#the mentalist fic
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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
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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
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Rumor Has It (Peña x f!Reader x Pike)
Series Masterlist
Series Summary: (Javier Peña x fem/afab!Reader x Marcus Pike) You've recently transferred from a promising job in D.C. to Texas when DEA Special Agent Javier Peña approaches you with his current case. Rumor has it you have an in with the FBI art crimes unit, and the DEA could use your skills and connections on a suspected narcos money laundering case. You need to do well on this case to prove yourself, but you're not sure Marcus Pike will even help after the way you left.
Reader/Character notes: Reader is fem!afab; No mention of Reader’s body size, shape, composition, or skin color.
Series Warnings: no use of y/n, previous relationship (Pike x f!reader), future Javi x Reader x Marcus (MFM/FMM dynamics), masturbation (m & f), fantasizing, Dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, workplace romance, initial slowburn (Javi x f!reader), so much yearning, additional chapter-specific warnings.
Chapter 1: The Javier Peña comes to you for help on a case.
Chapter 2: You’re reviewing the case file Javi gave you when a memory of your last night in D.C. distracts you.
Chapter 3: After a bit of a brainstorm, you decide it’s finally time to call Marcus and get his opinion (he always has the right words). Javi has opinions of his own on the matter.
Chapter 4: Marcus is still reeling from your phone call and can’t stop thinking about the last time he saw you. Peña is ready to get things moving.
Chapter 5: Peña has done more than you expected by making you the Customs Agent in Charge, and you’re already starting to feel the pressure. While preparing to give your first official brief, you reach out once again to Marcus for reassurance. The call leads you down memory lane to the last conversation you had with Marcus face to face.
Complete Evidence Locker Flashback This is the complete flashback, which was originally pieced out across chapters 2, 4, and 5.
Chapter 6: Javier meets you at the office the next day to help you with the big briefing, then shows you a different side of Houston.
Chapter 7: The case is progressing more quickly than expected, presenting the first opportunity to set the bait for the narcos. When plans for the undercover operation go awry, you have to think and act fast. Meanwhile, whatever is going on between you and Javi gets kicked into high gear.
WIP Wednesday post with a lil' sneak peak of Chapter 8!
Chapter 8 Before going any further, you set some ground rules with Javi. Then it's fucking game on.
Chapter 9 (NEW! Posted 4/5) Flashback: All rules go out the window the first time you and Marcus are truly alone.
Chapter 10 - Coming Soon!
#rumor has it fic#senorabond writes#pedro pascal#pedro pascal character fanfic#javi x reader x pike#javier pena x reader#javier pena fanfiction#javier peña#narcos fic#narcos#marcus pike x reader#marcus pike fanfiction#marcus pike#the mentalist fic#the mentalist
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Naughty Or Spice? - A Marcus Pike Christmas One Shot 🎄
Written for @hellishjoel 's 12 Days of Pedro. Thank you for inviting me to participate, lovely! Thanks to @undercoverpena for the 12 Days of Pedro banner. 🖤
Character: Marcus Pike
Prompt: Holiday Meal
Read the other amazing fics here 👇🏻
🎄Hellishjoel's 12 Days of Pedro Masterlist🎄
Summary: You and your husband Marcus are preparing a Christmas feast for your relatives, when you both give in to a hunger of your own.
Pairing: Husband!Marcus Pike x WifeF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub. Image used for aesthetic purposes only, no reference to Reader.)
Word Count: 4.3k
Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I’m doing well, and then, you try to kill me.”
Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.
Explicit - Established relationship/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/oral M & F receiving/69
NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.
If this story isn't for you, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.
Author’s Note: Really enjoyed writing this and being a part of this amazing group of writers for 12 Days of Pedro, & I hope you enjoy reading it too! 🎄
MAIN MASTERLIST
Enjoy & Happy Holidays! 🖤
The heady aromas of brandy and honey glaze can be smelt wafting around him, creeping up his nostrils, making his stomach rumble and mouth water in anticipation of the festive banquet.
The kitchen, the epicentre of your shared world in your cosy home together as newlyweds, is alive with the fervour of holiday feast preparations, embracing a melange of scents that paint the air with vivid notes of fragrance.
The pièce de résistance, the roast turkey, emits an enticing aroma; a melody of savoury richness that speaks of crisp, golden skin and succulent, juicy meat, infused with the earthy blend of rosemary and thyme.
A harmonious mix of umami and sweetness mingles in the air. The citrusy notes of orange and lemon zest adds a bright, effervescent zing, cutting through the savoury with a refreshing counterpoint that teases the palate.
Marcus wanders back into the kitchen after discarding his shoes; a sprig of fresh garden herbs contributing their own verdant movement to the olfactory composition, as he brings them to his nose to smell sage flooding down his trachea in abundance.
"I got the sage, baby." He says.
He soon discards the leafy bunch on the counter top when he sees you standing precariously on a chair with your arms rummaging deep into the cupboard.
You wobble a little unbalanced, and he rushes to you, supporting your butt in his giant hands, and grabbing a hold of your waist to stop you falling and cracking open your skull on the wooden floor that heats his socked feet pleasantly underneath.
It’s only a matter of time really - he can’t leave you alone for more than five minutes before some casualty will undoubtedly ensue.
But then, when Marcus isn’t having a panic attack about you accidently slicing off your thumb when you chop the vegetables - real fast with warp speed, and simultaneously skimming the iPad screen for the best honey types to roast them in - he kinda finds your inelegance endearing.
He married a clumsy one, and he couldn't be more pleased about that as you smile warmly at him coming to your rescue. You still take his breath away as he feels his lungs struggle, smiling warmly up at you.
“What are you doing?” Marcus asks, as you shove a stack of bowls down into his big hands.
He places them on the counter top and stays close to you with his arms ready to catch you like the swoon-worthy hero he is.
“I’m looking for that big glass dish, you know, for the bread rolls.” You explain, your voice echoing around the inside of the cupboard stacked high with dishes and plates of all variety and size.
“Out the way, honey,” he lifts you down off the chair, kissing you on the cheek as you slide down his warm body.
“Mmm,” you smile at him as he blushes a little.
And your husband has never looked more appealing, with freshly washed hair styled in neat waves; a spicy scent of his cologne tickling your nostrils, and dressed in a smart, yet relaxed, cream sweatshirt teamed with jeans.
He pushes the chair aside to the sink whilst he looks for it, reaching up into the cupboard without needing a chair, or to stand on his tip toes.
You clock his sweatshirt riding up to reveal golden tanned hips with his jeans resting low on his svelte waist, tantalising you further.
“This one?” Marcus asks, pulling out a frosted glass serving platter a few seconds later.
“Yes, thank you,” You glance up as you sprinkle flour over the freshly baked bread rolls that have cooled enough on the rack.
He plonks it down beside you as you start arranging the bread buns on it, stopping only to tap his hand away as he reaches for one cheekily, and to blow the flour off your hands. You absentmindedly wipe your dusty fingers on your jeans, leaving white patches.
The best cooks are also the messy ones, Marcus thinks, smiling as he watches you happily thrive in your environment that’s piled with dishes to be washed, spoons stirred in various pans simmering on the hob, and pastry rolled out ready with festive cookie cutters that you'll press in.
He smirks, seeing you have a faint flour handprint on your butt as you lift the dish off the counter top and walk it out into the dining room.
He steals another kiss as you pass, pulling you gently by the elbow, making you giggle softly. And it’s a sound he’ll never tire of.
The table is heaving with enough food to feed the five thousand, and yet it still doesn’t seem like quite enough.
The grand Christmas tree in the background twinkles with golden lights, carefully arranged like shimmering stars, casting a warm and inviting glow over the tree's boughs. Ornaments of various shapes and colours adorn the branches, each telling its own magical story.
Shimmering globes catch the light, scattering it in a dazzling display of red and green reflections. Delicate icicles dangle from the tips of the branches, capturing the essence of winter's frosty beauty.
The whole room reminds you of something out of an old fashioned Christmas card - just how you’d envisioned it when Marcus and you spent a day putting it meticulously together - and you’re proud of Marcus for his decorating efforts, if but a little obsessive.
You make space for the dish of bread rolls on the table, groaning and creaking with more added weight. You pull your phone out of your back pocket and check the time. They’ll all be arriving soon.
“I think we need more chairs...” You groan coming back into the kitchen. You look up at Marcus, who has a spoon in his mouth and freezes on the spot.
“Caught red handed, Agent!” You playfully scold.
“I can’t help it, it tastes so good.” He smirks, pulling the spoon from his mouth and you zone in on it, smirking through those pink, wet lips of his. “Is there chestnut in this?”
You nod, smiling.
“Damn…” He praises with a keen grin, resting casually against the counter top. The blend of tart cranberries and smoky bacon makes his cheeks tingle as he licks around his teeth.
“You have to share this recipe with me.”
You shake your head reaching for the sage. “No way. My grandma would turn in her grave if I gave away her secrets.”
“Here, taste it…” Marcus holds out the spoon to you with a nub of the cranberry stuffing.
“I know how it tastes, I made it.” You smirk as you brush past him to turn off the hob. "Besides, it still needs the sage, it's not done yet."
He slips it into his mouth instead groaning in delight. "Honey," he begins, his voice a warm blend of appreciation, "you've truly outdone yourself.” As he points around the kitchen with the spoon.
You scoff.
“I mean it. Although, I’m probably going to gain at least twenty pounds.”
“You will if you eat that whole thing.” You giggle. “You married a feeder. Your fault.” You take the bowl of stuffing from him and place it on the counter top. You turn back to glance at him as he watches you with twinkly eyes.
“What are you looking at?” You ask, admiring him curiously, as his smile widens across his sculpted cheekbones.
“You,” he reaches forward and pulls you towards him.
His hand starts wiping down your butt as he cradles you close to his chest. “You look so hot in the kitchen; did I ever tell you that?”
“Excuse me, Mr Backwards century!” You say to him wrinkling your nose through a smile.
“You know what I mean. You’re a great cook. What’s not sexy about that, hmm?” Marcus asks with hooded, dark eyes.
You know that look, know that when his eyes are swallowed up by the lust of his pupils like this, that you’re helpless to resist. He looks at you with a quiet, brewing hunger; a hunger that will last for hours as he devours you and leaves no morsel left.
You feel his large hands squeeze at your ass lavishly, but you scarper out of his grip giggling. There’s still so much to do and not enough time to do it.
"Stop distracting me."
"But I'm so good at it." Marcus responds with a wink.
“Mhm, can you get the potatoes out for me?” You ask him, and smile sweetly.
You toss him a dish cloth, quashing all his wily charm, and he catches it before it lands on his head.
Marcus spins on his heels and pulls open the oven door; the blast of heat in the face makes him squint. He can smell the flavoursome scents from the herbs, making him salivate as he reaches in.
“Watch out, it’s hot!” He can feel the heat from the tray biting into his skin even with the cloth. He drops the tray down quickly and feels the sear of the burn cooking him. “Ah, shit!”
He snatches his hand back as the tray clatters on the drainer, hissing as he puts his hand straight to his mouth, sucking on the fleshy piece of skin between his thumb and forefinger with a frown.
“Let me see,” you say, coming up beside him and running the faucet.
“It’s just a little scald. I’ll be fine,” Marcus assures, holding his hand out under the cool flow. He can feel the rawness of its sting, even under the water.
You dab it gently with a dry, clean cloth and inspect it. It’s a little pink, but no signs of a bad blister brewing.
You look up at him and kiss it gently. “All better.”
“You’re so sweet to me.” Marcus smiles, and runs his hand through the frazzled wisps of your hair coming loose.
He pulls you in for a kiss and you kiss him back, only refuting it when it mutates into a swamping, dizzy smooch that begins to make your head spin.
Reluctantly breaking away from the kiss, you share a moment of breathless laughter; the gritty reality of the kitchen chaos juxtaposing with the sweet and savoury notes of the holiday feast filling your nostrils.
“Stop it, I need to uh...” Your voice trails off, distracted by his kisses that now run over your cheek and to your neck, where he knows it will make you melt like butter in a hot pan.
His wandering hands are sliding up the outside of your thighs and groping your ass again.
“Yes, you have to do what?” Marcus prompts through breathy puckers. You feel his tongue, hot and wet, licking carnage on your skin. Instead of dousing the fire, it inflames it.
“The food… Marcus, I-I need to... fuck...” You whine as his lips graze across your throat.
“You taste so good,” Marcus purrs, nipping at your skin and completely forgetting about the soreness of his burn. The feel of your ass inside his hands probably has something to do with that as he kneads and massages away.
Hands become reacquainted with body parts as yours run up his chest over his sweatshirt, whilst his runs the gauntlet up your back, leaving tingles and shudders.
Damnit, he smells so good.
You can feel his hardness press into your lower belly, foreheads together, panting a little, as you both watch your hand start sliding down over the bulge inside his jeans and groping it.
You hear him groan into your eyelashes; that wanting, little whimper making you buzz between your legs.
“We should stop... they’ll be here soon.” You whisper, not wanting to stop at all, not now he has you right where he intends to keep you.
“We’ve got time for a little fun,” Marcus breathes through swollen, cherry lips as he watches you unzip his flies. "I want you... I wanna fuck my really hot, chef wife on the kitchen floor."
“Mm, God.” You whine as he beguiles you into utter sedition.
“Get it out, honey,” he urges in a devilish whisper as you undo his top button and pull the prize of his cock out from his jeans. "See how hard you make me?"
He lets out a groggy gasp as you squeeze his cock gently, gasping in want as you slide your thumb over the tacky stickiness he leaks.
You run your hand around it, feeling him pulsate and twitch a few times before kissing him again, swallowing and gorging on his moans.
"You're so hard for me..." You praise. He’s rock solid; stiff and heavy, and seeping from his thick head into your palm as you pump him slowly.
"Always," He smiles, bashfully.
You kneel down, running your tongue over the tip before taking him inside your mouth.
“Shit,” he breathes out. Marcus pushes the denim down his hips, scooping the hem of his sweatshirt out of the way so he can get a better view of you.
Looking up at him, you let out little murmurs of satisfaction as you mouth on him; running your lips over his warm, pulsing skin and licking your tongue around his fantastic length.
He looks down at you, eyes filled with that swaying lust turning them black, biting down on his bottom lip as he grunts.
“Baby…” He whines like he can’t produce coherent words. The basics of sentence structure lost to him.
You pump him as you suck the swollen head; back and forth, sucking on him that bit harder. Tasting all the notes of him on your tongue.
Marcus rests his hands against the countertop, his hips sticking out at you as you take him deep. You run your tongue over him, shiny and down his shaft before you lick back up again and suck deeper, making his eyes roll into the back of his head.
“Oh my God.” You hear him pelt into the ceiling.
As you pull him back out, crystally strings of your saliva coat him and dangle from your mouth; that yummy mushroom head of his cock popping in and out driving him crazy.
“I need you to sit on my face,” Marcus whines as he helps you up to your feet and kisses you harshly.
He licks all around your mouth desperately; the wet and stickiness from your saliva mashes into his, and he can taste the faint salt of his cock on your tongue.
His hands strip you of your jeans and panties quicker than you realise, and he pulls you down clumsily onto the kitchen floor with him, laughing and giggling in a tangled heap of knotted limbs.
You perch over his head, knees pressed against his broad shoulders, facing away from him and lean forward; his cock back in the vicinity of your mouth.
You suck him in to your mouth as Marcus starts licking away and sucking on your clit; that barely-there, ragged graze of his shaved stubble giving you a pleasant scratch against the inside of your thighs.
“Mmm...” You coo around his cock as you feel him tickle and tease your lips.
He pushes his face right up into your slit, his nose ghosting around your ass and thrashes his tongue around with adept precision. The swollen folds of your pussy are pressed flush to his lips; he kisses, mouthing and smooching gently.
Tongue probing, exploring as he licks long, laborious stripes up the length of your cunt, teasing and prolonging the agony.
A scrumptious sixty-nine taking place on the kitchen floor that’s warm on his butt cheeks, whilst the oven continues to cook the food ready for his family gathering, who could all turn up at any given moment for their Christmas Smörgåsbord of festive treats.
But right now, neither of you care, gorging on your own feast of each other stuffed full and succulent in your mouths.
You groan and moan hungrily around his cock as he licks and sucks in tandem with you, devouring one another’s naughty bits and getting a good fill of them; a pre-course starter, as it were.
Marcus’ hips buck gently up into your mouth, getting in deeper and making you gag a little, but you don’t quit, if anything it makes you suck harder around him because you know he loves it when you choke a little on his impressive cock. You love it too.
“Ah yeah!” Marcus breathes out into your pussy as you massage his plump balls while sucking. You can feel him swell and pulse around your fingers as you roll them, squeezing and pulling gently.
But then you stop sucking, his cock slipping out of your mouth and whine out; unable to concentrate on him where he’s doing an absolute number on your clit with his own mouth.
“Oh God! Yeah!” You pant, whipping your head up and turning to glance him over your shoulder, but can’t see him - face buried deep into your cunt. “Shit! Marcus! Don't stop!” You cry, head lolling forward as your thighs quiver and tighten.
It feels amazing, his tongue, fuck...
He strokes his finger in, smearing and running your slick outwards, clearing the sticky tracks with his tongue. Groping your ass affectionately as he tastes you. Tonguing your hole; slipping in and out, and in and out, then in again as he feels you jostle and jerk above him.
Your own mouth becomes full of him again; that wet, delicious suction around his cock makes him groan into your folds.
“Baby, that’s so good,” he pants. He can feel you tease around his head, swallow him down deep and then pop him out to lick his length.
You start rocking, grinding on his face a little as the wet sucks around his mouth intensify.
His fingers grip into the warm flesh of your ass cheeks; unspoken encouragement for you to ride his face as he subtly pulls you back and forth onto it with the movement of your hips.
“Mmm, Marcus… fuck.” You moan. You can feel it all tingly and pulling tighter on your clit.
He sticks his tongue out, as far as it will go as you grind and bounce against it.
He slips his finger fully in your hole, index to the hilt, pushing and rubbing against that fleshy engorged spot inside. Working you up deliciously.
“Mm-hmm,” he enthuses, as your pussy slides up and down on his tongue with more uncouth abandon.
You groan around his cock, your mouth full of him as you start to soar. Heating up, reaching maximum temperature before you start to boil over.
“Yeah, mm-hmm… mm-hmm, like that, baby. God, you taste so good.” He mutters.
Your raspy pants tell him you're near; the way in which you get louder, throatier. The way your body starts to tense, to shiver against him. How you rock with more desperation and need. How your tight hole clenches around his finger, spasming wildly, as it builds within you.
Tight and binding until you finally snap and release.
“Uh-huh,” he groans around his tongue flicking at your clit. He can feel the tremors on his cock from your voice ribbing around it as you shudder and shake.
Marcus groans in delight as you come, flooding his mouth with the saccharine taste of you; basting him with your own sweet glaze.
And Marcus could die right now, happily pass on to the next life with his face buried under your pussy that’s gushing for him all in his mouth.
“Marcus!” You wail, gasping hard and burning up.
He kisses you through it; making out with your sopping pussy with heated strokes of his tongue and groping at your hips.
His hands slowly stroke over your smooth skin; your back, your hips, your ass cheeks as he feasts. Mouth open and tongue flicking across your pussy as you writhe and grind against him.
He can hear it, the way your own mouth sloshes around his cock more feverishly; sucking, drooling and God it feels so wet. He can feel how drenched his dick is, soaked in your saliva as you suck him harder and deeper.
He thrusts his hips up and little, sinking himself further into your mouth and soon he can’t bear it anymore.
“I need to fuck you,” Marcus pants, the strain in his voice palatable when comes up for air. “I need to be inside you, baby.”
“Do we have time?” You groan, trying not to dribble as your clit thunders and your legs buckle.
“There’s always time for pussy,” Marcus smirks, hungrily. You wipe at his chin, sticky and glistening with your slick, as he nuzzles into you.
He takes your remaining clothes off in the middle of the kitchen, unclipping your bra and groping at your breasts, pinching your nipples gently before he turns you around.
“Bend over, gorgeous.” Marcus croons over your shoulder in a wicked, enticing voice.
He places your knee up on the counter top; the bowls of food ready to serve up and congested all over it are shunted out of the way a little too harshly.
You feel the swollen head of his cock push gently, feel yourself opening up around him and sucking him into you.
“Fuck, you’re so hard, so big,” you mewl out to him as he slides in.
“Love it when you tell me I’m big...” Marcus smirks inside your ear.
“That’s because you are. Shit!” You gasp as he’s fully sheathed inside you, pussy stretching around him and feeling wonderfully tight. "I will never get tired of this."
"Good, because I'm going to keep doing this to you."
Your hands are flat on the counter top as he pulls your hips back onto him each time he rocks into you. You push back onto him willingly, hips doing the work; dancing on the end of his cock as you groan for him.
His big hands grip tight around your waist, holding you steady and in place so he can really go some.
He fucks you harder, upping the pace; his breath pelting your shoulder as he breathes out.
“God… you feel so good,” Marcus pants.
You turn over your shoulder to kiss him, clutching at the back of his head desperately as he fills you up with each shunt of his hips; twisting his hair inside your fingers as you cry out.
You push back more, his thighs slapping against your ass cheeks as he builds you up to another glittering crescendo.
“Marcus! Oh shit, I'm coming!” You call out as you contract and cream around him again.
"I can feel it, baby." He praises, mouthing into your shoulder blade. "I can feel you coming all over my cock. Shit, like that!"
Smirking after you've come again, he sits you on the counter top, hooking his arm under your leg as you hang off of it; pussy draped all over his cock as he thrusts, bouncing up into you.
Deep slaps of your skin with each pound echo around the kitchen as he whimpers through ragged breaths.
You cling on with one arm around his bronzed neck, your hand slipping on the counter top behind you and threatening to knock off one of the bowls at any given second, until crash!
“Shit!” He sighs with a breathy smile.
You both giggle, glancing down at the contents splashed all over the floor whilst you still fuck.
“Not the cranberry stuffing!” He sighs, and genuinely looks forlorn for a second, until you turn his jaw and focus back to you. You squeeze around his cock with your pussy and he grunts.
“There’s more, don’t worry.” You sway him back to your lips.
“Of course there is.” Marcus takes you upright in his arms, carrying you practically as he fucks harder up into you; bouncing on his cock like a space hopper in his arms as he stands upright.
Your hand is still behind you, pushing against the edge of the counter top now as you wrap your legs around his waist tighter.
He works you up and down his cock, rolling you around on it and panting wildly, groaning with you.
“I’m gonna come soon,” Marcus gasps into your face; his cheeks are glowing red on the apples, sweat glistening around his collarbone that you long to taste.
You nod encouragingly at him. “Come inside my mouth,” you urge as he starts to wind up into you again.
"Oh, baby!" He growls.
Marcus reaches blindly behind him and tugs at the chair you’d previously stood on and sits down with you riding in his lap.
He kisses over your clavicle, running his tongue around the skin until he gets to your nipple and sucks it, looking up at you.
“Oh, shit… baby. I’m close.” He groans, his eyes closing for a few seconds as you can see the strain on his face. His brown eyes hold wildly dilating pupils when he opens them, and you know he’s almost there.
You hop off his lap and drop to your knees and start sucking his cock again, tasting yourself all over it.
He places his hands gently on your head and pushes you down further onto him until he can feel your throat tightening around him.
"Yeah, like that... Oh, shit!"
You suck in air heavily through your nose, and feel him pulse and shudder. Seconds later, the blast hits the back of your throat as it gushes out of him.
“Ah, shit-shit!” Marcus drones as he comes, his socked toes curling inwards before relaxing as he empties out.
You come up for air, swallowing him down and smiling at him as you lick your lips.
“Mm, you taste really good.” You sigh contentedly. You plant delicate kisses on and around his stomach.
“Not as good as you,” he smiles with sparkly peepers.
The oven beeper goes off moments later as you’re rubbing at his thighs, scratching gently in the downy hairs at the top of them, and you glance over your shoulder at it.
“Good timing!” You giggle, as he growls and snorts into your neck as he envelopes you in a swamping cuddle, refusing to let you go.
Fighting him off, you grab a dish cloth and open the oven; the blast warms your bare nipples as Marcus stretches in the chair and watches you pull out the tray, full of the turkey, sniffing at it eagerly as you set it down on the counter top where he’d fucked you only minutes ago.
He smirks, rubbing at his arm and elbow as you catch his gaze.
“What?” You ask him. “I’ll die before I serve dry turkey to anyone.”
He starts laughing and reaches for his jeans. "Always a perfectionist."
"You love it."
"I do, I do." He agrees.
After you've both dressed and cleaned up the escaped broken bowl pieces and stuffing splattered across the floor, you’re in the middle of a deep, mesmerising clinch in the centre of the kitchen.
“Hell of a cook,” Marcus mutters to you, glancing at all the food. “I can’t wait to dig in.”
“I believe you’ve already had quite a fill.” You say, nuzzling into his nose and he chuckles.
“Not nearly enough.” He says, cupping your ass again. “I’ll be coming back for seconds, later. Maybe even thirds…”
“Mm, I’ll get the Pepto ready.” You breathe dreamily, licking into his succulent mouth.
“I wasn’t talking about the food,” Marcus chuckles.
“I know.” You smirk.
“Although, I'm definitely going to have to loosen my belt later.” He glances at all the food on the counter top and you watch as he licks his lips at it all.
The doorbell rings, startling you both, and you watch Marcus pull away from you reluctantly with a heated grin.
He opens the front door to be swamped by the many faces of his boisterous family members piling in.
You smile, fixing your hair as you go to greet them.
Good timing indeed.
12 DAYS OF PEDRO MASTERLIST
MAIN MASTERLIST
#12 days of pedro#pedro pascal x reader#marcus pike x reader#pedro pascal#marcus pike#pedro pascal characters#marcus pike the mentalist#marcus pike x f!reader#marcus pike x you#marcus pike smut#marcus pike fluff#marcus pike fanfiction#the mentalist fic#christmas stories#jett's writing
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run to you: ch.6
A/N: and we're back! originally thought this would be out last week but i couldn't shake the feeling that it needed more so i delayed it a little and sure enough, an extra 4k words came out lmao. we get a lot more of marcus' POV with this chapter which is nice to write, and some more flashbacks that make my heart hurt. let me know what you think! enjoy angels! x
P.S i've been god awful at replying to reblogs and comments lately but i just want you to know that i treasure you all so damn much, and i read every bit of feedback left again and again and i swear i could cry with how much you all mean to me, so thank you for taking the time to read this story and leave me kind words - forever will appreciate you beauties ❤️
Summary: Following on from ‘Traitor’ and ‘You’re Somebody Else’. An unexpected visitor throws you right back into the life you thought you left behind. Working beside the man that put you behind bars is one thing, pretending like you never loved him is another.
Word count: 6.6k (i hope this makes up for the wait lmao)
Warnings: angst (obviously), swearing, Patrick Jane is a warning, heartbreak, lots of talk of lies and the undercover job, a very brief moment of softness, talk of murder and descriptions about the circumstances, vague description of a bullet wound, talk of death, jealous!marcus is being birthed LMAO sir u have no right
main masterlist | series masterlist
This story will have explicit sexual scenes in the future so 18+ only.
The room is blurry.
You’re highly aware of how you pace like a caged lion outside his closed office door but simply can’t find it in you to still your anxious limbs. You catch the bright green eyes following your movements from across the room, but you struggle to hold his gaze longer than a second in fear of what you’d find swimming in them.
Surely Jacob must know now after the meeting. He’d know it’s your fault. Is he angry? Does he see you differently now? People are dead because of you and your mistake. You should’ve known better than to get caught up on the history you and Marcus share, and now you’re going to have to pay for it. You’ll have to carry those lives on your shoulders for the rest of your life.
It’s bitter.
The tears are hot when they spill over your lash line and track down your cheeks, but you’re quick to wipe them away and instead focus on the ceiling, blinking wildly in hope to calm the sting of more.
What are you going to say? What can you say?
There’s very little that would make up for this. A simple sorry wouldn’t cut it. There’s the promise of doing better next time, but would he believe you? Would he even let you stay on the case? You don’t know exactly when you started caring so much about it all—hell, you didn’t even want to be here in the first place, but now? You feel like you’re doing something, something good and worthwhile, and it feels nice after the hell ride the last couple of years had been.
You were on the right side now, but apparently you didn’t belong here.
God, what are you going to say?
You don’t get much more time to think about it. The door is wrenched open and the agents that had been speaking to him privately step out, giving you a small nod in greeting before wandering off and finally giving Marcus the opportunity to see you standing there waiting, glued to that spot on the worn carpet.
Frozen. You’re frozen, unsure of whether to say hello or goodbye, or skip straight to the apologies that are building on your tongue.
His eyebrows raise in obvious surprise as he falters in the doorway, obviously not expecting you of all people to be waiting for him, and you see the quick flutter of something unidentifiable through his eyes.
For a moment, nothing is said, but then the words fall from your lips in a panicked burst—
“It’s my fault.”
The expression of shock quickly gives way to confusion, and his eyes bounce between yours in an effort to follow your train of thought.
“What is?”
“The murders… it’s my fault, isn’t it? I did something wrong. God, Marcus, I—I’m sorry, I swear I’ll do better—”
He wordlessly steps aside during your little ramble and you take the silent offer of entering his office, anxiety growing with the click of his door closing behind you. You start to pace again, your heart beating thickly in your throat. Your mind races with the what ifs, and how he’ll go about dismissing you from the case.
Are you in trouble? How much? Have you pissed off the FBI higher ups? Are they sick of you? Is it enough for them to just throw you back into jail and forget about your silly little existence?
A chill creeps along your spine and you start to feel sick.
No.
No, he wouldn’t do that. Not again.
He said to trust him. He said he wouldn’t.
Would he?
“Please don’t send me back,” you beg softly, eyes filling at the mere idea of that tiny cold cell you called home for far too long and his face only creases further as you start to shake, “I promise I won’t make any mistakes again, I just—please, Marcus, I-I can’t go back—”
“Just… just stop,” he demands quietly, stepping forward with one hand perched on his hip and the other held out in an attempt to soothe your trembling voice, “I need you to sit down. Now, please.”
Sit down? How could you possibly sit down? You can’t, not when you’re shaking like this. You don’t think you’d even manage a single step with the fear running along your nerves like it is.
He obviously sees the state you’re quickly falling into and comes closer, hauling the visitor's chair out from beneath his desk and sliding it right up to you. He keeps a hand raised to your arm as you slowly lower into it, palm never touching you but lingering just a short distance away should you really start to break down and have your legs give out from beneath you.
Marcus drags his own chair out and slides it around his desk before stopping in front of you and taking a seat quietly. He gives you a moment, clearly studying the tears that run down your cheeks with a deepening frown before he leans forward, bracing his forearms along his thighs and looking up at you with a slight shine of concern.
“What’s going on?”
He must want you to say it, to own up to your mistakes and give him the satisfaction of watching you crumble. Didn’t he get enough of that the first time?
You sniff pathetically, looking at him with a slight scowl.
“You know what’s going on. I’m not an idiot, Marcus.”
He shakes his head, “No. No, you’re not. So, can you tell me what happened? Why do you think you’re at fault for the murders?”
“That guy out there,” you mumble, wiping your cheeks with your sleeve and recalling the pressed light grey three piece suit, “he said the buyers knew that the painting was a fake, and that’s why they were killed. They knew it was a fake, Marcus, so I didn’t do a good enough job to—”
He silences you again with a flash of his hand and you swallow the desire to snap at him for it. He presses further, eyes locked with yours and you almost feel like you’re in an interrogation with how focused they seem to be. Determined.
“What guy?”
“The consultant,” you mutter quietly, “uh… Patrick, I think it was?”
The change is immediate. He sits back in his chair and looks away, almost angry. No, he is angry, but it’s not at you. He glances at the door with a small roll of his jaw before he sighs sharply and shakes his head. The usual warmth in his gaze has turned molten hot with his irritation and you can’t seem to look away.
What the hell is his problem?
“Don’t listen to a single word that comes out of his mouth. He doesn’t get to just walk in here and start acting like he knows everything about this case because he doesn’t.”
The bitterness in his voice comes as a shock.
You feel it play across your face, your eyes darting over his tightened expression in search of answers. He clearly doesn’t like the consultant, but why? You’d assume the FBI would be tight with anyone they chose to work with, and Marcus seemed to be friendly with his co-workers. He’s a damn good agent, you know that for a fact, so what’s the issue?
Maybe it’s the case—he must be stressed. Is it dragging longer than he anticipated? Had there been a lot of bumps along the road? Was this Patrick guy making it difficult?
Marcus sighs quietly, shifting in his seat and dropping his gaze to the floor.
“Look, there’s a lot of reasons this could’ve happened, okay? It’s not your fault at all. They may have already had some issues, there could’ve been bad blood from a previous deal, they could’ve asked for more than what was arranged, they might've refused to go through with the deal… we don’t know, but I don’t want you to put this on yourself. It’s not your fault.”
Staying quiet, your teeth pinch and pick at the soft skin of your inner bottom lip. How can he say that if he doesn’t know? He just said himself that there are a lot of reasons, so how does he know for sure that you’re not the reason for this happening?
It has to be you.
"Look at me," he says softly, and your eyes fly up to meet his automatically. They’re cooler now, calmer. "It's not your fault, okay?”
It takes a moment, but eventually, you give a shallow nod.
The worry slowly eases, and as much as a part of you wants to keep placing the blame on your shoulders because that’s all you deserve, it’s not as strong as the pure sincerity emanating from him.
For once, you find yourself not doubting him. You’re not the reason people have been killed. You’re not in trouble. You’re not going back to prison.
Relief.
It’s comforting, sweet and warm, and spreads out from the back of your hand. It’s not relief, it’s him. You feel the rough surface of his palm on your skin, his thumb brushing soft reassuring strokes back and forth, and it’s only then you realise his hand is covering yours.
How long has it been there?
You study the way it looks, taking a moment to recall the past touch of something similar, something just as warm and reassuring and suddenly your throat feels thick. You hate that it feels nice, that it feels familiar, even after so long.
For a brief, brief second, you allow it, mind hazy and heart aching with the flood of memories and the ghost of fingers along your body, lips beneath your ear… but it’s not him. It’s not Alex.
You pull your hand out from under his and Marcus immediately recoils, hand clenching into a tight fist as he brings it to rest on his lap.
A chill creeps over the back of your hand from the loss of warmth and you pull your sleeve down to cover it.
“I’m sorry for anything Jane said. If I had known he’d say something like that, I would’ve spoken to you beforehand. I’ll uh… I’ll get Agent Wilson to take you home. I need him back at the office to dive into what evidence Teresa’s team has given us, and you can get some rest.”
“Sounds good,” you murmur, slightly thankful you wouldn’t have to return to your workspace with the slight ache building in your temples. You feel for Jacob, who’s probably about to endure a late night at the office, but something else piques your interest. “Teresa?”
That’s a funny coincidence.
Alex had an ex named Teresa he'd told you about. He’d worked with her, and apparently had fallen pretty hard and fast, too. She had left him for another man, leaving him broken and lost and… oh.
Oh, fuck.
Is it—?
“Patrick.”
You don’t need to say anymore.
Marcus, who had seemingly followed your silent thought process easily, gives a humourless huff followed by a nod, sighing as he pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. Suddenly it all makes sense—his exhaustion, the bitter feelings towards Jane. The pressure of the case, mixed with stress of not only working with your fake ex and ex-fiance, but also the man she had left you for? Shit.
The bags beneath his eyes make sense.
You should laugh, say he’s getting what he deserves and Teresa made the right fucking choice in picking another man over him because he’s nothing but a liar and a fake, but the thirst for a bitter jab is short lived. That would be a low blow, despite everything he did to you.
“That must be hard,” you mutter, reaching for the strap on your bag and readying it over your shoulder.
“It is,” he replies softly, “but this case is a lot harder for others.”
When you glance up you find he’s already looking at you.
He holds your gaze for a moment longer before you let your eyes drop and finally stand from the chair, thanking him quietly for the time he took to talk to you. He smiles, albeit sadly, and says anytime.
You risk a quick final glance over your shoulder when you close his door, and it’s no surprise to find that he’s watching you go.
—
The morning sun bounces off of his skin where it starts to seep through your windows, breaking through the night and alerting you to the early hour.
He’s asleep, face tucked into the back of your neck and warm breath fanning over your skin. You’re still cocooned in his arms, feeling much too hot to be comfortable enough to sleep with the temperature of his bare skin against yours, but reluctant to leave his embrace.
You’d endure the stifling heat for a bit longer, just to soak up the most of this moment. There’s never been someone like him before, never been a feeling like this. It hangs in the quiet stillness as the sun starts to wake, something new and sweet and promising.
His fingers are still intertwined with yours, his hold now looser since his breathing evened out. You study the way his skin looks against yours, how easily his hand overlaps the size of yours and how rough his palm feels on the back of your hand. You brush your thumb along his, heart running wild in your chest.
“What’re you doing?” He mumbles sleepily into your skin, pressing his lips into your shoulder.
The movement of you twisting and turning his hand must’ve disturbed his sleep. You tuck your hand, still tangled with his, close to your chest as a heat rises in your cheeks.
“Looking at our hands,” you reply quietly, slightly embarrassed that you’ve been caught, “sorry for waking you.”
The arm draped over you tightens, and you relish in the feeling of pure and utter safety. Nothing can hurt you here. It’s just you and him, and the growing morning light. There’s no work, no stress, just him and his hold. You want it all the time. You want it forever.
He hums, pressing himself impossibly closer.
“What’s interesting about our hands?”
You watch as he moves them back into view, feeling the way his lashes flutter against the skin of your throat as he adjusts his face to see them better himself. His facial hair rubs and tickles along your shoulder, and you squirm away from the pleasant feeling.
“Nothing,” you smile, turning your face as best you could to meet his eyes, “I just liked the way they looked.”
His nose runs along yours, his own grin soft and tired.
“Get some sleep, Scribbles,” he mutters, pressing a long kiss to your lips and you damn near have a meltdown at the tender fondness of it, “before that beautiful smile of yours keeps me up any longer.”
“Smooth talker,” you tease lightly, exhaustion finally starting to coax your eyes into closing, “goodnight, Alex.”
He sighs, burying his face into the side of your head.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
—
His hands are sweating.
He doesn’t move for a moment, willing his heart to stop beating so damn hard. The soft feel of his slacks rubs against his palms as he rakes them down his thighs before finally standing, smoothing down his tie and attempting to act like your sudden visit to his office hasn’t shaken every thought he has in his head.
You were an unexpected visitor, but not an unwelcome one. No, never unwelcome. He’d first thought he was going to have to chase you through the damn building to sit you down and talk to you about the developments of the case, but apparently the universe had other plans.
Leave it to Patrick fucking Jane to get to you first.
The slight rush of anger returns, and he feels his defences heighten—defensive over the case, over his team, over you. He doesn’t know exactly what had been said between you both, but clearly it had been enough for you to get the wrong idea. He’s not too sure if Jane was digging for more information about the case and coming up with his own theories, or simply trying to figure out who you were and what you were doing there.
Either way, he doesn’t like it, and he needs to ensure it won’t happen again, but he can’t talk to him. No, if he tells Jane to back off then his interest in you will no doubt only grow, and he doesn’t want that. You don’t need to have Jane picking away at your brain for his own sick pleasure on top of everything else.
He leaves his office just in time to see you and Wilson disappear, and he relaxes slightly knowing you’ll soon be safe at home, no doubt bundled under a blanket with a sketchbook. His eyes scan the bullpen until he sees her, and he quickly strides the distance between them until he’s right there and asking for a moment in private.
She hesitates, and he doesn’t blame her, but soon Teresa is following him just a few steps out of hearing range and he internally delights at the slight frown working its way between Jane’s brows from across the desks.
“We need to lay some boundaries,” Marcus murmurs, crossing his arms defensively across his chest when she merely rolls her eyes at his words.
“I’m sure you and I can both be professional, Agent Pike—”
Agent Pike? Is that what it’s come to now? Sure, he knew this was going to be awkward, but he didn’t expect for her to act as coldly towards him as she is. She was the one who left him, after all.
“That’s not what I’m talking about. Jane—”
“—is an integral part of my team, and won’t be going anywhere.”
He exhales sharply, fighting the urge to roll his own eyes at her interruption.
“Understood, Agent Lisbon, but if we’re going to work together, he needs to reel it in on the theories with people that aren’t fellow agents, and if he continues to upset the civilian members of my team, I’ll be more than happy to kick him off the case along with the rest of your team.”
“You’re talking about the artist,” Teresa deduces, nodding in understanding with a vague twinge of interest and remaining unbothered by the threat of getting booted out of the investigation. “I saw them talking. Jane says she’s the one responsible for the replicas.”
Marcus sighs, arms tightening against his chest. It’s not a question but he gives a nod of confirmation anyway. He highly doubts that would’ve been something you would’ve freely admitted to a complete and utter stranger, so he assumes Jane has already been playing his little mind games.
“How’d she end up forging paintings for the FBI?” The interest grows, he sees it play across her face. “Doesn’t exactly seem like a dream career path for an aspiring artist.”
There’s a slight tone there. He doesn’t know what it is, but he doesn’t like it.
“That information has nothing to do with this case,” he replies firmly—defensively, “and it will remain that way. She has nothing to do with this investigation beyond providing her skills. Keep him on a tight leash, Agent Lisbon. I won’t tolerate it happening again, understood?”
There’s a barely there smile playing at the edges of her lips as she answers and it does nothing to calm his unease, “Understood, Agent Pike.”
—
Some of the faces on the table are familiar, and it almost feels like deja vu.
Most of the suspects in this case are new and some fully identified, however there were a few faces he vividly remembers from before. The people you had worked with, some had been jailed—like you, only with a much longer, unforgiving sentence—while others had slipped through the cracks and were simply left to return to the work that had first landed them in handcuffs.
Those who are in that deep never fully climb out of the hole, so it was more than likely he’d see them again in time.
And sure enough, some of their pictures scatter the chaotic table top of paper and files smeared everywhere, only he wasn’t expecting the obvious bullet hole in one of their foreheads. No question about how they were murdered, but the execution style of it certainly seemed personal. Did she know whoever held that gun?
You hadn’t been close, but you had been friendly enough with her during the rare times he would see you in a group back when he went by another name.
He knew all about her before even shaking her hand. She was young and naïve, lured into the illegal art trade business by the prospect of good money and no debt… much like yourself. She was talented, smart, an Ivy League dropout once she couldn’t climb atop of those heightening tuition fees.
He sees the reflection of you in her, all that wasted potential.
Could this have been you?
The images assault him before he even knows what’s happening. You laying there on that cold stainless steel autopsy table; you laying there with that gruesome hole right in the middle of your forehead; you with no family to pick your body up from the morgue.
It’s gut wrenching. He feels sick.
The photo drops from his fingers and he clenches his fist, heaving a long sigh of exhaustion and letting his body slump tiredly back into the chair. Other agents around the table mirror his position and energy, and with that, he finally decides to call it.
“Go home, guys,” he instructs, cutting through the silence and the shuffle of paper, “get a good night's rest and we’ll look over it with fresh eyes in the morning.”
There’s a sigh of relief that runs through the room, and no one wastes any time. They leave with various farewells and soon it’s just him and Wilson in silence. The man hasn’t moved much except from standing and fiddling with his folded jacket that had been previously hung over the back of his chair and Marcus waits, lifting an eyebrow in interest to urge the man to speak.
“Am I needed here tomorrow, sir? What about Picasso?”
A brief smile tugs at Marcus’ lips at the nickname.
“Yeah, we need you here. I’ll send her a text and let her know not to expect you.”
The other agent shifts on his feet, almost like he wants to object, but eventually he gives a nod and slinks out of the room with a quiet goodnight. Marcus watches the door close and briefly wonders if you’d spoken to Wilson about your shared history.
It would explain the sudden coolness he was getting from the young man, when in the beginning it was nothing but excitement and gratitude at being hired.
Marcus doesn’t mind—you need a friend, and Wilson is definitely a good guy. Besides, he deserves every bit of icy judgement from his previous choices.
He slides his cell from his pocket and types a simple text telling you not to bother preparing for tomorrow because Wilson would be in the office, hoping the alert of his message wouldn’t disturb you in your sleep and sends it without another thought before standing and starting to gather the loose documents spread out. He’s surprised when a notification sings out not even a minute later.
Is everything okay?
Eyeing the late hour at the top of his screen, he frowns at your pixelated words and replies quickly—
Everything’s fine—just lots of things to do. Did I wake you?
No, I was awake. I can’t sleep.
And you can’t. You’ve tried. You’ve tossed and turned and fluffed your pillow, kicked off your socks, put your socks back on, flicked a blanket off, wrapped yourself back up… and still nothing. You couldn’t get comfortable, you couldn’t still your mind long enough to let dreams take over.
Marcus feels his brows narrow at your words, and concern starts to creep into his system. Are you rattled about today? Do you have whatever Jane said to you playing on repeat in your mind? He starts to type his response, pausing when he starts to feel like he’s crossing some kind of line.
He reads the words over and over, wondering if he should just leave it and say goodnight. There’s an urge to talk to you, a want to hear your tired voice seep into his ears and maybe just pretend for a minute or two that everything didn’t fall to shit between you.
Do you mind if I call you?
You frown, thumb hovering over the screen as you deliberate an answer. This won’t help you sleep. If anything, it would only stir your thoughts up even more.
Yes. Yes, you do mind.
You don’t even want him to have your number, let alone to start calling in the middle of the night. No, he absolutely can’t call you, so why can’t you get your thumb to type out that three letter word to get him off your back?
Marcus holds his breath, waiting for the inevitable denial. He wouldn’t blame you. Of course not, but he still has that small flutter of hope tightening his stomach. It was always there, always waiting.
I don’t mind.
The message is delivered and received almost immediately and you miss the chance to take it back. You appreciate that he asked, though. That’s a good thing, right? He was giving you a chance to lay a boundary, and you believed he would’ve respected it should you have said you did mind.
You don’t bother with a hello when the phone eventually starts to vibrate in your hold and instead just lift it to your ear, wondering when your heart started beating so fast, when your throat got so damn dry.
“Sorry,” he breathes, the sound of shuffling and movement crackling down the line behind his voice, “I’m not much of a texter.”
“I know,” you reply quietly, huddling deeper under your comforter and tucking it beneath your chin.
Alex didn’t like texting, either.
Neither of you make another comment about it.
“I hope you’re not still thinking about earlier,” he says, and you imagine the hand that would rake through his hair as he busies about on his side.
Is he still at the office? That’s a late night. How much work is there to do? Do cases usually take this long?
“I’m not.”
And that’s the truth.
You stopped placing the blame on yourself once you made a few comments to Jacob in the car. Talking with Marcus helped, but Jacob calling you an idiot and saying it wasn’t your damn finger that pulled the trigger eliminated any remaining doubt. You didn’t hurt anyone, and even if your piece did have a mistake that alerted them to the authenticity of the piece, they made the choice to hurt others instead of just running.
“Have… have many people died during this case?” You ask carefully, before rushing to reassure him, “It’s okay if you can’t tell me. I get the whole classified thing.”
He snorts quietly, and your mind paints the picture of that pretty smile, those small dimples creasing his cheeks before you can help it.
“‘Classified’? We’re not running Area 51. The details of the case aren’t out there, but the murders are hardly a secret, you just don’t watch the news.”
“I watch the news,” you defend, knowing it’s an absolute lie.
You hate the news, you hate the constant drum of negativity and lies, you hate the motives behind it and how easily it can sway one’s mind.
Marcus chuckles softly, “You hate the news.”
Your cheeks start to ache, and it’s only then you find you’re smiling. It drops from your lips the second you realise and you shift under the blankets, a small frown starting to deepen between your brows.
“Well, maybe I don’t now. It’s been a long time since you knew me—I’ve changed a lot since then.”
He’s quiet, almost thoughtful, and then, “Have you? No more orange juice out of martini glasses?”
You can’t help it.
A huff of amusement breaks free from your lips and you’re smiling again.
You blame it on exhaustion, on stress, on anything that’s not him. It’s too nice, it’s too familiar. You don’t want to cross into these waters. You want to keep the space between you, barely talking and staying far, far away from each other until you can live your life with him nowhere near. You want to be free of him.
“Yeah well, my martini glasses got taken with the rest of my stuff when I went to jail so I can’t do that anymore.”
The slight tinge of iciness to your tone does well to kill the light hearted mood slowly creeping over the conversation and you’re almost glad for it. Almost.
A small part of you wilts from the warmth leaving your system, the walls steadily building higher and higher. You shouldn’t feel bad, and yet that feeling stirs to life in the pit of your stomach.
No, he deserves worse.
You push those tiny feelings away, burying them as deep as possible in some hidden part of you until their ache couldn’t be felt anymore. You couldn’t allow yourself to lower the walls you had built because of him. He doesn’t deserve to know you as you are now, slowly healing and on a journey to find peace.
He clears his throat softly and the gentle sound of it crackles in your ear.
“Right. Look, about that… I just…” a sigh, “I’m—”
Don’t say it.
Please don’t say it.
You don’t want to hear it. It doesn’t mean anything anymore. An apology will never, could never, make up for any of it. He could say it a thousand times, again and again, and it will never fix it. The devastation left in his wake had been violent and cutting, and the scars left from it would never heal fully. It was just something you’d have to live with. It was all a part of you now, whether you wanted it to be or not.
He sighs again, and another moment of silence passes.
“I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll let you know when Wilson will be back, okay?”
“Okay,” you breathe, eyes following the dark lines of your bedroom furniture and the print framed on your wall.
A few more minutes pass and neither of you say anything, almost as if you’re both waiting for something else, something more. You don’t know what it is, and don’t care to find out, so you exhale softly and tuck yourself further in your bedding.
“Goodnight, Marcus.”
“Goodnight.”
—
This is dangerous.
It’s not good, it’s not professional, and yet, he just can’t fucking help himself. It all feels so normal, so natural. He wants it all the time desperately.
If only things had been different, if only he could’ve met you under different circumstances, where he didn’t have to hide behind a fake name and bullshit backstory. If only things didn’t have to be this way, maybe you two would stand a chance.
If only.
He’d soak it up while things felt somewhat normal. In the safety of your home, he can let his guard down a little. He can pretend. He can play the doting boyfriend madly in love to perfection, because that’s all he wants. For as long as he can remember, that’s all he’s ever wanted. Someone to be his, someone to call him theirs, and here, he has it.
He has it all with you.
His head tilts as he watches you from where he reclines into your kitchen counter, a smile slowly tugging at his lips as you sway to the music falling from the speakers.
“Why a martini glass?” He asks curiously, holding the stem of his own glass and swirling the bright yellow liquid within it.
You’re full of wonderful little surprises and quirks, and he takes them all in eagerly. He wants to know you, he wants to see the very core of you. He’ll soak in it all for as long as he can, ensuring to remember each and every thing about you.
The guilt lingers though, as it always does. It pushes through the warmth filling his system, bitter and unrelenting in its reminder of what he’s doing, what he’s already done. He used to think he was a decent person, good and true and fighting the good fight, but after this? No, he’ll never think like that again.
You’re the undoing to his entire being, and he both adores and resents it.
You grin, spinning away from the stove and sipping at the cold orange juice from the glass set beside you. “The question is—why not?”
He chuckles, giving a slow nod. “A fair point. Very fancy glassware for a simple breakfast.”
“Life is too short to keep fancy glassware in a cupboard—I’ve got to enjoy it all while I can!”
The self loathing triples.
God, you have no idea.
—
“Absolutely not.”
He’s adamant.
He doesn’t care how stubborn he seems, how defensive he must look standing at the head of the conference table with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that Jane’s eyeing him up with a new spark of curiosity, he doesn’t care that some of his agents look at him with a mix of confusion and others with understanding.
He doesn’t fucking care.
“She’d know a lot,” Jane says finally, unbothered, “given her history. I’m sure she’d be able to assist in further identifying some potential suspects, maybe even fi—”
“Her ‘history’?” Marcus snarls quietly, glare landing on the consultant. “Her ‘history’ has nothing to do with this investigation, and she’s to be left completely out of it, Jane.”
The man smiles, and it makes Marcus’ skin crawl.
How does he know about your history? How does he fucking know? How does he know who you are, what you are? Have they been digging information up on you?
There’s not a lot to be found seeing as Marcus ensured to have your name left out of case files and merely left as an anonymous source in court documents.
Your own arrest and court files had been buried, along with most of your case details struck with a thick permanent black mark, unidentifiable to anyone reading over in the future, so what does he know?
Jane eventually yields with his hands playfully held up in surrender, and lets the subject of you drop. He wants you out there, walking the path of your other life to start asking questions about the murders and the thefts. Does he not realise how much danger that would put you in? You couldn’t simply just reappear one day and start asking about things you should know nothing about.
Marcus feels anger simmer under his skin.
The debriefing continues with no further mention of you. There’s more talk of the murders, more talk of which painting they’ll go after next and details ironed out in careful preparation, but still, Marcus can’t shake the thought in his head that maybe Jane was right.
He couldn’t entertain that thought, though.
The mere idea of you landing yourself back in with the wrong people after going through so much pain and healing, the image of you potentially getting hurt and, god forbid, killed… it set him on edge. It turns his stomach. It’s too much risk, and he doesn’t feel comfortable putting you in that position, especially after ensuring you that you wouldn’t be in any danger at any point during this case.
He wouldn’t lie to you.
Not again.
That was a silent vow he made to you and strictly to himself. Never again. Going forward, you’d only hear the truth fall from his lips and that’s that. No more lies, no more going behind your back—none of it.
It’s most definitely too little, too late, but still. He refuses to do it anymore.
He goes to the comfort of his office after the debriefing, intent on closing the door firmly behind him to have a minute of peace to gather his thoughts and emotions, but the body that had been tailing him from the conference room fills his door frame and he lets them in without a word, closing the door immediately after.
“Look, I don’t like the guy, but he has a point, sir,” Wilson says as he stands in the middle of the room, hands diving into his pockets, “and I know she’d want to help more if she could. She feels pretty useless just stuck in that room all day, even if she does enjoy the art.”
He’s shaking his head before his co-worker can even finish, striding across the office and taking a seat in his desk chair. His elbows meet the arms of it and he slouches in the seat, fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose to will away the headache threatening to grow in his temples.
“It’s out of the question.”
“Look, sir, I get it. I get that you wouldn’t want to put her back in this shit—believe me, I don’t want her to be either, but don’t you think that’s a decision she should make herself? She’s stronger than you think, and she didn’t get a lot of choice the first time ‘round.”
So he does know.
Marcus heaves a quiet sigh, looking up at the younger agent and studying his features.
There’s a swirl of worry swimming in the green eyes gazing levelly back at him, and it’s what Marcus focuses on most. It was easy to see the connection you and Wilson had made within the month you two had spent together, so that makes sense to be concerned for your welfare, but is there more to it?
It’s not his business, but he can’t help the train of thought once it’s on the tracks. Does what you share with Wilson go deeper than what it appears to be? Is there something growing between you both? Is it mere friendship, or romantic?
Fuck.
Do you like the guy?
He swallows, eyes flicking away from the admittedly good looking, much younger agent as the hideous feeling of jealousy starts to sting at his system. He has no right, no right whatsoever, to feel this way, and a part of him understands that, but once that horrid green little seed plants itself in his heart, he starts to feel the familiar wash of inferiority.
Not that he stands a chance with you now anyway—he set fire to that bridge long ago, but still… it was that damn shred of hope in the centre of everything. God, now is not the time for this.
He pushes it all away, returning to the calm and cool headed agent he’s had to force himself to be lately. It’s usually not such a struggle to be confident with his experience and skills in this position, but you made it highly difficult by being a part of this investigation.
As much as he’s enjoyed seeing and talking to you again, despite how icy and indifferent you’ve been acting towards him, he’ll be glad to see the last of you once this is all wrapped up.
“I’ll talk to her about it,” Marcus finally relents, unsure of if he's making the right choice.
He’ll just have to ensure nothing bad will come of this, that you’ll be safe and remain unharmed because, god knows, his heart wouldn’t be able to take that.
-
tags: @maievdenoir, @javier-pena, @lv7867, @dihra-vesa, @katronautt, @radiowallet, @januarystears, @missminkylove, @beskarprincessjenny, @mswarriorbabe80, @danidrabbles, @amneris21, @eri16, @absurdthirst, @hnt-escape, @acourtofsnakes, @ezrasbirdie, @mstgsmy66, @lovesbiggerthanpride, @coaaster, @sherala007, @greeneyedblondie44, @wyn-n-tonic, @you-got-me-starry-eyed, @shirks-all-responsibilities, @withasideofmeg, @harriedandharassed, @andruxx, @buckybarneshairpullingkink, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @prostitute-robot-from-the-future, @tanzthompson, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @hope-for-the-best-98, @fangirl-316, @christina-loves, @jediknight122, @hallway5, @xoxabs88xox, @nicolethered, @churchill356, @massivecolorspygiant, @just-here-for-the-moment, @gracie7209, @pinkie289, @lavenderluna10, @goodgriefitsawildworld
#marcus pike x reader#marcus pike x f!reader#marcus pike x you#marcus pike#pedro pascal x reader#the mentalist fic
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Never Have I Ever read a Librarian! Marcus P fic. 🥰 I’m not really a Marcus P kinda girl, more of a Dave York (iykyk) girl BUT as someone who works at a library, Marcus P would be the best guy to get lost in the book shelves with 🤭😏
Hi, birdie <3 This is actually such a sweet idea! I haven't seen fics like this either! At first, I was just gonna send this ask out sending writers that see this your idea for a fic. But then I thought about it and something hit me, so here's my take on librarian!Marcus Pike. I gave it my own twist, but I hope you can still enjoy it <3
you're such a heavenly view
paring: Marcus Pike x f!Reader
rating: explicit (18+ minors DNI)
word count: 2.1k~
summary: He wants to be in love again. He's just not really sure how.
a/n: This was written on a whim. Thank you to the amazing anon for planting the thought of librarian Marcus in my head <3 Not beta-ed, all mistakes are my own so pls don't plagiarize them.
warnings: pining, Marcus Pike is shy and horny, male masturbation; no use of y/n
MY MASTERLIST
Marcus loved the quiet.
He loved the whisper of turning pages and scribbling pens being the only noise in the spacious library he worked at. A humdrum nine-to-five that most people tried to escape became his salvation. He felt calm, at peace, a feeling that wasn’t prominent in his life before.
When he came here over two years ago just to help his old friend out, with his heart ripped to shreds and falling apart, the walls of this place held it together. And then you and your gentle smiles as you checked out books put bandaids all over it, so it started healing.
Marcus first saw you a year ago, by that time he was already comfortably moving along the labyrinths of the abode of books, knowing every section almost by heart. He still remembered your tiny manicured fingers nervously tapping the reception table as he looked through the computer base for the availability of Giorgio Vasari’s "Lives of the Artists". Before you, art section was one he never frequented for two reasons: first, he didn’t need the reminder of the past that he tried to separate from his present; and second, he knew pretty much every book there by heart.
As his eyes bore into the screen, looking for the right title, with his peripheral vision he saw you burning a hole in the side of his face. Marcus couldn’t help but chuckle, it was a while since a beautiful woman had been interested in him. Or since he noticed. You hurried to stray your gaze away, and his smile became bigger, now showing his teeth. You saw him noticing you and got flustered, that only meant that you staring was intentional. Marcus confirmed that the book you needed was available, but since it was a rare edition you couldn’t leave with it. The library was surprisingly empty for the first month of autumn, but at least you wouldn’t have any problems with staying and doing your research there. You nodded, agreeing with him. The place was quite cozy, you thought that to yourself the moment you entered from the windy autumn street.
"Let me show you to the art section, it’s pretty difficult to navigate these corridors the first time you’re here." Marcus left the librarian desk he had been occupying for the last year and motioned his hand to the right direction.
"Only the first?" You raised your eyebrows and smiled. Damn, you were beautiful in your flared jeans and a big white t-shirt with a warm-looking sweater on top. Your hair in a messy bun, either it was messy because of the wind or because you wanted it to be. Anyway, you looked fantastic like that, so Marcus smiled back automatically.
"Well, the first fifty."
You laughed, and he stumbled at the sound. Marcus felt his cheeks burn with pride, he forgot how pleasant it was to make a pretty girl laugh.
It was over a year ago, and still he remembered that beautiful sound you let out. One of the beautiful moments you shared that he kept sealed in his mind. Even though all your interactions were friendly, and sometimes borderline flirtatious, something always stopped Pike, and he got used to seeing you leaving with a nod and a tight-lipped smile, now almost never lifting your eyes up to meet his as you sat studying behind one of the many similar wooden tables.
He cursed himself, cursed his cowardice and the fact that he got panic attacks any time he tried to tell you a compliment. He hated that he became tongue-tied whenever you asked his opinion on one of the books you checked out. And when his brain was swarming with knowledge, the influences the author had, or the way the work was transcending the time it was written in; his mouth only said ‘it’s a good book’ or worse ‘it’s not bad’. He wanted to punch himself, but that would mean lifting his arms that were numb and limp on both sides of his body.
Today was not an exception, unfortunately. Marcus was sitting behind his desk, pristine, clean and occupied only by his work computer and a book he had been reading during the quiet times. You came over less than half an hour ago, saying your usual hello and asking about yet another book on art. You’d almost read them all, and Marcus was frantically thinking what would happen when you check out the last book from the art section, a place in the library that no one else went to. He told you where to find a copy of "Janson’s History of Art" and you nodded, going in the right direction without needing his help anymore. You didn't look up at him when you took your usual place near the window and placed the book on the table.
Marcus sighed, looking as you brows furrowed when you read something and started rewriting it in your notebook. Art section was your place. Yours and his. It was special, at least for him. He had walked you there exactly forty nine times. Not because you couldn’t remember where to go, no, you were confident in your stride the third time; but because it became a sort of a joke between the two of you. Sometimes you’d just come over and ask him to show you where the art section was, telling him that it was only your 21st, 33rd, 45th time in the library and you didn’t have the opportunity to learn all the right turns yet. He laughed, but always walked you there. Sometimes you were silent, sometimes you’d ask him silly questions (‘What is the rarest book here?’ 'First edition of Oscar Wilde's "The Happy Prince and Other Tales" with the author's inscription.’; ‘What is the worst thing a person did in the library?’ ‘Tried to rip a page out of the first edition of Oscar Wilde's "The Happy Prince and Other Tales"’; ‘Did you stop them?’ ‘Kind of.’; ‘Is the horror section haunted?’ ‘Yes.’). You hadn’t asked him to walk you to the art section for a month now. Marcus even wanted to suggest it himself, but his tongue felt too heavy and big for his mouth whenever he tried.
So he was left with watching. Just like dozens of times before. As he quietly observed from a distance, Marcus couldn't help but lose himself in the beauty of your presence amidst the mundane decorations of his workplace.He thought that he knew you face better than his own by now. The structure of your cheekbones, the curve of your lip, the depth of your cupid’s bow. He could close his eyes and draw you in his sleep. You were engrossed in the book when another wave of hot air from the AC above you tousled your hair. Winter this year was abnormally cold, so to keep the building warm Marcus had to turn up the temperature on the AC pretty high. Maybe he overdid it today. He saw you wiping a lonely droplet of sweat running from your temple. Yes, he definitely overdid it today.
He reached to stand up and go to the temperature controller when you started tugging up your usual bulky green sweater, and dropped back into his chair as the material of your sweater and t-shirt stuck together, so you almost took both items off. Marcus choked on his saliva seeing so much of you that he never saw before. Sure, you wore knee-length shorts and oversized t-shirts during summer, sometimes you even put on a dress when it was too hot for anything else, but this was different. The swell of your naked stomach, the almost-not-there lacy edge of your black bra, fuck, it felt so intimate.
Marcus squeezed his thighs under the table, his cock getting hard with every thought his brain provides. Fuck, it was really not a time or a place for a boner, but you looked so… He pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes and trying to relax, but instead of that he saw images of your naked skin over and over again, followed by fake scenarios where he ripped the shirt off you, kissing your willing body with his greedy mouth. Marcus could almost feel the softness of your skin under his palms, and he bit his lower lip at the phantom feeling, trying to suppress a moan.
He didn’t notice how his legs brought him to the secluded area of the art section, his hands hysterically pulling out his stiff cock from the confines of his pants, while his mind completely shut off.
It was almost primal, the incandescent feeling inside him that made him spit in the palm of his hand before wrapping it around his shaft.
"Fuck," his whisper was quiet, even though it was unlikely that anyone could hear him anyway. There were less than eight patrons when he left the main hall, all of them engrossed in their literature of choice, and he still had an hour before he had to close.
His spit-slicked hand tightened around his cock as he moved it up and down, circling the weeping head every time. Goddamn, he was sick. Fucked up. Getting hard after seeing the stomach of the girl he had been swooning over for almost a year. What in the teenage hormones was this bullshit?
Your skin, the swelling of your stomach, the tiny dip of your belly button. Fuck, he wanted to dip his tongue in the little canyon of your body and hear you suffocating on giggles.
Up, down, up, down.
He looked down, watching his hand methodically moving around his fat cock. As he got closer to his orgasm, the veins that led from the base to the tip of his cock became more pronounced, the head getting darker with every stroke. "God-fucking-dammit, baby," he dropped his head back, punching a wall but barely noticing any pain as he got succumbed by his pleasure. "So fucking gorgeous. Mine. Mine. Only mine."
If anyone heard Marcus, they’d consider him a psycho, his hoarse whisper feverishly calling someone his when he was the only one in the room. He didn’t give a single fuck. In his little fantasy, right now, you were his. Only for him to touch, only for him to love. He tripped over the edge, as his mind flooded by the memory when you first laughed at his joke, and he came all over his fist moaning your name as quietly as possible, as four thick ropes of cum painted his skin pearly white.
Marcus didn’t hear the footsteps, orgasm claiming every sense in his body until he heard a quiet ‘oh’, the voice too familiar to mistake its’ owner.
"Fuck, fuck, oh God, sorry, this is not what you think it is." His eyes went wide at the sight of you. You were pressing your copy of "Janson’s History of Art" to your chest, face curious and almost… amused? He pulled his boxers up, trying not to wince when the thick rubber band scratched the sensitive skin of his spent cock.
"Isn’t it?" You raised your eyebrows at Marcus, and he remembered that he was still standing in front of you with his pants fully undone and his boxers stained with the cum he wiped on them in a hurry.
"No." He shook his head frantically, tugging on the zipper and trying to quickly zip it up when the hem of his shirt stuck in it and he cursed, almost tearing it out.
"So you weren’t just masturbating thinking of me, and the fact that you moaned my name as you came was just a coincidence?"
'How long had you been standing there?' Marcus thought. He heard your steps closing in on him, but didn’t dare to raise his eyes to see the disgust on your face. Instead, he continued fighting with the zipper.
"Yes," he nodded, and then immediately shook his head. "No. Look, I can explain." Marcus searched his brain for the right answer, for something that could fix all of this mess, but coming up empty. His sigh was deep, almost hurting his lungs as he gave up. "Okay, I maybe can’t explain, I’m just… Sorry."
"I’m not."
He snapped his head up so fast that the sides of his vision went black for half of a second. "What?"
You were close. Very close. If you reached your arm out you could help him with a zipper he abandoned in stupor.
"I was planning to come over at the last moment tomorrow and ask you to walk me here," you stepped even closer, placing your hand on his chest and feeling the rapid fire of Marcus’ heartbeat. "You know, for our last time."
He just nodded, the blood pumping in his ears made it almost impossible to understand what you were saying, so he just stared at your lips, unconsciously licking his.
"And then," both your hands circled his neck, burrowing in the slightly damp hair at his nape, "I was going to blow you right against the rare editions shelf."
"Wha..—"
Marcus wasn’t able to finish when your lips crushed into his, tasting each other for the first time. Suddenly, he wasn’t so tongue-tied anymore.
PLEASE WRITE A COMMENT IF YOU ENJOYED THE STORY ♥︎
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Kinktober Day 29- Body Worship
Marcus Pike x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
Word Count- 1.1k
Warnings- smut (18+ only), praise kink, fingering, oral (f receiving), teasing, nipple play
Notes- I miss writing for the perfect boyfriend Marcus! List provided by the lovely @the-purity-pen!
To say up to date on when I post, follow my update blog too and turn on post notifications @flightlessangelwings-updates. Reblogs highly appreciated!
~
“Shit baby… You’re so damn beautiful,” Marcus purred against your skin.
“Marcus…” All you could do was moan his name whenever he got into moods like this.
Marcus kissed his way down the side of your face and along your jaw. His hands roamed all over your body until they landed on your breasts and squeezed them hard. He hadn’t even removed a single piece of clothing off his own body, and whenever you tried, he pushed you away, insisting on focusing only on you and your pleasure.
You arched your back into his touch as you turned your head to the side and allowed him access to your neck. Marcus eagerly took the opportunity and attacked his lips to the sensitive spot there and sucked hard. You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders and held him tightly while he licked and nibbled along your neck while his hands still worked your breasts.
“I’m gonna kiss every inch of you, baby,” he groaned as he worked his way up the muscle in your neck and gently bit the lobe of your ear, “Kiss every inch of your beautiful body.”
You moaned as you felt his breath tickle your ear and it made you giggle softly. Even without the words needed, you felt the love and affection in every single one of Marcus’ touches and kisses. He always excelled in making you feel good, and wanted, and tonight was no exception.
He made his way down to your collarbone and sucked at the skin there, murmuring incoherent praises along the way. You whimpered as you buried your hand in his hair while he kissed his way down to your breast. When he reached the soft mound, Marcus wrapped his lips around your nipple and sucked hard.
You cried out in pleasure as he flicked his tongue against your nipple and bit down playfully. You arched your back, giving him even more access to your body, and Marcus responded by sucking on the sensitive bud harder.
“Fuck… Marcus…” you tugged at his hair hard when he hit a spot that sent a jolt throughout your entire body.
“You like that, baby?” he asked with a cocky smirk after he popped off your nipple.
You blinked your eyes open and met his gaze, and your heart fluttered in your chest when you saw the look of pure adoration there, “Yes,” you couldn’t even quip back with a smart comment when Marcus looked at you like that and made you feel this good. And he hadn’t even touched your pussy yet.
“Good,” he replied with a tease before he launched himself onto your other breast.
The scream you let out echoed in the room as Marcus sucked hard on your other nipple. You bucked your hips against his body, desperate for some friction to your aching cunt. Marcus groaned into your skin as he felt the desperation in your action and without breaking away, he snaked a hand down the front of your body.
When he reached your pussy, he let out an even lower groan when he felt how wet you were, “Shit, baby,” he moaned, “You’re soaking,” Marcus’ hair fell into his eyes as he looked you over with a glazed expression.
“All for you, Marcus,” you breathed as you felt your skin burn from the passions.
Marcus growled your name as he pushed a finger inside you without warning. His cock throbbed at the scream you let out, but he continued to kiss his way across every inch of your skin while his finger stayed buried inside you.
“Marcus… Please…”
“I wanna take my time with you tonight, baby,” Marcus soothed you as he hooked the finger inside you and gently massaged your sweet spot as he kissed along your body.
You whimpered as he made his way closer to your cunt, but purposefully avoided it in favor of your inner thighs. You let out a huff when Marcus skipped over your pussy and trailed a line of kisses along your right thigh. Just when you thought he would finally kiss the one place you wanted him to, he smirked and repeated the action on your left.
“Marcus…” you begged as you clenched your inner muscles around his finger in hopes that he would give in to your pleas.
“Fuck baby,” he groaned through gritted teeth, “You know I’m weak when you do that.”
This time it was your turn to smirk, “That’s the idea,” your voice was low as you squeezed your muscles again and rocked your hips against his hand.
“Alright… is this what you want?”
Marcus dove into your pussy before you had a chance to answer and devoured you like a man starved. You cried out in pleasure as you finally got what you wanted and your mind swam in ecstasy as he swirled his tongue around your clit. Marcus pumped his finger in and out of you a few times while his tongue worked your clit before he added a second one.
“Fuck… fuck… Marcus…”
“You taste so good baby,” he groaned into you, “So delicious… So beautiful…”
You moaned loudly as the hum of his praise went right to your core. Marcus slurped loudly at your pussy, now determined to send you over the edge. His fingers thrust in and out of you faster, and every time they were fully buried inside you, he hooked them to hit your sweet spot with precision. And it didn’t take much longer after that for him to get what he wanted.
With a loud scream, you came hard. Your body trembled as you clutched the sheets and threw your head back as you surrendered to your climax. Tears filled your eyes as wave after wave of pleasure crashed into you. And still, Marcus didn’t stop. He kept going until he was sure he had pulled every ounce of your orgasm from you, and even then he licked at your clit a few more times for good measure.
Marcus finally broke away when you let out a whimper and your hands clung to his shoulders. Slowly and carefully, he pulled his fingers out of you before he kissed his way back up your body. This time, however, he was faster with his kisses; Marcus was too desperate to kiss you to be slow.
When he took your lips with his, you moaned into Marcus’ mouth and instantly wrapped your arms and legs round him to keep him close, “Marcus… That was… Wow…”
Marcus kissed the tip of your nose with a short laugh, “That was just the beginning, baby,” his voice was low as he rocked his hips against you, “I’m gonna spend all night making you feel good… And I have more of you to kiss too,” he winked and flashed that charming smile that made you weak in the knees.
You couldn’t help the moan you let out, “Fuuuuuck…”
#marcus pike#marcus pike x reader#marcus pike imagine#marcus pike x you#marcus pike x y/n#marcus pike fic#marcus pike fanfic#marcus pike fanfiction#Pedro Pascal#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal character fanfiction#pedro pascal character headcanon#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal fic#pedro pascal fandom#pedro pascal fanfic#the mentalist fic#the mentalist fanfic#the mentalist fanfiction#the mentalist
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Lost In Our Vices | Marcus Pike (Masterlist)
Series Summary | The rejection to have him as a PhD supervisor had stung, but not enough to put you off the idea altogether. Professor Pike was your academic hero and whether you could study under him or not, it didn't matter. Little were you to know that you would end up doing more than just studying under him in the end.
Pairing | Professor!Marcus Pike x Student!F Reader
Series Warnings | Dubious ethical relationship, academia and it's related bullshit (I'm still a lil bitter from my MA don't mind me), museum and art gallery visits, gratuitous descriptions of London because it is my city and I love it, conversations around cultural restitution, explicit smut including oral sex (f&m receiving), unprotected PiV, rough sex, dirty talk, soft Dom!Marcus, soft!Marcus, allusions to difficult familial relationships, consumption of food and alcohol, no use of y/n, check chapters for individual warnings.
Authors Note | Professor Pike will see you now.... this has rotted my brain for far too long and I'm so excited to share this all with you. Big shoutout to @hier--soir, her professor Joel is the reason this exists, we need more hot professors doing dubious shit and this is my contribution. Also thanks to @undercoverpena for listening to me scream about him. And finally thanks to @saradika for the beautiful divider.
Follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs for writing updates
we were caught up and lost in all of our vices
in your pose as the dust settled around us
Chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
#Marcus Pike x Reader#Marcus Pike x you#Marcus Pike x female reader#Marcus Pike x f!reader#Marcus Pike smut#Marcus Pike#marcus pike fanfiction#Marcus Pike fanfic#Marcus Pike fic#Pedro pascal#Marcus Pike Pedro Pascal#the mentalist#the mentalist fic#the mentalist fanfic#the mentalist fanfiction#Marcus Pike fluff#Marcus Pike au#pedro characters#pedrostories
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dearest kay ❤️ happy sleepover!
i'm so glad you're feeling better now, it's awful being sick, especially at this time of year when it's so dark and cold too
i'd like to know, of all the boys you write for, who would you most like to take care of you when you're sick?
although we don't celebrate thanksgiving here, in the spirit of the holiday i just want to say how thankful i am to have met you here, you and all the other friends i've made this year, i really don't know what i'd do without you 🥰
mindi my darling! thank you!
ugh it’s truly the worst, but so grateful to be feeling good enough now to work on such lovely things for my lovely friends ♥️
this was a hard decision! I definitely toyed with a few others (Steve Rogers, Frankie Morales, Eddie Munson), but there’s just something about Marcus Pike that is just so comforting and so I chose him! (this is very self indulgent, very fluffy, exactly what I could have used when I was down for the count…!)
mindi you are the SWEETEST and I’m teary reading this. I too am the most thankful for the beautiful friends that live in my phone 🥰 I don’t know what I’d do without YOU! ♥️
requests are open until saturday midnight!
making a fuss
(word count 1.1k)
There’s a knock at your door.
The sound makes your head hurt, heaving yourself up off the couch, keeping your blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders like a second skin. You have to sift your way through the mountain of discarded tissues on the floor, some of them making their way under the couch as you wobbles towards the door. Each step seems to reverberate through your whole body, your ears ringing and your head throbbing. Honestly, who is knocking at your door? You told everyone you were sick, sending your friend group chat a myriad of sneezing emojis, and you’d cancelled your plans with—
“Marcus?”
He’s standing on the other side of the door, a large brown paper bag in one hand, a plastic one from the drugstore in the other, duffle slung over his shoulder. He steps in as soon as you move to the side to let him pass, the door swinging shut behind him. “Go and lie back down,” he says, moving both bags to one hand so he can brush your hair from your face, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “Right now.”
Confused, you do as he says, waddling back to the cocoon you’d made on the couch. He gets right to work; you can hear him moving around in the kitchen, the tell-tale screech of your kettle reaching your ears a few minutes later. He breezes past you once, only to drop his overnight bag in your bedroom, before he heads back to the kitchen, emerging a moment later with a tray laden with a few bottles of water, a big bowl of what looks like soup, your favourite mug filled with what you assume to be tea, a box of cold meds, lozenges, and those fancy tissues with lotion that don’t dry out your nose from blowing all the time.
Marcus perches beside you on the couch, handing you one of the bottles of water and the cold meds first. “Here, take this,” he instructs. You do as your told, wincing as you swallow the pills. He gives you the cup of tea next, murmuring to you that it’s hot, making sure you have a good grip on it before he lets it go.
“What is this?” you ask, blowing over the liquid, inhaling the steam deeply. It smells like honey and mint and something else you can’t quite place.
“Ginger tea. My sister swears by it; it kept me alive the last time I had the flu. It’ll help, trust me.”
You just nod, taking a sip. He gets up a moment later, snagging your trash bin from the corner of the living room, starting to round up your tissues. “Marcus,” you start, moving to get up, setting the tea on the coffee table, “stop, you don’t have to do that. I’ll deal with it later.”
He shakes his head. “Nonsense. Lie down, and drink your tea.”
“But you—”
He reaches out, cups your chin in his hand, thumb swiping at your cheek. “Honey, you’re sick. Let me take care of you, all right?”
“I don’t want you to make a fuss,” you sigh, sinking back into a couch, though your head thanks you for it. “And I don’t want to get you sick.”
“Stop,” he chides, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “I like to make a fuss.”
You sink back further, your eyes following as he cleans up. He disappears back into the kitchen after a while, and you can hear him tackling the stack of dishes you’d let pile up beside the sink. What on earth did you do to deserve a man like this? Like him?
You can feel yourself start to drift as the cold meds kick in, sipping at the tea that feels like heaven on your sore throat. You try some of the soup too, but the tray is too heavy to lift, so you abandon it, sinking deeper into the cushions.
Marcus reappears sometime later — you’re not quite sure how much time has passed — and makes himself comfortable at your feet, lifting your legs into your lap. You make a noise of protest when he peels off once of your socks, but his thumbs press into your arch a moment later and any further objections die on your tongue. It’s the weirdest thing; he massages your little toes, and you can feel your sinuses clearing slightly.
“Where did you learn that?” you mumble out, drunk off the comfort he’s offering. “Why are you so good to me?”
“It’s Chinese medicine,” he grins, continuing his massage, working the rest of your foot, seeming to be drawing out all the aches of your body through the soles of your feet. He goes silent after that, his brow pinching as he concentrates.
“You didn’t answer my other question,” you nearly slur, your head rolling back on the cushions. “I asked you two questions.”
His cheeks go red, and he smiles, one hand moving up your leg, fingers curling loose around your ankle. “I’m good to you because you’re good to me,” he says softly, rubbing at your anklebone, “and I like you…a lot.”
Your eyes flutter shut as he keeps rubbing at your skin. “I like you too, Marcus.”
You pass out a few minutes later, sinking into a dreamless sleep spurred by the cold meds. You come to sometime later, and Marcus is carrying you to bed. His grip is tight on you, his chest so warm and comforting you nearly fall asleep again. But then he’s laying you down in the bed, pulling the blankets back and tucking you beneath them. You feel him turn to leave, but you lift your hand, curling your fingers in the collar of his shirt.
“No,” you whimper.
“I’ll be right back, honey,” he replies, brushing his hand over your forehead and untangling your hand. “Gonna go get you some water.”
You fall asleep again, coming to another few minutes later when the blanket rustles and he fits his warm body against you. You turn into him, burrowing onto his chest, fisting your hand at his side.
“Hey, Marcus?” you murmur, sighing into his touch as he starts playing with your hair, gentle fingers on your scalp.
“Yeah, baby?” he replies. “You okay? You need anything?”
You shake your head against his chest. “Earlier,” you mumble, dragging your nose along his chest, breathing as deeply as you’re able, “when I said I liked you too.”
“Yes,” he says, dragging the word out as he presses his fingers against the base of your skull. It feels like heaven.
“I said that I liked you too, but what I really meant was that I love you.” You pause, tilting your head back, blinking your heavy eyes open so you can see his face. “Is that okay?”
Maybe it’s the cold meds, but you swear his eyes are glittering. “Of course that’s okay, baby,” he grins, and his lips touch your forehead a moment later. “I love you too.”
#sleepover saturday#my fics#marcus pike#marcus pike x you#marcus pike x reader#marches pike fic#marcus pike fluff#marcus pike headcanon#the mentalist#the mentalist fic
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Rumor Has It (Peña x f!reader x Pike)
Pairings: Javier Pena x f!reader; Marcus Pike x f!reader; future Pena x f!reader x Pike
Chapter 1 Summary: You've recently transferred from a promising job in D.C. to Texas when DEA Special Agent Javier Peña approaches you with his current case. Rumor has it you have an in with the FBI art crimes unit, and the DEA could use your skills and connections on a suspected narcos money laundering case. You need to do well on this case to prove yourself, but you're not sure Marcus Pike will even help after the way you left.
Rating: 18+ (Minors DNI), Mature-to-Explicit sexual content, additional warnings may be added for future chapters
Warnings: swearing, mentions of sex and masturbation (f), previous sexual relationship, office romance, references to gossip and slut shaming, sexist/patriarchal bullshit, daydreaming about "little Peña"
Reader/Character Notes: Reader is fem!afab; No mention of Reader’s body size, shape, composition, or skin color.
Words: 4.4k
a/n: I started writing this thinking it'd be a quick and dirty PWP, but then the plot took over and I'm not sorry. Time/setting is pretty loose. This wasn't "officially" beta'd - all errors and weird formatting are my own. However, a very special thanks and kisses for @azure-waves and @kilamonster for reading early versions of this! 😘 Additional author's notes at the end.
Masterlist
Rumor Has It: Chapter One
Javier Peña thinks he’s hot shit. He struts about the office like he runs the place and conducts briefings like he's holding his own personal court. It'd be easier to chalk it up to pure ego and ignore him if he didn't actually have such an impressive resume to back it up. Unfortunately, that means putting up with yet another cocksure male flirting and fucking his way through the office your respective agencies share. At least he's easy on the eyes.
Since moving to Houston six months ago for a new position with the U.S. Customs and Border Protection, you'd clocked at least four broken hearts in Agent Peña's wake. In his defense, there are far more smiles than tears in the women's restroom when his name comes up in whispered conversation. You haven't heard this much gossip about a single guy since your senior year of high school when it was rumored that three cheerleaders got knocked up by the same football player as a pregnancy pact. For the record, only two girls were actually pregnant, and the alleged father ran off with the team’s water boy a few years out of college. They made a cute couple.
Favorite topics of conversation among Peña's admirers are his tight pants, who he's purportedly slept with, how good he must be in the sack, and contending reports of how big his dick actually is. Just that day you overheard one guy in the breakroom swear to a colleague that he'd seen ‘little Peña’ twitch while the DEA agent was briefing the latest developments in his investigation. You barely managed to hide your snort in your coffee, but had to admit the mental image was intriguing.
While not morally opposed to sleeping with somebody in the same office (that'd make you a hypocrite), you personally wouldn't want to risk the potential fallout of fooling around with someone as high profile as Agent Peña. The unfortunate reality is that women always bear the brunt of those consequences, and you aren't interested in putting your career on the line for a good dicking. As much as you may desperately need one.
You'd been out a few times since moving to the area, but calling those disasters “dates” would be too generous. One such encounter seemed like it was going well, until the guy answered a call from his mother, got into a shouting match with her over the phone, then cried over the bread basket. You promptly excused yourself and blocked his number from the cab ride home.
Since that night, the only dates you’d had were with some quality home entertainment and your trusty vibrator. The Magic Wand hadn’t failed you yet. Last night you enjoyed a delicious orgasm while watching a particularly excellent video featuring two men worshiping a woman’s body. That lucky bitch. It’d been way too long since you’d gotten laid, and it was starting to take its toll. Even with the regular, self-attained orgasms, you'd begun losing focus at work. Your mind frequently wanders into sexy daydreams about impossible scenarios in the war room.
At your desk, you think back to what the guy said in the breakroom about little Peña and giggle to yourself. That'd be a sight to see, and would certainly liven up a boring case briefing. Your thoughts drift, and a fantasy begins to take shape.
Agent Peña stands at the end of the conference table, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. One hand on his hip holds his charcoal suit jacket back; the other gestures behind him to the slides displaying the latest developments in his investigation. The lights are dimmed but his signature tight pants don’t leave much to the imagination. Your gaze takes him in slowly, lazily almost. Expressive eyebrows give way to deep set brown eyes. An aquiline nose slopes to meet his trademark mustache, and his lips make the perfect pout as he speaks. The broad motherfucker has a chest and shoulders for days, and his neck is almost too big for his collared shirt. When he moves his arms, the sleeves of his suit jacket are drawn tighter around his biceps. Down, down your eyes go, over the plane of his abdomen, past the unobtrusive belt buckle, and settle on the obvious bulge down the left side of his crotch. You can’t help but admire the outline of Peña’s cock; it twitches, and saliva floods your mouth as you squeeze your thighs tightly, your body responding of its own accord. Agent Peña’s timbre changes and you realize he’s said your name - you look up at him like a deer in headlights. “Like what you see?”
You hear your name again, but his mouth hasn't moved beyond a knowing smirk…
“Hel-lo?” You shake yourself out of your daydream only to realize somebody has actually been saying your name.
To your abject horror, the real Javier Peña stands next to your desk, a manila folder in his hands and a quizzical brow lifted in your direction.
“What? Yeah? What do you want?”
The questions fly out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. To further your mortification, you can feel heat blooming across your chest and face. He knows - he has to know - what is going through your head. Someone must have turned on the heat in the building, it's sweltering all of a sudden.
Peña shifts his weight onto his left leg, his right knee bent slightly. “I’m Javier Peña with the DEA -”
“I know.” Again, with the blurting.
“Right.” He works his jaw slightly. “I was told you were the one to come talk to.”
You focus on the manila folder in his hands and refuse to let your traitorous eyes dip any lower. They're just hands, for Christ’s sake. Large, strong hands.
“Yeah? About what?” Is your voice breathier than usual?
Peña fidgets with the folder, then leans over and drops it in front of you. His thumb swipes at the corner of his mouth and he places both hands on his hips. There’s an agitated tension in his stance, and he shifts from foot to foot like a horse ready to bolt.
“You’re with Customs,” he says, as though his meaning was obvious.
It's your turn to lift a brow at him.
“Yep. That I am.”
It’s easier to pull yourself together with something tangible in front of you to focus on. You flip the folder open and start leafing through its contents. There are copies of bank transactions, transcripts from what you assume are wiretaps, and surveillance photos featuring two Latino men in well tailored suits outside a storefront, one of them holding a briefcase. This was business, this was work – you could do this.
Peña clears his throat and smoothes down his mustache, the fingers of his left hand drumming on his hip. You wonder if he’s always this twitchy or if something could be making him nervous.
“My investigation is centered around these two men,” he waves a hand vaguely at the photos. “They run the stateside money laundering operations for some heavy cartel hitters, but they like to throw in some legitimate business dealings as well just to muddy the waters.”
He pauses to clear his throat.
“Uh huh…,” you prompt, looking up in time to see him tugging at his fitted collar. This was starting to get interesting. It’s obvious he came over to ask for your help with his case, but he seems to be doing everything he can to avoid saying those three little words, ‘I need help.’ What a typical man.
Leaning back in your chair with the folder and its contents in hand, you find it much easier to take in the man standing before you. It's no longer like staring into the sun, however sexy that sun may be. The Great Javier Peña, reduced to an average fed. You can’t help but be a bit disappointed.
Peña sucks in a breath like he's going to keep speaking, then wordlessly proffers his hand to ask for the folder. You pass it back into his hands and keep your expression neutral. Flipping through the photos, he finds what he's looking for and places it on your desk.
“That was taken outside an art gallery in Dallas. I think they know we’re closing in on some of their more lucrative sources of income and are trying something new.”
You look more closely at the photo in front of you and nod. “Art classes?” The second the joke leaves your mouth you cringe inwardly. Peña’s jaw twitches as his eyebrows scowl a fraction of an inch closer. Not the time or place.
“The gallery is run by a couple in their sixties, Frank and Harriet Mansford. I think they’re working with these guys to make some kind of art deal.” You gesture to the chair opposite your desk and he accepts the invitation to sit down.
“So, tell me, Agent Peña – where exactly does Customs come in? How do I fit into this picture?” Leaning forward, elbows propped on your desk, you fix Peña with what you hope is a confident stare. His fingers worry over the corner of his chair’s armrest.
“Narcos have gotten more sophisticated in their laundering operations, but this wouldn’t be the first time they’ve used art sales to clean their money.” His gaze is steady, but his fingers continue on their restless path.
“Unless they’re smuggling stolen goods into or out of the country–”
“They are,” Peña interjects. “I believe they are.” He lets out a frustrated breath. “I don’t have the evidence yet, but I’ve already been looking into this gallery. They specialize in European art – so they’re likely getting at least some of it from abroad. And an international sale would make the paper trail harder to follow.”
“As long as they’re legitimately purchasing or selling the artwork–” You hold up a calming hand as the agent makes to interrupt again. “Agent Peña, I’d like to help, but unless their crimes touch the border, it’s out of my jurisdiction.”
“I know. But that’s not the only reason I’m talking to you.” Peña takes a deep breath like he's gearing up for something and you brace yourself.
“I don’t know anything about art, ma’am.” He gives you the closest thing to a self-deprecating grin you think he’s capable of. “I’ve been trying to get the FBI’s art squad on this, but I can’t even get someone to take my calls – I don’t have an in.” He glances surreptitiously to see if anybody else is in earshot.
Your gut does an anxious flip. Please, don't let this be going where you think it’s going. He licks his lips and hesitates, avoiding your eyes.
“Word is you might know somebody in D.C.”
Your heart stutters. Shit.
Sounds like Peña isn’t the only subject of rumors around here.
---
Great, just great. You left D.C. to get away from people treating you differently because of who you choose to sleep with, but it looks like the rumors followed you all the way to fucking Texas.
You take a good, hard look at the man sitting across from you. For a moment, you seriously consider telling him he can go fuck himself. While social blackmail isn’t something you’re willing to tolerate after everything you’ve done to start fresh, you don’t want to miss your first real opportunity to get involved in a case since arriving in Texas. Javier Peña may be a god amongst mere mortals in this town – you’d learned enough about his career to know it wasn’t all bullshit – but you weren’t going to let him get away with using you for your contacts at the FBI. Well, contact – singular.
“The ‘word’ is?” You quote back at him icily. “And what word is that, Agent Peña?” Leaning back in your chair, you cock your head to the side a bit and rest your elbows on the arm rests. His mustache twitches the slightest bit at this change in your body language and tone of voice, but he doesn’t respond. You might be overplaying your hand here, but you’ll take that risk to find out how far he’s willing to go with this approach. Not wanting to be the first to break, you let the uncomfortable silence stretch.
Right when you start to think you’ve missed the mark and he’s going to walk away without another word, he nods, eyes never leaving yours. Mirroring your pose, he tents his fingers and licks his lips again. You force yourself not to look at his mouth.
“I’m not stupid,” he states. Here it comes. “I know what people say about me around here.”
Wait, what? Schooling your features, you decide to see how this plays out.
“I know you haven’t been here very long, but I’m sure you’ve heard some of the office gossip already.” He shifts in his seat and hikes his pant legs up, casually propping one ankle on a knee. You pride yourself on not looking at his crotch.
At that moment, a woman walks by your desk and gives the two of you a thorough once over. You stare her down until she meets your eyes, the smirk forming on her lips immediately dying. She scurries away and you turn back to find Peña giving you a bit of a smirk, and a certain glint appears in his eyes.
“Agent Peña–”
“Javi, please.” The balls on this guy.
“Agent,” you repeat purposefully, “I’m not sure what, if anything, you know about me.” You pause to take a steadying breath, but Peña continues in earnest.
“I know you worked with the FBI art squad on a number of cases during your time in D.C. that resulted in the arrest of several high-profile members of a forgery ring smuggling pieces into the country for sale on the black market.”
You blink. That wasn’t what you were expecting. At all.
He keeps talking. “But that was only in the last year or so. Before that, you worked your way up as a field agent and investigator at major ports of entry, developing a specialty in high-value contraband.” Peña slowly runs his palms over his thighs; the man is in perpetual motion.
As you listen to Javi rattle off various highlights and accolades that sound like they came directly from your personnel file, you notice the change in his demeanor and tone. He speaks matter-of-factly like he’s reciting a brief, but there’s a hint of something else in his tone besides simple curiosity.
“And then you landed the D.C. assignment. From what I hear, you could’ve been running that unit in a few years, but instead you took a boring ass admin job out here.” He gestures vaguely around you. This is where he’s comfortable – when he’s the one in charge, telling you what’s what.
“You’ve sure heard a lot about me, Agent Peña.” Your tone is cool and measured.
“Why?” He leans forward and braces his elbows on spread knees. His piercing eyes level with yours, pupils wide and locked in.
“‘Why’ what?”
“Why’d you leave D.C.?”
A glance out to the common area nearby confirms there’s nobody within earshot, but you still lower your voice when you say, “You already seem to know everything there is about me.” Pausing, you feel your pulse flutter in your neck. “I would think you’ve heard that part as well.”
He’s testing you. That’s how guys like him operate. They pin you down to see if you’ve got enough in you to fight back. Fighting back is what earns their respect. The smile Peña gives you is subtle, edging on mischievous.
“I’ve heard plenty on that topic,” he confirms with a gentle nod. “There are a few prevailing theories.” He counts off the rumors on his fingers and glances up to see your reactions to each.
Pissed off the wrong politician is met with an eye roll.
Moved here for a boyfriend – “...or girlfriend?” Javi checks – earns an exasperated sigh.
“You fucked your way around–” Javi stops abruptly when an indignant sound escapes your mouth. This reaction sends Javi’s eyebrows dancing.
Kicking yourself, you decide there’s only one course of action: honesty. Keeping your voice low, you lean over your desk and Javi follows until your faces are barely a foot apart. You force yourself to look directly into his eyes as you say your piece.
“I didn’t ‘fuck my way around’ anything. Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I had a consensual relationship that never once interfered with our professional conduct or the work at hand. Got it?” Javi doesn’t speak, but there’s a glint in his eyes as they roam over your stony expression, lips pursed in a contemplative pout.
“Once the rumor mill starts, it’s only a matter of time before the woman is left to deal with the consequences – not that I’d expect you to care about such things.” You practically spit the last words out before you can stop yourself.
The air stills between you. Peña nods as if to himself, then leans even closer, until you can smell his spicy cologne. “Let’s set the record straight about one thing right now, Agent.”
You swallow thickly and look anywhere but at his eyes – the long line of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the stubble on his cheek. His voice drops into a deeper register when he says, “I don’t give a shit who you choose to fuck or not – as long as it doesn’t get in the way of me getting the job done. We’re all adults here and can make our own grown-up choices.” He raises a finger, and points first to you, then himself as he speaks. “My one rule is: I don’t judge you, you don’t judge me.”
He pauses, giving you a second’s reprieve. “Are we on the same page now?”
You nod once, gritting your teeth at his condescending tone. Back in a normal register he says, “Good. Now about this investigation of mine…”
Peña retreats and gestures at the case documents underneath where your arms were folded on top of your desk. You look down, having almost forgotten his whole reason for being here in the first place.
“Agent Peña…” you start, and again, he interrupts.
“Please, I asked you to call me Javi.” The fucker winks at you – winks.
“Javi,” you grind out, playing his game. “I don’t know what you think I can do for you, unless this whole thing is to try and get me to –”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice is a rumble in his chest. “Don’t insult me like that, and don’t insult yourself.” Javi points at the desk. “I came here asking for help because you’re a damn good agent with experience in this shit. If you want to show this office that you’re not going to back down from another fight just because some dickless piss-ant is spreading rumors, this is your chance.”
You let his words sink in and hate that he’s right. You did back down from the fight in D.C., the second it got difficult. Your pride was wounded and you ran away with your tail between your legs at the first opportunity. With a steadying breath, you sigh and start organizing the documents and photos.
“I’ll take a look at everything and see what I can come up with.” Peña begins to stand, and you cut in, “But I can’t promise I can get you in with the FBI.”
You haven’t spoken to Special Agent Marcus Pike since you left D.C. six months earlier. If you were honest with yourself, you missed the time you two spent together, even when you weren’t having amazing sex. Getting takeout from his favorite Thai place and watching an old movie, or reviewing case notes over pizza after hours in the war room. Marcus was the most decent guy you’d ever known, and you hadn’t even answered the few times he called to check in your first couple months in Texas. It’d serve you right if he refused to speak to you ever again, if you could swallow your pride long enough to call him up.
“I’ll take whatever I can get at this point.” Peña sticks a hand out to shake. You join him on your feet and grasp his hand firmly. Some of your confidence was returning.
“I never pegged you as the desperate type, Javi.” You hoped your smile was enough for the agent to hear your words as the playful banter you’d intended. Fortunately, he huffed a quiet laugh and nodded appreciatively, boldly letting his eyes wander over you. The heat of his gaze leaves pleasant tingles in its wake.
“I’ll swing by tomorrow to talk about next steps.”
The agent departs, and you sit back down at your desk with a long sigh. As you watch the man walk away, your reverie from earlier comes back in startling focus with new details. You think back to how commanding and gruff his voice had sounded with his face so close to yours. The scent of his cologne lingered – spicy, with a hint of citrus and something else you couldn’t identify. How his thick fingers splayed over his hip or massaged the arm of his chair as he spoke. The crease in the middle of his bottom lip when he swiped at the corner of his mouth.
Clearing your throat, you try to focus your attention on the stack of papers and photos in front of you. You couldn’t let your libido cloud your judgment now that you had a real case to sink your teeth into. You’d always prided yourself on your ability to compartmentalize, but your head was still swimming after the man had been in your cubicle for, what – ten minutes?
You’ve certainly got your work cut out for you.
***
Washington, D.C.
6 months earlier
“You don’t have to do this.” Marcus stands next to your desk as you finish packing your few personal belongings into an empty cardboard box. “I’ll talk to my guys, you don’t need –”
You still him with a hand. “Marcus, please. I’m choosing to do this; it’s a really good opportunity.” You hope he believes that.
Marcus sighs and rubs a hand over his face. After looking around to check that you and he were alone in the emptying building, Marcus leans into your space. “You’re telling me this has nothing to do with us?” His voice is deep, intimate.
He’s close enough for you to feel the warmth emanating from his body, and you catch a whiff of the aftershave that always leaves you feeling a bit heady. How is it still so strong even after a full day’s work? The frisson you experience whenever your bodies are in close proximity hasn’t diminished in the slightest, even after months of fucking on the sly.
You’d both maintained your professionalism at the office; you respect each others’ boundaries and careers too much to get sloppy in the workplace. The only thing that changed around the office since you started sleeping with Marcus was the other agents. Their eyes followed you around the office, conversations sputtered to a halt when you entered the breakroom, and snatches of whispered conversation filled your cubicle when they didn’t know you were there.
Clearing your throat, you force your eyes to meet his intense gaze. “Yes, Marcus, that’s what I’m saying.”
Marcus is a great agent, and an even greater guy. You know he’d want to stick up for you – as a fellow agent, and as a friend – but it’d only make things harder for you. Already your caseload had begun to dwindle and you were being consulted less and less often on issues squarely in your area of expertise. After several fruitless conversations with your supervisor, you weren't about to sit around and wait for your career to die – no matter how mindblowing the sex was.
The box is packed with your personal belongings and an assortment of stolen office supplies as your last petty ‘fuck you’ to the endemic sexism and double standards that plague federal law enforcement.
“Hey,” Marcus takes your hand in both of his and strokes his thumb over your pulse point as he perches a hip on the corner of your bare desk. “I can tell there’s something more to the story, and you obviously don’t want to tell me what it is so I’m not going to push…”
You roll your eyes at him teasingly and he huffs out a laugh, then pulls you closer so your hand is in his lap. He keeps stroking that sensitive part of your wrist and something in you thrums to life. “But?” You look at your joined hands. “I know there’s a but in there.”
“But – you know you can always talk to me. About whatever.” He shrugs a noncommittal shoulder and you step even closer, bracketing one of his legs between your own. His breath falters a bit as you turn one of his large hands over and graze your fingertips across his palm with a featherlight touch.
“If you ever need anything, please…” His voice drops into the register you only ever hear him use in private.
Fuck it – you’d been so careful and were still dealing with the consequences. Might as well have a little fun on your last day. You place a firm hand on Marcus’ thigh and glide it up to his hip.
“There is one thing I need right now.” You feel a bit giddy at your recklessness, but any nerves you might have are quelled when Marcus runs the tip of his nose up your jawline to your ear.
“And what’s that? Hm?” He inhales your scent and hums with pleasure. Before you can stop yourself, you shift your hand at Marcus’ hip to his crotch. When you feel how hard he already is you release a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.
Marcus inhales sharply through his nose at your touch, then lets out a groan in your ear at your gentle squeeze. “Tell me what you need.” His five o’clock shadow rasps against your sensitive skin as he sucks your earlobe into his mouth.
“I need you to show me that evidence locker you haven’t shut up about since we met.”
Chapter 2
NOTE: The term “war room” originally described the place military leaders discussed tactics and strategies. It’s frequently used now in federal government, law enforcement, and business settings to describe any room used to strategize and plan – it could have various technologies (computers, A/V, video-teleconferencing, etc.) or be a plain old conference/meeting space with whiteboards.
Additional Author’s Note: I'm finally forcing myself to post this fic I've been working on in an attempt to get over my fear of people reading my work. It's the first fic I've written in the Pedroverse, and quite possibly the only fic I've ever posted publicly as an adult. I would love to know what you think! I really want to become a better writer, so any and all feedback is welcome! Thanks for reading!
#senorabond writes#javier pena x reader#marcus pike x reader#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#narcos fic#the mentalist fic#peña x f!reader x pike#rumor has it fic
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A list of all my favourite MARCUS PIKE Fic Recs, with the writers tagged. Includes fics I am currently reading/want to read.
Please show some love to the writers by re-blogging and commenting on their work. 🖤
⚠️ Please ensure you check the triggers/warnings etc... on the stories themselves as some of them may not be suitable to your own particular tastes.
Marcus Pike Fic Recs - Part 1
Marcus Pike Fic Recs - Part 2
Marcus Pike Fic Recs - Part 3
Marcus Pike Fic Recs - Part 4
Will be added to as I find more...
Jett's Pedro Character Favourite Fic Recs
#marcus pike#marcus pike the mentalist#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#marcus pike x you#marcus pike x reader#marcus pike x f!reader#marcus pike x m!reader#marcus pike x gn!reader#marcus pike smut#marcus pike fluff#marcus pike angst#marcus pic fic#marcus pike fanfic#the mentalist fic#jetts fic recs#fic recs
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run to you: chapter five
marcus pike x f!reader
A/N: life is hectic atm but i'm so glad to finally get this out! i swear i'm gonna get around to replying to all of your lovely comments on chapter four. i really appreciate your love and support for this story and i'm forever thanking you, even if i don't get around to replying as quick as i want! so not a lot of marcus and reader in this chapter, like... at all lmao, but the storyline is now picking up and we can fasten our seatbelts for the turbulent ride ahead. enjoy, angels! x
Summary: Following on from ‘Traitor’ and 'You’re Somebody Else’. An unexpected visitor throws you right back into the life you thought you left behind. Working beside the man that put you behind bars is one thing, pretending like you never loved him is another.
Word count: just over 4.5k
Warnings: angst, swearing, the bestest golden retriever himbo bff, talk of crime and undercover operations, mentions of heartache, mentions of jail/being incarcerated, talk of murder/bodies, smutty flashback (18+ only), Patrick Jane, super brief blink-and-you-miss-it Lisbon appearance (poor marcus bb is not doing good rn lmao SUFFER BITCH), and the usual warning: bitter saltiness that only one man brings to life in us
main masterlist | series masterlist
This story will have explicit sexual scenes in the future so 18+ only.
He’s hovering.
At first, it’s almost easy to ignore—you think he’s just watching you paint with a small sense of curiosity and would move away once boredom finds him, but you’ve never been one for people looming over your shoulder for an extended period of time, and so the irritation quickly starts to seep in.
The hand holding the paintbrush drops, and you look expectantly at him while knocking your headphones off of one ear, “Can I help you, agent?”
Jacob leans on the table next to you and tears into the homemade sub in his hands, chewing loudly as a small smearing of mayonnaise gathers at the corner of his lips.
He gives a nod, mumbling around the mouthful of food, “Just makin’ sure you eat.”
You blink in surprise, glancing at the window, “It’s lunchtime already?”
“A bit past,” Jacob replies, moving away now that he has your attention and sits himself on a chair at the table, “but I didn’t want to let you go late without eating. Gotta keep up your energy, Monet—don’t want you running yourself into the ground.”
“Thanks,” you murmur softly, organising your little workstation and rolling your aching shoulders.
The break is surprisingly welcome. You didn’t even realise how long you’d been lost in your work until you stopped, and now the throb in your fingers is all you can focus on. You clench and unclench your hand as you walk to your bag and ready some lunch, careful of the hot food you retrieve from the microwave.
Jacob doesn’t look at you as you seat yourself opposite him, too engrossed in studying the painting hanging on the easel.
“You’re good at this,” Jacob notes, eyeing the almost completed piece waiting to be taken wherever by Marcus’ team, “how’d you get into this stuff? Art school?”
Appetite now gone, you shift in your seat, suddenly far too interested in pushing the rice into small mountains in your glass dish.
Breathe.
He doesn’t know.
“I uh… I actually did it for a living.”
“Oh? Nice.”
There’s no malice in his tone, no mistrust, just pure interest.
He doesn’t glare at you, or pull a face of suspicion. It doesn’t even occur to him that it may have all been under the table and illegal. You feel a little guilty, almost as if you’d been leading him to believe you weren’t a previously convicted criminal. It makes you want to own it, to just speak your truth and let him make his own judgement of your actions.
Maybe it would be best to do so, so he would know where he stands and how he should view you. You’re not a good person, and maybe he deserves to know that. He does deserve to know that.
“It was… it wasn’t legal. That’s how I got caught up in Marcus’ radar,” you admit quietly, briefly letting your eyes meet his and watching the flicker of surprise flash across his features before dropping your gaze again, afraid to watch his warmth and friendliness disappear.
“Oh.”
Nothing is said for a few minutes.
You swear you can feel the seconds trickling by, your nerves picking up and heightening with every silent tick. The small bit of the lunch you’d packed last night and eaten starts to churn uncomfortably in your stomach, swirling with your growing anxiety and threatening to bubble up your throat.
You can’t look at him.
“How’d you get caught?”
“It was a whole thing. Apparently the FBI had been after them—us—for a while… I knew it was big, I wasn’t stupid, but I guess I just tried to ignore the other side of it all. The money was good, and it felt nice. Marcus went undercover—guess they wanted someone on the inside, and I just happened to fall in the trap.”
And fall into the trap you did. You fell good. One look into those warm brown eyes and your walls had crumbled. You still don’t understand how it all happened. If only you could go back and scream at your more naive self, tell her to just walk away and never look back.
God, had you truly been that lonely? To open up so quickly, so easily, with a complete stranger? Would things have played out differently if you had just been stronger and ignored the obvious attraction and turned a cheek to his advances? Would he have just moved on to somebody else for the sake of the case?
It makes you angry, and you don’t have a clue as to why. Maybe it’s because somewhere deep within you, beneath the bitterness and the hurt, you wanted to believe he actually did want you, and not just use you as a means to finish the investigation. You wanted to believe that a part of it, even just a slither of it, was real.
Stupid.
Of course it wasn’t real. None of it was.
Jacob nods in understanding, “So that’s why you hate Pike?”
Hate?
Is that what you feel for him?
The angry side of you says yes. Yes, you hate him and everything he fucking stands for, and that you’d feel this way forever… but it doesn’t sit right, feel right. Maybe you don’t. Maybe hate isn’t what it is. Resentment? Disappointment, perhaps?
“I don’t hate him,” you sigh quietly, giving up on lunch and pushing it away from you, “not… not really. I mean, I did. For months I wished all sorts of horrible shit to happen to him, but I… I don’t know. I guess I just accepted it for what it was after a while. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like him—at all—but I just want to forget it all happened and move on. I want my fresh start, you know? It’s hard seeing him, being around him again, after all the heartbreak.”
“Wait,” Jacob frowns, holding a hand out to stop you from speaking any more, “when you say you ‘fell into the trap’, does that… were you guys a thing? While he was undercover? Was it serious?”
“It was to me,” you admit with a murmur, “even had me picking out a damn wedding dress.”
The laugh that you force from your lips is strained and void of any true humour.
If anything, it’s an attempt to steer the direction of the conversation from diving any deeper into the overwhelming feelings you had for a man that had never existed. It’s humiliating to even think about. Maybe if you laugh about it, the sting of it all won’t hurt as much.
“Oh well,” you breathe, straightening in your seat and twisting your lips to resemble a faint smile, “it’s all in the past. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Jacob watches you play with your food with a look you can’t quite identify. You don’t want to risk looking at him too much, afraid that he’ll see the clear pain swirling in your eyes. The damage has probably already been done. He’s seen it all, and probably more. He’s a Federal Agent—their job relies on reading people on a daily basis.
“Hey,” he mutters, giving you a small comforting smile when you eventually pull your gaze away from the table to look at him, “for what it's worth, I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how you must’ve felt. It must’ve been really tough, and I’m sorry you had to go through that alone.”
Your features twist into a frown, “Who said I was alone through it?”
He watches you knowingly for a moment, his brows raising ever so slightly as his small smile turns a little sadder, sympathetic. He’s right, and he knows it. You had been alone. It’d been the most alone you’d ever felt, and you’ll spend the rest of your life hoping to never feel that way again.
Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, you give a small shrug and drop your fork with a quiet clatter, “I deserved it.”
“No, you didn’t. Yeah, you’ve made some pretty shit decisions in the past—I’m not debating that, but I like to think of myself as a good judge of character. You’re not a bad person, not like the ones we’re used to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do.”
There’s nothing but sincerity in his tone. You watch him for a few minutes, eyes darting between his bright green ones and searching for anything that gives you a small feeling of doubt that his words are nothing but a lie.
You find nothing.
A true smile starts to grow along your lips and you dip your head, unable to keep meeting his genuine gaze without feeling the sting of tears in your eyes.
“Thank you, Jacob. I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome, Kahlo.”
It’s quiet, and you feel like you can bear the sight of food again.
Your shoulders feel lighter, the ache in your chest has dissipated. It’s freeing. You hadn’t yet been able to speak on what had happened without someone focusing on the crime part.
The inmates you had bunked with, the counsellors in jail, the people hiring you once you got out… they all had that pre-judgement of you. The title of criminal followed you throughout every interaction, but not here, not with him.
You pick up your fork and start picking at your food, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. The slice of Jacob’s sudden huff cuts through the air, and he throws his almost eaten sub onto the table before crossing his arms in obvious irritation.
“God, what a fuckin’ dick.”
—
Heat—it’s everywhere.
It sticks to your skin, it swells in the pit of your stomach, it builds and builds over your flesh with every deep roll of his body over yours. It should be too much, too overwhelming, but your nails still dig into the soft skin of his back in a silent cry for more.
Just when you think he can’t possibly get any closer, he does. He pushes—crushes—you into the mattress, hands cradling the back of your head in an effort to keep you as close as possible. So close, so fucking close, you’re practically breathing in the other, with no room left for oxygen between you and it’s absolute bliss.
He’s breathless against the skin of your throat, nothing but soft whimpers and the hush of sharp exhales filling your ears. Lips press wherever they can reach, trailing paths of fire along your cheeks and the length of your neck until you squirm from the sensation, fighting both the urge to hide from his tender touch and stretch out for more.
“A-Alex,” you breathe, face turning enough to trace the tip of your nose along the shell of his ear.
He exhales sharply, hips faltering ever so slightly. His face briefly falls away from breathing in your skin, dipping his head and hiding his features. Despite the unexpected jolt in his rhythm, he still moves, still rolls his hips in that way he’s fucking mastered, ensuring every upwards roll of his hips has that delicious bit of friction along your clit.
It’s maddening.
It’s perfection.
The ecstasy rolling through your body hits an all time high, and your thighs tighten around his hips, coaxing him to brush harder, push deeper into the wet heat of your pussy until you start to feel that sweet, sweet edge start to creep along the edge of your nerves.
More, more, more—
“Ale–”
He suddenly rears forward, moulding his lips to yours and stealing the very breath from your lungs. It’s always the same. The kiss is urgent, all teeth and tongue and it’s impossible to speak another word. You struggle to keep up with his intensity, too busy focusing on that overwhelming high and the tightening that threatens to give at any second now.
It’s good—it’s so fucking good, you swear you’re going crazy. He does that to you. Though you can’t say it, breathe it, his name is all you hear in your mind, its own soft echo a consistent companion to the sheer pleasure he drowns you in.
Alex, Alex, Alex.
—
It’s been a month.
A month in your new little workspace, a month of painting, a month of successfully avoiding him. Despite it being his investigation, he now keeps his distance from the makeshift art space he had given you. Maybe he finally got the message that you didn’t want to be around him, that the mere thought of even uttering a single word to him made you feel almost nauseous.
You haven’t seen him in weeks.
When you finish a piece, he sends his agents. You know a few by name now, but don’t bother with small talk. They come, give you a friendly hello, take the finished, wrapped painting and leave—that’s it.
That’s all it is.
You don’t have to do anything else, and it’s wonderful. You spend your days painting, relishing in the familiar feel of a brush between your fingers and enjoying the legal money deposited into your account every week.
You get ahead with bills. You buy some new clothes. You feel refreshed, finding a certain needed peace from the sudden financial stability. You know it’s not going to last—Jacob doesn’t talk about the case a whole lot, but you know that the team has made some progress with it, so you put a little money aside for the day the FBI no longer needs you.
He becomes a fast friend, and if you were ever to find it within you to thank Marcus for anything in this world, it would be him. You surely would’ve gone batshit insane if you’d been holed up in that room by yourself day in and day out, probably worse if you had been locked up with Marcus every day.
But not Jacob.
Jacob keeps the air light.
He’s kind, funny, and a bit of an idiot, and you find yourself fondly laughing nearly every day at the little things he would do or say. You thoroughly enjoy his company, and love hearing about his time in school, training to be an agent and the few cases he’s worked on so far.
He asks you questions and seems genuinely interested in getting to know you and of you past, never once making you feel lesser than or lowly for your less than ideal life before this.
“You made a decision, Matisse. Good or bad—own it.”
He keeps to himself whenever you find yourself focused on your work, and only steps in to remind you to take care of yourself. On the odd occasion, he’d join you, content to watch you work with a shine of interest.
You don’t like it, so you shove canvas paper and oil pastels at him to keep him from hovering any longer and it works. It becomes a little activity of sorts, a release for him whenever paperwork starts to push at his patience a little too much.
“They should’ve hired you for this case,” you mumble teasingly around your lunch, grinning at the pride filling his features as he finishes his latest project—his own creation inspired by the Van Gogh you’re currently working on.
It’s pretty, full of bright colours and soft swirling patterns. The Future, he had called it, and apparently—it was all for you.
You need something colourful, Da Vinci, something happy. You’re too sad.
The FBI doesn’t deserve him.
“Hey, I’m proud of this,” he retorts sharply, pointing a finger smudged with colour at you but his tone doesn’t match the bright amusement in his eyes, “belongs in a damn museum. It’s an original Wilson—people will flock to see it. You just wait, Michaelangelo, this will bring a lot of money down the track, mark my words.”
Your chuckle is cut off by the insistent buzz in his pocket, and he stands immediately, answering the call with a swift Wilson and stepping away from the table with his phone pressed to his ear.
It’s Marcus... you know just by the way he positions himself, ensuring to keep a bit of distance and turning away so you don't have to potentially hear his voice from the other end. You quickly lose interest in the conversation, focusing back on the open book you’ve been trying—and failing—to get into the last few days.
The interest in the conversation was lost, until you hear it.
“Understood, sir. We’ll leave now.”
Immediately looking up in question, your brows start to furrow as Jacob wraps up the phone call and strides back to the table quietly. Anxiety begins to build in the pit of your stomach at the sudden serious set of his features, unused to seeing the usually bright and bubbly face now so stoic. It’s Agent Wilson, not Jacob.
“We’re leaving?” you ask in confusion, “but I haven’t even done—”
The frown between his thick brows deepens, and he barely looks at you while he shrugs his navy blue suit jacket on, leaving faint smudges of orange and pink on the lapels.
“Leave it, we need to get to the office.”
The anxiety immediately gives way to dread.
The office? Where Marcus and his team are? Why?
You want to ask if you can stay behind—straight up refuse to go anywhere near that damn building—but the firm set of Jacob’s lips lets you know it’s non-negotiable.
He helps you with your bag, a certain urgency to his movements, and then you’re descending the stairs with him hot on your tail. He ushers you into the car, throwing a wary glance each way down the street before moving around the vehicle and sliding into his seat.
You swear you can feel your heart beating in your throat. He’s clearly in a rush, but you’re at a loss as to why. Has something happened? Is there danger? Are you in danger?
With your mind beginning to hurl possibilities at you, you start to feel more and more nauseous with every swift swerve through traffic Jacob makes.
“Is everything okay?” You ask carefully, fingers fiddling with the straps of your bag as you try to calm the rage of your heart.
He briefly looks away from the traffic and gives you a small reassuring smile, “Of course. There’s just been a big development and I’m needed back at the office for a debriefing, sorry for the rushing.”
“Oh,” you breathe in relief, “okay, I understand. Well, you can drop me home if that’s easier for you.”
“It’s an urgent thing and uh… Pike would like you at the office.”
Your lips press shut and an immediate frown overcomes your expression.
Of course.
If there had been developments in the case, why did you need to be there? It’s not like you're an agent with unlimited access to the available information. Your own folder Marcus had given you was severely lacking any true details of the case beyond what you needed to know, and it’s not like you were involved in anything anymore, so you had very little to contribute further than your creative talents.
You keep quiet for the rest of the quick trip, taking the hint that now is not the time for small talk. The need to chat is nonexistent to you right now anyway, even if Jacob happened to be in a perkier mood. The mere thought of seeing, and talking to, Marcus again does nothing to ease the dread churning in the pit of your gut.
The building is not a welcome sight, yet you hurry to follow Jacob from the brightly lit parking lot and into the home of the FBI. He stays beside you the whole way, through the wide crowded corridors and during the silence of the elevator, giving you one final reassuring smile before he pushes open the door to the Art Crime Department.
It’s busy.
Marcus doesn’t suddenly appear from nowhere and bombard you both at the entrance. You can take a deep breath. The shrill ringing of phones fill the space, and the shuffle of agents near running about with various files and pieces of paper takes you a little off guard.
There’s an uncomfortable tension hanging in the air. You can’t quite put your finger on why it unsettles you so.
You follow Jacob further into the chaos, ensuring to keep out of the way and keeping an eye out for the one man you seem to now be bracing for, steeling your nerves into something harder, something unbreakable. You don’t need to wait long—there he is.
He looks tired.
Marcus appears from a room, presumably his own personal office, raking a hand through his mussed hair and saying a few brief words to a coworker before his eyes zero in on Jacob. He points to the conference room where you’d once sat at the beginning of this, already heading that way with another agent, and Jacob gives a short nod in response.
You try to blend into the background behind Jacob so Marcus doesn’t take much notice of you, but it’s not even a moment later and his eyes are suddenly meeting yours. The feeling of his attention is instant, and the increase of your heart is familiar by now.
Despite the distance between you, you feel how they roam over your face, seemingly searching your expression, but it’s not long until they fall away and you’re left to exhale quietly, now free from his gaze.
He disappears into the conference room, and you swallow down the thick feeling of anxiety building in the back of your throat. He doesn’t seem eager, or interested, in talking to you straight away, and you’re relieved by that—you could mentally and emotionally prepare yourself a little more.
“My desk is over there if you want to sit down,” Jacob offers, turning and walking backwards in order to point you in the right direction, “and I’ve got snacks in the bottom drawer.”
Rolling your eyes, you give a strained huff of amusement and start walking towards it, “Of course you do.”
Your shoulder catches the frame of someone else and you quickly take a step back, wide eyes locking with a pair of vaguely amused blue ones.
He’s dressed sharply, much different to the basic suits the agents around him wear, in a well kept grey toned three piece suit with the simple white collar of his shirt popped open at the base of his throat. His soft blond curls are styled neatly back, and the gentle scent of tea wafts from the cup in his hold.
He’s pretty, by society’s standards, but his eyes are sharp, as if they can see right into the very centre of you.
You don’t like it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” you mumble, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
You don’t linger to hear what the agent has to say. You hurry into Jacob’s desk space and throw your bag under it before taking a seat in the simple desk chair, the backrest squeaking as you rest into it.
His desk is as you expected it to look—messy, but organised in his own little chaotic way. The edges of his computer screen are littered with sticky notes of reminders, his ballpoint pens are all missing their lids, he has a bobble head character of a sports player next to his keyboard and a crumpled paper plane lies hidden beneath a thick notebook.
It’s undoubtedly Jacob, end to end.
The wide variety of sweets and chips resting on old files doesn’t surprise you at all when you tug at the stiff drawer, and you immediately zero in on the ones he’s been sharing with you over the past few weeks.
“Jane, stay out of trouble,” a brunette orders sharply as she passes, briefly catching your attention and the man you had previously bumped into comes to a stop just beside you.
“Aye aye, Captain,” he replies dryly with the growings of a smirk, sipping quietly at the tea in his hands and watching the last few agents file into the conference room before the door closes.
Do people still use saucers? He does. He half turns towards you and eyes you curiously as you sway absent-mindedly in Jacob’s desk chair, breaking into the packet of sour candies.
“You’re not an agent.”
You blink up at him and give a small, polite smile, “No, I’m not.”
He makes a low noise of thought to himself and sits on the edge of the desk opposite to Jacob’s, watching you over the rim of the plain white cup he lifts to his lips.
You shift a little under his study, busying yourself with picking a lemon flavoured candy out from the packet and looking over the various little notes decorating the dated computer screen.
Meeting @ 10 Tues. Picasso retrieval daily @ 8. Get bread. Call ma before she has a damn heart attack—
“How long have you been an artist?”
Eyes rolling back to the stranger, you give a slightly confused, “What? How do you know I’m an artist?”
“You have paint on your fingers,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the room.
Rubbing your fingers together, you feel the tell tale crack of dried paint over your skin and glance down at it in vague interest. He’s got a really good set of eyes. You shift a little in the seat and pinch the ends of your sleeves before pulling them down further over your hands to hide them from him.
“A few years,” you reply vaguely, “you’re rather observant, Agent Jane.”
It comes across more as an accusation rather than a general statement, and it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. He grins, flashing a nice set of pearly white teeth.
“Patrick,” he supplies, “and I’m a consultant.”
“Didn’t even know that was a thing,” you mutter plainly, not liking the way you feel like a fucking open book with this stranger, “well, shouldn’t you be in there, then?”
You nod towards the closed door of the conference room and Patrick makes a low noise of dismissal, a slight scrunch curling his nose.
“I already know everything about the murders—Lisbon can handle it.”
The word cuts through the air and chills you right to the bone.
“Murders? What murders?”
Patrick looks at you, shrugging lightly.
“That’s why we’re here. The fancy little tracker led this bunch down to the meeting point in California, but we found the bodies first. Deal gone wrong, I’m guessing. The buyer probably found the painting to be a fake, and got rid of the delivery men because of it. Very messy.”
Your stomach turns.
The painting? Your painting?
“What was wrong with the piece?” You ask quietly, voice suddenly strained.
“Not sure,” Patrick murmurs, taking an apparent interest in the way you’re reacting to his information and studying you from over his tea, “guess we’ll know soon enough.”
You swallow, a sting of sweat building along the back of your neck. They knew it was a replica? How? You must’ve done something different, there must’ve been something wrong with it. Otherwise how else would they know? They wouldn’t.
Have you made a mistake?
Is that why Marcus wanted you here? Are you in trouble? What would be the ramifications of your mistake? After all, it’s your fault. People had died because you didn’t focus hard enough on your work. The FBI have probably realised how useless you are if you can’t even convince some shady black market dealers that your pieces are real.
You must’ve been distracted. You never made mistakes, and now you’ve made one that cost lives. How many? It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it happened, and now you have to live with that knowledge.
People have died. People have died because of you.
You fucked up.
-
tags: @maievdenoir, @javier-pena, @lv7867, @dihra-vesa, @katronautt, @radiowallet, @januarystears, @missminkylove, @beskarprincessjenny, @mswarriorbabe80, @danidrabbles, @amneris21, @eri16, @absurdthirst, @hnt-escape, @acourtofsnakes, @ezrasbirdie, @mstgsmy66, @lovesbiggerthanpride, @coaaster, @sherala007, @greeneyedblondie44, @wyn-n-tonic, @you-got-me-starry-eyed, @shirks-all-responsibilities, @withasideofmeg, @harriedandharassed, @andruxx, @buckybarneshairpullingkink, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @prostitute-robot-from-the-future, @tanzthompson, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @hope-for-the-best-98, @fangirl-316, @christina-loves, @jediknight122, @hallway5, @xoxabs88xox, @nicolethered, @churchill356, @massivecolorspygiant, @just-here-for-the-moment, @gracie7209, @pinkie289, @lavenderluna10, @goodgriefitsawildworld
#marcus pike x reader#marcus pike x f!reader#marcus pike x you#marcus pike#pedro pascal x reader#the mentalist fic#run to you
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Text
to hold you tonight
paring: Marcus Pike x f!afab!Reader
rating: explicit (18+ minors DNI)
word count: 1,9k~
summary: Marcus truly was your biggest fan. And now he wanted to become your only fan.
a/n: dead dove do not eat; i don't know what it is and why it is here. i'm drunk. this is unbetaed and unedited. do with it whatever. i will reread tomorrow and see if i like it at all lol.
warnings: NONCON turned something else; explicit sexual content, praise, obsessive behaviour, drugging, oral [f receiving], unsafe PinV, NO USE OF Y/N
MY MASTERLIST
ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴏꜰ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ. ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴅᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪʙᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ɪʀʟ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ, ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏᴄᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴅɪᴄᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴘᴏʟɪᴄᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴛʏᴘᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄʜᴏᴏꜱᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍᴇ. ꜱᴛᴀʏ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ, ᴘʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴄᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴇɴꜱᴜᴀʟ ꜱᴇx ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴘʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴏᴠ���.
"Oh, baby, look at this wet spot. Your panties are soaked already, and you’ve been awake for less than five minutes."
The man’s voice was calm and quiet, and strong. You couldn’t move your hands or legs, when you tried to at least move your he’d you realized that your eyes were the only thing that moved. You could feel every touch, could feel the warm air from his mouth and nostrils tickling the peach fuzz of your hair. But you couldn’t move. Not a single muscle listened to you. Your brain immediately succumbed to panic, but your heart rate refused to fasten, so the only thing that gave away your hysteria were your eyes.
The man above you finally stopped examining your almost fully naked body, his hands were laying on top of your soft breasts as his face hovered above yours and he looked deep into your eyes. "Is it just for me?" One of his large palms let go of your breast and cupped your cunt.
Is it just for me?
Is it just for me?
Is it just for me?
You knew that man. You’ve already heard that voice, more than once. When the pizza place where you worked as a delivery girl fired you, you picked up the first job you could find. New York was never forgiving to poor people, but it was quite generous in terms of vacancies for all kinds of jobs. You stuck with being a live statue, something that worked well with your school schedule and wasn’t as emotionally exhausting. You loved watching the city, getting laughs and screams from unassuming tourists, plus the tips were always good.
There were hundreds of people walking past you every single day, some faces would stick with you until the end of your shift, some you’d forget even before they passed you by. But him.You remembered that face so clearly sometimes you thought you could see it in the reflection of your mirror. Tall, handsome, clean-shaven, he was a picture perfect of a dream man. Everything about him was alluring, from the way his mouth curved as he gave you the compliments on your performance, staying after the crowds were already gone; to the way he smelled when he got closer to you one day - ripe cherry and bourbon.
You were flattered at first, you had a fan, but sometimes his eyes were too intense and would make you uneasy. When you stood still for an extra couple of minutes with him as the only witness, he’d laugh, the sound colder than the autumn wind ripping through your makeup, ‘is it just for me?’ he’d ask, and you’d feel the heat threatening to melt the silver paint on your cheeks. ‘Well, you seem to be my biggest fan.’
Now, laying in front of him, your body free of makeup and clothes, you knew your instincts didn’t lie. You should’ve changed the job. Should’ve found another pizza place. Too bad it was too late now. You could only remember him coming up really close, telling him he had something for you, and then an acidic smell followed by the darkness.
He was a psychopath, that was clear.
When he looked into your eyes, his browns were gentle, but glazed with something. Was he high? You wanted to ask, to beg, but your mouth didn’t move, only your lower lip twitched a little.
"I am sorry, sweetheart, statues don’t talk. That’s the beauty of them. That’s the beauty of you."
He pressed his plush lips to your unmoving ones, his hot wet tongue licking a stripe inside.
"They don’t deserve you," he whispered into your mouth, "they’re so fucking dumb, they don’t understand art. And you… You’re art. I’m the only one who could see your true value. My Aphrodite, you finally came to me. I was afraid I would die alone, but not anymore, not with you by my side."
Did he… Did he actually think you were a statue that came alive? You weren’t even dressed like Aphrodite, just a fucking statue. He was insane, and you were fucked.
You felt your heart start trembling, beating faster in the cold cage of your ribs. He heard what you felt. His lips pursed, "none of that, my goddess. Statues are calm, marble is quiet."
He put his hand on your chest, right between your breasts, and pressed. Somehow your heart listened to you, ignoring the fear-induced adrenaline coursing through your body. You were cold, and the room was dark. The table - judging by how hard it was beneath your spine and how high it was for the floor you guessed it was a table - was sticking to the parts of your skin pressed into it.
"Marcus and Aphrodite," he laughed quietly, "sounds funny, but we’ll make it work. When I make you mine, when every bit of your stone cold body belongs to me, it’ll work."
He lowered his head and started pressing soft kisses from the crook of your neck down. It was undoubtedly an uncomfortable position for him, having to crouch above you, but he didn’t seem jaded by it at all. His lips were warm against your skin, and you wondered how it was possible to feel both numb and on the verge of sensory explosion. You let yourself feel, just feel accepting whatever was going to happen to you. Your mind was as still as your body when he trailed his kisses down, unknowing that he was burning your skin through.
"So beautiful," his whisper sounded like prayer as he slowly tugged your panties off. "Every bit of you was created by a true master, even your cunt. So silky," he traced a finger through your weeping slit covering his index finger in your juices. "Blessing me with your grace."
His voice changed, becoming less gentle and more hungry, hands that were gentle mere moments ago were yanking your thighs apart and you felt more exposed than you ever were. Unable to move, to speak, just a conscious body for him to bless or to break.
You cried inside when he latched his lips on your clit without mistakes, two of his fingers finding home in your slick entrance as they pushed inside. You were lava around him, your marble exterior contrasting with the softness of your insides as he parted them and moaned. "Fuck, taste so good, so… divine." His tongue played with your clit, circling around it in precise movements as his thick fingers pushed in and out of you, spreading you further. If there were any thoughts in your head before it, now everything was completely gone. Every atom of your being surrendering to pleasure, to desperate want.
Your skin was tight, both with dried up paint and the upcoming orgasm, you needed to move, needed to slide your hands into the sickness of his hair and tug him closer into you. Marcus was ravenous, growls and slurping sounds echoing in the darkness of the room. He curled his fingers upwards, sliding the tips of them against the spongy part inside of you, sending you to the gods themselves as you felt your body internally ripping to shreds, goosebumps rippling under your skin.
"Good girl," he moaned into your cunt, immediately attaching his mouth to your pulsing and leaking entrance, shoving his tongue inside. When he drank enough of you, he reappeared in front of you, his face red, lower half of it glistening. Marcus didn’t bother wiping himself, just grabbed your face in his hands and pressed a sloppy kiss onto your lips staining them with your wetness.
His hands flew to the zipper of his slacks, and he started quietly talking, you grasped every word through the blood pumping in your ears.
"I’m going to fuck you now, my goddess, I’m going to keep you full of my cum for hours, only this way we can be together. A part of me will sustain the life in you, and you will always belong to me. Always be grateful to me."
You heard his belt buckle clinking as he pushed his pants down. Part of you wished you could see his cock, but another part thought it’d only scare you and you didn’t want that. Not anymore. Not now.
"When you finally understand that it’ll be easier. For both of us." Marcus walked around, standing at the end of the table between your legs that were bent in the knees, and you thought you could almost feel the ground with your toes. His fingers spread your shining wet lips as the head of his thick cock notched on your entrance. "I want to hear you beg for me, like I begged for you night after night," he pushed inside in one easy stroke, your arousal mixed with his making his slide intense but painless. "Wanna feel you squirm and whimper," his cock parted you, and for a short moment you did feel like you were a statue and he was reconstructing you. Hammering your granite to create a new space. Something just for him.
"I want to kiss the tears I spilled from your eyes," his movements were slow, but forceful, every time he pushed inside a rugged breath ripped out of you. Marcus pressed his lips to your neck, where the blood was pumping violently in your carotid artery.
"I want to break your stone and mark your marble." He hissed, and you felt his teeth closing around the soft flesh of your neck as he bit and sucked on it, making his wish come true.
He placed his arms around you, bracketing your body as his thrusts became more rapid. You didn’t blink, inhaling the intoxicating smell of his sweat and insanity. You felt the swell of his tummy sliding against your skin, you desperately wanted to wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, deeper inside you.
His cock was painfully girth, every vein and ridge touching more of your nerve endings than you knew existed. Marcus breathed harder, he pressed his forehead against yours and as he licked his lips the wetness of his tongue touched your lips as well. "You’re so good. I’m going to fill you - oh, fuck, - fill you with life. You will not be a statue, you’ll be alive. Alive and always - fuck - always filled with my cock, my tongue, my fingers."
Marcus punched his cock into your cervix, a droplet of sweat collecting on the tip of his hooked nose as you felt his hips shudder, hot, thick cum spilling inside you and he could barely hold himself to not fall on top of you, his cock kept pushing in and out of you by inertia.
Heat rose from the inside of your body, you felt every muscle burning, the tips of your toes and fingers twitching. Marcus pulled out of you gently, placing one hand on your pulling entrance that was now spilling his cum, and gliding another one up and down your stomach and tits. You could finally move your head a little to see him spreading a sheen of sweat on your slick body, watching the leftover paint create intricate patterns on your skin. He didn’t look troubled, his smile was pure and genuine when he looked at you once again.
"I told you we’d make it work, my Aphrodite. Now you’re free. Free to be only mine."
—————
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#iamasaddie fic#marcus pike#marcus pike x you#marcus pike x reader#the mentalist fic#pedro pascal fanfiction
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