heavy sigh breaks the silence.

Some instinct tells you Marcus knows. 

There had been moments, during that night, when you’d seen it in his warm brown gaze. 

An understanding. A knowledge of what you were thinking, feeling, that surpassed even your own. 

You need to talk to him. 

So you’d been looking forward to this all week, to seeing him again. Struggling to fight back the anxiety that keeps trying to pull you into a spiral about that night, reminding yourself constantly that it’s okay, you can talk to Marcus about it, he’s safe. 

You can trust him. 

But all that was before you knew that your Friday was going to blow up in your face. 

Before problem after problem was dumped on you and despite your every effort you couldn’t fix them all before they inevitably got worse. 

And now you’re sitting here, long after you were supposed to be at his place. 

The anxiety is gone, now, you’d caved to it hours ago, unable to keep it at bay. It had been replaced by something you can’t identify buzzing with an uncomfortable weight in the pit of your stomach. 

You peer at his house through the windshield, chewing your thumbnail thoughtfully, teeth biting into the quick with a tiny jab of pain that distracts you enough to think through the situation. 

The porch light is on, and so is the living room light, glowing through the curtains in the big picture window. 

Okay, so he’s still up. 

And his texts throughout the night were his usual, sweet and caring and light -

But what if you were misreading them?

What if he’s actually upset with you for being so late?

What if he’s playing it off like it’s fine but he’s actually pissed, frustrated that you strung him along all day, that you prioritized work over him, that you had the audacity to show up at this hour and expect him to drop everything to entertain you. 

Your stomach turns, rolls, slow and sickly, emotion hot in the back of your throat. 

I should just go home, there’s no point in bothering him at this -

A sudden burst of light startles you out of your spiral. 

Your phone, in the cupholder, screen bright with a new text notification. 

Marcus

Can’t wait to see you, beautiful 

Tension bleeds from your shoulders, stomach righting itself with a little flip of anticipation. 

Trust. 

You trust Marcus. He’s never given you any reason to do otherwise. 

And if he says he wants you to come over, despite it being so late, then he means it. 

But -

No, this is too much, you can’t just sit here and think anymore -

The need to move shoves you into action, and you throw open the door and get out of the car, grabbing your bag from the backseat. 

You’re only three steps to the front door when it swings open, light bathing the walkway. 

Marcus meets you before you even reach the door, dimpled smile glowing in the dim light. “Hey. Heard the car pull in.”

Your own smile is an inherent reaction, heartbeat skipping just a bit as he leans in to press a soft kiss to your lips, one hand slipping around your waist to smooth over the small of your back. 

The exhaustion in your muscles leaches out, body swaying toward his, and he pulls back enough to look at you, concern in his warm brown gaze. “Let’s get you inside, okay?”

He’s already taking your bag, long fingers slipping through yours, hand on your back gently guiding you to the door and that unknown weight in the pit of your stomach shifts, edges sharp, bringing tears to your eyes. 

What is it? Why does it hurt so much?

It’s a little unsettling, not knowing what you’re feeling, especially when it’s something so strong.

What’s wrong with you that you can’t even identify this emotion that feels like it’s boring a hole straight through you?

You’re moving automatically, only vaguely aware of the door shutting behind you, the pleasant smile pasted on your face. Going through the motions, taking off your shoes, jacket, straightening your clothes.

Suddenly, large hands cup your face and a jolt runs through you, so startling it pushes a gasp from your lungs.

Brown eyes fill your vision, blurred by the threat of tears. 

Soft words seep through the buzzing in your head - when had that started?

“Are you okay?” 

Shit -

You haven’t said anything, haven’t spoken to him since you pulled in. Frustration skips along your pulse. Get it together. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.” The practiced phrase comes out as usual, light and dismissive.

Marcus steps closer, thumbs tracing your cheekbones. “Look at me.”

Oh -

It’s just a hint, a whisper of the command his voice can carry - that command that guided you to heights of pleasure you’d never experienced before him. It’s enough to snap through the buzz in your head. 

Your vision clears and finally you can really see him. Really look at him. 

He’s watching you, intent, frown forming between his brows. There’s only a pause, his expression unreadable - is he angry - no stop it shut up - then he’s sliding an arm around your shoulders and turning you toward the living room. 

“Come on, come sit down.”

Relief washes cool down your back. 

Yes, good, let him guide you. 

A quiet reassurance coats your thoughts, muffling the noise. 

Trust him. 

He sits you down on the plush sofa, tucked into the corner, and settles in closely next to you. His hands never leave you, drifting down your arms to clasp yours gently, hold them in your lap. Your joined hands rest on your thighs, a counterweight to the one in your stomach. 

Grounding. Centring. 

Marcus. 

He squeezes lightly, draws your gaze to his. “Are you comfortable talking to me right now?”

Embarrassment flushes hot on your skin - it’s so unnerving, how he can see everything about you - but you force yourself not to look away, to keep your gaze on his. Trust. “A lot happened today. Just. A lot.”

Fuck, that’s not very helpful, he asked you a question and you give him this vague -

“That’s okay.”

The buzz flickers, the soft tone of his words scattering. 

“What?” You can hear the confusion in your own voice. 

A dozen emotions flash across his expression, but the warmth in his eyes doesn’t change, persistent. “It’s okay that today was a lot. You can talk about it, all of it or parts of it, if you want. Or if you’d rather not, that’s fine, too.”

You glance away, unable to look at him, his ceaseless compassion too much to handle right now. 

He lifts your clasped hands to his lips, brushes a kiss over your knuckles, that intent gaze still locked on yours. “I can reheat supper, if you’re hungry. Draw you a bath if you want to unwind. Take you to bed and hold you if you’re too tired for any of that. And during, after or in-between any of that, I’ll listen to whatever you want to tell me about today.”

The weight in your stomach shifts again, presses up against your ribcage and it hurts to breathe but you manage to nod in acknowledgment.

His gaze tracks the shakiness of the movement, crease between his brows deepening, voice firm. “And if you don’t want to talk tonight, that’s fine. But it’s not healthy to keep things bottled up. Whatever happened, it seems like it’s really affecting you. So you will have to talk about it at some point, either with me or someone else. When you’re ready.”

You nod again - try to, but the movement is too awkward, it feels strange. As if it’s not you making it, it’s not your body, not your hands in his and not your lungs straining for air and not -

Suddenly you can’t see, everything is blurry, everything is gone nothing is real why -

Strong arms pull you against a broad chest and you crumple, limbs folding into yourself, weight in your stomach dragging you down down down -

Desperate, you grasp at the warmth that breaks your fall, hands clutching at fabric over solid strength, thoughts latching onto murmured words against your hair. 

Your subconscious instinctively threading into the profound presence that surrounds you, holding fast. 

It’s a lifeline. A linchpin that centres your focus, pulls you back into awareness. 

Marcus is tucking you firmer into the crook of his arm, shifting your legs across his lap until you’re fully seated there. One large hand cups your head, holds your temple to his lips, while the other passes gentle strokes to your arm, your back, your thigh. 

He’s talking, soft and muffled words but clear enough, a steady stream that brushes over your skin. 

“Breathe for me, baby, it’s okay, you’re okay, let it out. I’m here.”

I’m here. 

Marcus is always here. For you. 

Trust. 

The weight in your stomach bursts and everything pours out of you in tear-soaked words. 

“I’m so sorry I’m so late, I’m sorry I disappointed you and I didn’t want to ever do that because you’re so amazing Marcus and it’s not fair for me to treat you like this - “ your voice hiccups and you have to push through it - “I should have cancelled tonight, I knew I was going to be late, but I was selfish and still wanted to see you and I made you wait around for me and that was wrong and I’m so so sorry -“

“Stop.” 

His voice is quiet but firm, enough to silence the mess of thoughts pouring from your lips. 

You wait, heart pounding, lungs tight, muscles tensed and ready for his judgement. 

No, not judgement - this is Marcus, he cares about you, he’s here for you. 

But it’s all still there, the buzzing in your head and the weight pulling you down and it’s too much, too confusing and conflicting and you can’t handle everything. 

A whimper squeezes past your throat before you can stop it. Your eyes are closed so tight against it all that you see stars. 

He gently eases you away, his arm supporting your back where it bands across your shoulders. “Open your eyes, baby. Please.”

Trust. 

It takes everything you have to do so, blinking as his face comes into focus.

The concern that worried his brow is gone. Those warm, brown eyes are steady, but more serious than you’ve ever seen them. 

He takes a deep breath, chest shifting where you’re pressed to him. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but you were hurting yourself and I couldn’t let that continue.”

“H-hurting myself?” Your voice catches on the well of confusion squeezing your throat. 

A barely-there nod as his thumb swipes through the tear tracks on your cheek. “Listening to those negative thoughts. Letting them speak for you.”

You stare at him. Mind blank. Buzzing thoughts silent. 

He cups your cheek, his broad palm soothing on your too-hot skin. “You have your own voice. No one, not even yourself, can take that away. It will always be there.”

There’s no epiphany or flash of understanding. Just a gentle swell, rising and pulling you in, the understanding of his words. They just seep into the fibre of your being and you know. 

You know they’re true. 

You understand what he’s saying. Those buzzing thoughts, sharp and intrusive, weaselling their way to the forefront until you couldn’t hear anything else. 

That heavy weight in the pit of your stomach. A blend of guilt and shame and frustration. 

At yourself. 

For being weak, for being unable to stop the anxious turmoil from bleeding into this part of your life, your relationship with Marcus, the part that you wanted so badly to be clean of it. 

Then there’s disappointment at your inability to control it. 

No. Not just disappointment. 

Anger. 

Because despite trying, so hard, telling yourself that Marcus was good and right and you can trust him - it did nothing. 

Those negative thoughts still won out and tainted your perception. 

Then there’s despair. Cold and creeping into your bones.

You’re failing yourself.

So many times, you’ve been silent when you wanted to speak, or to shout or laugh or scream or sing. 

You’d let others keep you quiet for so long, that even when they were no longer in your life, the habit apparently remained. 

A habit you thought you’d already broken after countless therapy sessions, only for it to overtake and control you once again. 

Well. At least now you know it’s not right, not fair to you. 

Now you know you deserve to be happy.

It had taken a long time, but you’d come to acknowledge and accept that as a fact. 

But that didn’t stop you from trying to self-sabotage, apparently. 

No, stop. That’s the negative voice again.

Telling you you’re not enough.

That you’ll always fail.

Trust trust trust

Those words beat steadily within your own pulse. 

Closing your eyes - not to shut things out, this time, but to let yourself look inward - you lean into the weight of his palm, breathe deep, and trust. 

“I think that…” Your words are soft, cracked with hesitation as they come to you slowly. “I know that I do, have my own voice. I know those thoughts will only hurt me, and I have the ability to ignore them. But sometimes it…” 

You look at Marcus then, some part of you needing to see him. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember that, to hear the difference between the good thoughts and the bad ones. Especially on days when everything else is so loud.”

He’s watching you, expression so soft it pricks tears in the corners of your eyes. There’s no pity, or uncertainty, or doubt, in his face. Just an overwhelming tender emotion, a comprehension that can only come from hearing that same buzzing noise blurring the good and bad. 

One of your hands untangles from where your fingers are curled into his shirt, rises to rest over his on your cheek. 

Of course he understands. A toxic marriage, a broken engagement, so many other wounds that cut deep and left scars. 

Marcus has fought to break habits, too. 

He leans in, kisses you softly, your lips then your forehead. “Will you…” he pulls back to look at you, tongue dipping against his lower lip. “Will you let me help you? With the noise?”

Your heart beats steadily. 

You know what he means.

The memory of sinking deep into that haze of pleasure, letting go of your ceaseless thoughts. Allowing him to take control of the noise and silence it.

Giving yourself over to him, wholly and completely.

Trust trust trust

There’s no hesitation in your thoughts, in your voice.

“Yes.”

*****

Next: Part Two

Previous: I’m Here

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