#Marcus Pike Pedro pascal

[thetriumphantpanda]

I'll Crawl Home To Her | Marcus Pike

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

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Bridesmaid F!Reader

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

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

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

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

Divider by the amazing @saradika

Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs for writing updates.

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A few weeks, probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’ll be a no then.”

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

“You look well.”

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

“So do you.” You compliment back.

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

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

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

“I asked you first, Agent Pike.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me to show you?”

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

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

“Second.”

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

“Which room?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if I asked you not to?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been looking at you.”

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

“Because the ceremony moved you so much?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Always, Marcus.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marcus,” You moan out, “Please.”

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

“Mmmhmm.”

“What do you want?”

“Make me come?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Marcus, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m on 4th street, in Petworth.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing Wednesday night?”

“Nothing, as far as I’m aware.”

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

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

[jolapeno]

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 ;)

[ficjoelispunk]

The coffee of Love - Capítulo 01 - Sábado.

Avisos da fic: Bom este é o primeiro episódio, aqui não há nada além de tensão, ansiedade, e mais tensão. E lógico, nosso querido Marcus Pike sendo um galanteador, cavalheiro, charmoso, e brincalhão.

PRÓLOGO.

Resumo: Mais um dia comum em sua vida, se não fosse pela presença de um homem que você nunca viu na vida, mas que alterou a química do seu cérebro em segundos. Marcus o nome dele. Você não pode evitar ser atraída como um cachorrinho por ele.

A brisa do mar mediterrâneo é seu melhor despertador. Sua cama fica posicionada num local estratégico, e quando sua janela fica aberta, a brisa fresca da manhã entra no seu quarto sem pedir licença. É bem cedo ainda, mas você gosta de fazer as coisas no seu tempo, sem pressa, então quando sentiu o vendo fresco invadindo o quarto e refrescando seu corpo, você se espreguiçou. Esticou todos os músculos o máximo que pode, sentou-se ainda na cama, o sol ainda não tinha aparecido no céu.

Se arrastou até a beirada da cama, e levantou-se preguiçosa, levantando os braços acima da cabeça, e ficando nas pontas dos pés, se espreguiçando mais uma vez. Deu pulinhos até a sua janela, ela era grande, o pé direito do seu apartamento era alto, e a janela quase batia em suas canelas, do lado de fora, tinham flores que caíram por toda a lateral dela, como se fosse uma cortina natural, com flores rosa pink. Você se encostou no vidro aberto, observou o mar, as casinhas abaixo de você e sorriu. Feliz em estar ali, naquela pontinha de pedra europeia, olhando para a imensidão do mar mediterrâneo.

“Boungiorno” um casal de senhores que passaram pela viela gritou para você.

“Boungiorno” você acenou.

Trocou de roupa, colocou um vestido lilás de alcinha, que fazia um decote simples em seu peito, não era vulgar, mas despertava desejo em quem tivesse interesse, nos pés um Oxford batido, mas confortável. Amarrou o cabelo em um rabo de cavalo desleixado, alguns fios ficavam soltos na frente do seu rosto, fazendo as ondas do cabelo contornarem suas bochechas. Não se importava muito com a roupa, porque chegando na cafeteria você teria que vestir o uniforme para trabalhar.

Colocou alguns itens essenciais numa bolsa de ombro, e desceu as escadas. O caminho para a cafeteria era tranquilo, você precisava descer algumas ruas, a volta para casa sempre era mais difícil, você precisava subir, e por passar muito tempo em pé, as pernas pesavam.

Chegando na porta do Café, você vasculhou a bolsa pela chave, abriu a porta, e entrou. Como você era apegada aquele cantinho. Olhou no relógio, 7:20 a.m. Fechou a porta atrás de você, acendeu as luzes, e foi para a área de serviço trocar de roupa.

Lorenzo, já estava lá preparando todas as delícias que vocês vendiam na cafeteria, ele arremessou um Zeppole para você, enquanto você ainda estava distraída amarrando o avental.

“Ei!” você gritou, mas conseguiu segurar a tempo, analisou a obra de arte de Lorenzo em suas mãos.

“Bongiorno” Ele falou pra você rindo, e organizando as assadeiras.

“Bongiorno” você respondeu e mordeu um pedaço da rosquinha, “hmmmm” você mastigava de olhos fechados, “Eu te amo Lorenzo” você falou ainda enquanto mastigava e ergueu o Zeppole como um troféu. Lorenzo sorriu e balançou a cabeça revirando os olhos.

Quando chegou no salão, Sr. Francesco já estava posicionado na sua mesinha, ele morava em cima da cafeteria, então era só descer as escadas e já estava pronto para o trabalho.

“Bongiorno mia bella” Ele falou te olhando por cima dos óculos, com o jornal já aberto em sua frente.

Você sorriu, “Bongiorno Sr. Fran, quais as novidades no mundo?” você perguntou enquanto já agilizava o café para ele.

“O de sempre, empresários ficando mais ricos e destruindo mais o planeta, crianças com fome, e homens fazendo coisas estúpidas de homem.”

Você se aproximou da mesa, deixando a xícara de café para ele, e mudando a página, apontando para as chamadas rápidas das matérias, “Após decepção em lançamento de livro, escritor tem reviravolta graças à bondade de um completo estranho.” Apontou para outra “Estudo internacional com pele de tilápia auxilia em cirurgia de córneas de cachorros.”

Sr. Francesco olhou para você, e sorriu, você mostrou as palmas das mãos e sorriu também. “O mundo não te merece mia bella”. Você o escutou falando enquanto você andava em direção ao balcão, sorrindo.

“Ainda existe bondade no mundo sr. Fran”

“Você vê bondade porque você é bondosa.” Ele pontuou com uma frase de efeito, como sempre.

O dia passava como todo e qualquer dia na cafeteria, você atendia os clientes da casa, e alguns outros que estavam só de passagem, desconhecidos. Era corrido, mas sempre havia um horário da manhã que ficava mais tranquilo, você aproveitava para sentar-se no banco atrás do caixa.

Você estava lendo um livro, l’Arte Italiana de Gloria Fossi, Mattia Reiche e Marco Bussagli, com as pernas cruzadas sob os joelhos, completamente imersa naquelas imagens incríveis que você gostaria de tatuar em seu cérebro. Era incrível como alguém conseguia construir catedrais, murais, vitrais, em desenhos perfeitos, aquilo era um superpoder?

Você foi sugada para o mundo real, quando alguém bateu sobre a caixa registradora te chamando a atenção. Você levantou a cabeça, e se deparou com uma arte?! Sua boca caiu levemente, enquanto olhava para o homem em sua frente. Cabelos castanhos levemente cacheado, alto, braços definidos, musculosos, barba um pouco desleixada, mas era um charme, lábios carnudos, um olhar profundo, ligado diretamente no seu olhar, e, uma covinha que apareceu quando ele começou a sorrir para você com as sobrancelhas arqueadas, tentando entender o que você estava pensando completamente congelada encarando-o.

Você lembrou de respirar. Soltou o ar com um sorriso, enquanto balançava a cabeça, tentando organizar as ideias, você não sabia nem seu nome se ele perguntasse.

“Desculpa eu...” você inspirou o ar pela boca, enchendo os pulmões, e olhou para o livro na sua mão “me distraí” balançando o livro pra ele ver.

Ele assentiu, ainda sorrindo meio torto, o que dificultava muito a sua vida. Você nunca tinha visto aquele homem. Era certeza absoluta, porque o efeito que ele causou em você, você iria se lembrar com certeza, se já tivesse o visto.

“Arte Italiana é realmente uma distração.” Ele falou com uma das mãos no bolso, enquanto a outra ainda estava descansando em cima da caixa registradora em sua frente, ele olhou para trás, e procurando por algo. A voz rouca e grossa, fez você sentir um frio na barriga. “Então...” ele falou se inclinando para você, com as sobrancelhas arqueadas novamente.

Foi quando você se lembrou que você estava numa cafeteria, e que você era garçonete, e que ele era um cliente, e estava na sua frente, querendo fazer um pedido.

“Oh” você se endireitou no banco como em um susto, descruzando as pernas, e pulando para o chão, deixou o livro cair, “droga”, você passou as mãos no avental para ajeitar e olhou para ele “Desculpa, como posso te ajudar? Temos espresso, descaffeinato, doppio, cappuccino, Latte macchiato” foi falando enquanto entregava o cardápio para ele, “se preferir escolher um lugar para se sentar, posso anotar seu pedido quando você escolher.”

Ele ficou te olhando com um sorriso, reparando na sua ansiedade e nervosismo, mas assentiu e escolheu a mesa ao lado do Sr. Francesco. As duas mesas eram posicionadas bem no canto da cafeteria, em frente a janela que dava uma visão da rua.

Depois que ele se sentou, abriu o cardápio e passou os olhos por todo o menu. Você estava ainda respirando de forma completamente irregular, com a boca aberta, enquanto encarava o homem, um formigamento no estomago, uma ansiedade descabível.

Sem pretensão, olhou de relance para o Sr. Francesco, que estava te olhando por cima dos óculos, as sobrancelhas unidas em rugas pela testa, completamente confuso, pois nunca havia visto você agir daquela maneira. Nem você sabia o que estava acontecendo. Ele se moveu para olhar por cima dos ombros, o homem sentado de costas para ele. Olhou de novo para você, e ergueu as sobrancelhas como quem perguntava “você gostou dele?” o que te fez sorrir e balançar a cabeça, desviando o olhar. Porque dentro da sua cabeça você estava, certo, meu Deus, o que está acontecendo? Eu gostei dele? Eu gostei dele. Ele é lindo. E tem olhos lindos, e um sorriso perfeito.

“Mia bella...” Sr. Francisco te chamou, te fazendo erguer a cabeça, e notar que o homem estava pronto para fazer o pedido.

Você assentiu com a cabeça. E se direcionou a mesa dele. “Posso ajudar?” você falou meio ofegante, o que te deixou meio sem graça.

Ele sorriu, e apontou para o cardápio “Vou querer um espresso duplo, e o que seria esse Bomboloni?”

“hmmm, boa escolha, Bomboloni é como se fosse um donuts,  mas sem o furo no meio...” ele não deixou você terminar.

“Perfeito, quero um Bomboloni” ele falou olhando para você e imitando seu jeito de falar o nome do alimento.

“Ok, eu volto em um minuto com seus Bomboloni” você falou imitando o jeito dele de falar. E sorriu enquanto anotava na comanda. O que te impediu de ver a forma como ele te olhava, de cima em baixo, como se quisesse gravar sua imagem no cérebro dele, como você queria tatuar as artes italianas no seu cérebro.

Marcus nunca tinha visto uma mulher como você. Você era lindíssima, traços fortes, jeito leve de se mover, mãos bonitas, cabelo perfeito, sorriso impecável, simpática, tinha algo em você que era diferente de tudo que ele já viu. A viagem dele era para esquecer um amor. Mas ele nunca pensou que poderia ser tão rápido, aquele era o primeiro lugar que ele tinha entrado assim que saiu do hotel. Mas ele agradeceu por nada ter dado certo, e por ter entrado na primeira cafeteria, e pelos seus olhos terem sido abençoados com sua imagem.

Você foi buscar o pedido dele. E fez todo o trabalho sorrindo, feito criança. Voltou para a mesa para servi-lo, com muita concentração, você estava um pouco distraída demais essa manhã. Quando terminou de colocar todos os itens na mesa, levantou o olhar para ele. Ele já estava te olhando. Estava te estudando, os olhos cravados no seu rosto, piscando lento, passou a língua nos lábios. Tombou a cabeça de lado.

Do jeito que você se inclinou para servir o pedido dele, vocês ficavam bem próximos, Marcus conseguia sentir o cheiro do seu perfume, Frutal, fazendo com que ele quase se inclinasse para respirar você com mais atenção. Você só se deu conta da proximidade de vocês quando endireitou o corpo, e reparou nele também. Você assentiu com a cabeça, e deu um sorriso.

“Algo mais?” Você perguntou baixinho. Se demorando mais tempo do que o comum para atendê-lo.

“Sim...” ele respondeu olhando para você, como se quisesse pedir algo sem saber como. Você tombou a cabeça para o lado e ergueu a sobrancelha. Ele abriu a boca, fechou, olhou para o café o Bomboloni na frente dele, balançou a cabeça “Não, é isso mesmo. Obrigado.”

Você mordeu o canto da bochecha, os braços cruzados atrás do seu corpo, você ficou na ponta dos pés enquanto assentiu para ele, e voltou para seu posto. Nesse meio tempo, várias pessoas entraram, tomaram cafés rápidos, comprar pães, doces, e o homem ainda lá. A sua sucessora chegou, e você foi trocar de roupa, colocou seu vestido lilás, prendeu o cabelo em um coque desajeitado. E saiu.

O homem não estava mais na mesa. Você chegou perto do Sr. Fran para se despedir, “Até amanhã sr. Fran, não esqueça de fazer o pedido dos queijos por favor, e amanhã chega os frios, vou chegar mais cedo...”

“Não, mia bella, pode deixar que eu recebo, bom descanso, e cuidado na rua, qualquer coisa grite.” Ele dizia enquanto segurava sua mão.

Marcus ficou observando você, e a forma como você se comportava. Sempre tão educada e gentil com todos. Carinhosa, e cuidadosa com esse senhor.

Você tombou a cabeça com curiosidade, e ele balançou a cabeça para trás. Mas você não entendeu. Colocou a mão no ombro dele. E assentiu. Quando se virou para trás, entendeu do que ele estava falando. O homem lindíssimo por quem você se derreteu em 5 segundos de convivência, por pura carência, estava atras de vocês segurando a porta para você. Um grande cavalheiro. Você pensou enquanto passava por ele, mordendo os lábios.

“Obrigada.” Você agradeceu quando já estava na rua.

“Por nada.” Ele deu um passo ao seu lado, e você parou para olhar.

“Sabe, esse livro que você está lendo, você não acha que seria muito melhor conhecer os lugares, e as obras pessoalmente, já que você já está aqui na Itália?” Ele perguntou enquanto fazia sinal para você seguir seu caminho porque ele iria te acompanhar. Você hesitou.

Quando olhou para trás, Sr. Fran estava de pé olhando pela janela da cafeteria, o que fez você querer sair correndo dali. Você só deu passos largos, para sumir do campo de visão dele. E quando percebeu que estava em uma distância segura, voltou sua atenção para a pergunta do homem.

“Meu nome é Marcus, por falar nisso.” Ele disse virando o corpo de frente para você e dando passos de costas pra rua.

“Eu adoraria conhecer pessoalmente, mas no momento os livros me satisfazem”. Você não iria assumir que era uma quebrada para ele.

Ele olhou para o céu e balançou a cabeça indignado. “Isso é besteira!” ele soltou os braços no corpo.

Ele iria atravessar a rua de costas, e quase foi atropelado por uma vespa, mas você segurou as laterais dos braços dele, em um movimento de urgência, e puxou ele para você, impedindo o acidente.

“Pazzo!!!” o piloto buzinou e gritou depois de passar a milímetros de corpo de Marcus.

O corpo de vocês estavam um ligado ao outro. Marcus era bem mais alto que você, e grande, as costas largas, os ombros delineados. Você o puxou segurando em seus bíceps, e suas mãos não conseguiam nem chegar no meio da circunferência do braço. O cheiro dele era inebriante, e o corpo quente.

Marcus passou os braços por você e segurou seus cotovelos, as mãos grandes seguravam as costas dos seus braços também, forte, firme. Ele estava olhando para o rapaz da vespa enquanto você estava perdida nele. “O que ele disse?” ele perguntou, mas você não conseguiu responder.

Você levantou sua cabeça para olhar para ele “Você está bem?” perguntou limpando a garganta.

Ele estava empurrando você gentilmente para trás, e sua voz o fez olhar diretamente em seus olhos.

“É, estou bem.” A distância era mínima entre seus rostos, você sentiu o hálito quente dele na sua cabeça. Sua respiração ficou irregular, seu corpo começou a formigar, não conseguia entender o que estava acontecendo, mas seu corpo estava reagindo a ele.

Querendo se livrar da confusão mental e corporal que ele estava te causando, você o empurrou devagar, fazendo com seus corpos se afastassem, você olhou para o chão, abaixando a cabeça, deu mais um passo para trás, se separando dele, segurando seus braços na frente do seu corpo.

“Isso” você falou indicando para a rua, “é besteira”.

Ele riu, e concordou balançando a cabeça. “De onde você é?” Ele perguntou, te olhando com as mãos no bolso.

O cara estava realmente querendo conversar com você. Você passou a mão abaixo dos olhos, para não estragar seu rímel, e sorriu, olhando para rua.

“Desculpa não queria ser chato, nem te importunar.” Ele falou abaixando a cabeça e se afastando.

“Não, tudo bem. Não está sendo chato. Eu sou daqui, moro aqui, trabalho na cafeteria caso você tenha se esquecido, e vivo aqui.” Sua mão ajeitou sua bolsa no ombro, estava pesada por conta do seu livro que estava lá dentro.

“Você estuda arte, ou algo assim?” Ele perguntou apontando para sua bolsa, indicando o livro.

“Não...” você fez uma pausa, se envergonhando um pouco por não ter uma graduação. Mas aproveitou a oportunidade por se tratar de um desconhecido, e sem ser audaciosa completou “Mas sou pintora, eu pinto telas.”

“Ual, estou diante de uma artista.” Ele falou sorrindo. O sorriso dele era contagiante, Marcus era expansivo, caloroso, charmoso, simpático, educado.

Você apontou para seguirem o caminho. Ele te acompanhou e estendeu a mão se oferecendo para segurar sua bolsa. Como não tinha nada a ser roubado ali, você entregou.

“E você? Está de passagem? O que faz para viver?” Perguntou dando uma chance para a oportunidade.

“Eu trabalho com Arte, moro em Washington e estou de férias.” Ele disse dando de ombros.

“Com arte?” Você se virou para ele, “O que você faz? Trabalha em museu ou algo assim?” perguntou com animação.

“Algo parecido com isso...” Ele não quis aprofundar. “Então, como você mora aqui, seria muita audácia pedir para que você me ensine o que fazer nesse lugar?”.

Vocês estavam quase chegando na sua casa, você parou um pouco antes das escadas, no seu apartamento, a escada de acesso era do lado de fora. Assim separava-se a casa de baixo, com a casa de cima.

Você suspirou. “Eu não posso, vai que você é um psicopata e me sequestra para tráfico de mulheres.”

Ele sorriu, “Eu jamais faria algo do tipo, a não ser que você quisesse.”

“Então você é um psicopata?” você perguntou encenando uma cara de medo.

“Não, eu sou um cara do bem. Posso provar.” Ele disse procurando algo no bolso.

“Se você vai me oferecer dinheiro, eu juro por Deus que vou socar a sua cara. Ou se você estiver armado, eu quero avisar que também estou.” Você falou em tom de brincadeira, mas se ele oferecesse você iria ficar realmente muito ofendida.

Ele tirou uma carteira, e mostrou o distintivo do FBI. E você gargalhou, jogando o corpo pra trás.

“É isso que você usa para seduzir as mulheres?” você estava rindo muito.

“Ei, isso aqui é de verdade” Ele disse enquanto conferia o distintivo para ver se era a mesma coisa que vocês dois estavam vendo.

“Você quase foi atropelado por uma vespa a minutos atras, que tipo de agente do FBI é você?”

“O tipo que cuida do setor de Artes” ele falou balançando o corpo na última palavra para enfatizar.

Você ainda estava sorrindo, colocou a mão sobre a boca, para se controlar e balançou a cabeça para dar um certo mérito a ele. “É, faz sentido, afinal, como poderia ser perigoso né? Alguém te atingir com um pincel.”

“ha ha ha, muito engraçadinha. Para seu governo, nós combatemos quadrilhas que roubam e matam por quadros, e vários artefatos de arte raríssimos, que valem fortunas.” Ele estava palestrando, e balançando o dedo como quem dá uma bronca.

“Certo, agente. Me perdoe, você realmente é um agente que combate o crime e salva a cultura de milhares de países.” Você falou séria. Tentando segurar o sorriso e o sarcasmo.

Ele te deu um empurrãozinho leve.

“Meu trabalho também é muito importante, eu mantenho pessoas sãs e felizes com doses de cafeínas, eu entendo a responsabilidade, por isso não consigo ser sua guia.” Você indicou o caminho atrás de vocês com a mão.

“Eu sei, e isso é maravilhoso. Mas você tem a tarde livre não tem? Não custa nada, um ou dois dias me mostrar o que tem de bom nessa cidade, embora eu acredite que já tenha visto.” Ele falou com os olhos maliciosos, escurecidos.  “E, eu corro perigo nas ruas desse lugar, se não fosse por você eu estaria esmagado no chão de Positano”

O jeito que ele falou fez seu estomago gelar, era estranho pensar ou supor que ele estava se referindo a você. Seus lábios se separam, e você piscava, como se estivesse enfeitiçada. Mas, voltou a si, e fechou os olhos, balançando a cabeça, ignorando o que você supôs ser uma cantada.

Você cruzou os braços, olhou para o chão, chutou o ar, e se rendeu. “Ok, eu saio da cafeteria...”

“14:15.” Ele te interrompeu.

Você ergueu as sobrancelhas em desdém, “Muito bem, sr. Agente do FBI” você pediu para ele a bolsa que estava pendurada nos ombros dele “esteja lá esse horário, e vista algo fresco, feliz, praiano.” Você se virou para subir as escadas.

“Você acha que eu não estou com roupas adequadas?” Ele esticou a camiseta abaixo dele para olhar.

Você fez um sinal com o dedo subindo e descendo pelo corpo dele, “Só se você quiser cozinhar embaixo dessa roupa de Agente que nunca tira férias.”

“Ai.” Ele respondeu como se estivesse com dor.

“Vejo você amanhã, tente não ser atropelado por nenhuma vespa”. Você estava entrando no apartamento.

“Tão engraçadinha.”

Você passou pela porta, encostou as costas nela. Jogou a bolsa no chão. E ficou olhando pro nada, repassando aqueles minutos que passou com Marcus o agente do FBI, que trabalha com artes. O mundo é completamente maluco. Você estava com um sorriso persistente no rosto, mordiscando as peles soltas do seu lábio. Vamos ver o que pode acontecer.

[fortunethief]

Yeah... 🫠

[reedrchards]

PEDRO PASCAL as MARCUS PIKE The Mentalist - "Nothing But Blue Skies"

[pedropascalito]

[perotovar]

PEDRO PASCAL as MARCUS PIKE The Mentalist (2008-2015) 6.16 "Violets"

[the-djarin-clan]

📸| Photoshoot for Esquire magazine - Norman Jean Roy

I wasn't ready for this….

[mountainsandmayhem]

Just One More, Baby

18+, Minors Do Not Interact Pairing: Pleasure!Dom Pike x Female!Reader Word Count: 2.8k Summary: Just a casual evening with your pleasure dom husband and as many as orgasm as he thinks you can handle. There is zero plot here, people. CW: so many orgasms, light bondage, temperature play, use of pet names (baby, honey, etc.) praise kink (obviously, unless you're new here. In that case; hi, welcome, I have a praise kink), aftercare AN: I need this man more than I need food or oxygen or money. I'm out of my mind over him and I curse the day I decided to watch these random ass episodes of The Mentalist. Friendy reminder that I am phasing out my tag list, so please follow @mountainsandmayhem-updates and turn on the notifications to stay up to date. Thank you so much for reading, where's my Pike Army? XO Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Masterlist

The warm oil drizzles over your mound, spreading across your hips and cunt. You let out a pained hiss when it hits your sore and overstimulated clit.

“Ouuchh,” you whine, your breathing shudders. 

“You’ve been such a good girl,” Marcus murmurs, watching the oil as it beads and rolls in every direction. “Just relax.” 

You close your eyes and try to steady your breathing. Relaxing the muscles in your arms and legs that have been pulling at the soft silk restraints for god knows how long as Marcus pulled orgasm after orgasm out of you. 

He is still dressed, he had only managed to remove his suit jacket and tie before he started. He has the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows, still tucked into the dark blue dress pants you picked up from the dry cleaner yesterday. His belt is still on, too, shoes toed off at some point during his slow torture. 

You, on the other hand, are completely naked. A delicate, white silk tie around your wrists that is then looped through the headboard, stretching your arms above your head. Your ankles are held much in the same way, one tie on each ankle, keeping your legs spread wide.

He’s used every means available to him to make you come tonight; fingers, tongue, your small purple vibrator, a dildo, or a combination of one or two of those things. He’s done everything except fuck you. At some point you lost count of the orgasms, lost track of when one would end and the next would start. 

The oil starts to soothe the dull ache he’s caused at the apex of your thighs. Marcus’s intention is never to cause you pain, but tonight you learned that too much pleasure can feel like torture. 

You let out a content sigh, muscles going gooey and pliant. “There’s my girl,” he says proudly, his strong hands coming to your hips, his thumbs needing the muscles along the crevice of your leg and pelvis. 

He clears his throat gently. “I think I counted sixteen.” 

You smirk and let out a small giggle, eyes still closed as you relax into his touches. He kisses the plush skin along your lower belly. His soft velvety lips are gentle, granted Marcus Pike is always gentle. Yes, he’ll tie you down or make you orgasm so many times you black out, but he’s always soft and warm. Always asking for permissions. Always explaining exactly what’s going to happen before it does - not that you have an option, or want an option if you’re being honest.

“Baby girl?” He mumbles, his breath hitting the oil, warming your most sensitive spots. You shudder, an icy shiver running down your spine at the feel of him. “Think we can get you to twenty?” 

His hands move to massage the tops of your thighs, thumbs crawling closer and closer to your pussy. Your clit twitches at the promise of him giving you another orgasm, that blissful tingle causes the tired and overworked walls of your cunt to flutter. Pleasure followed by a dull painful ache waves across your center and mix of a whine and whimper fills the room.

“What’s the matter, baby?”

His thumbs come to carefully pull apart your puffy outer lips. Watching intently as the oil coats your glistening folds. A moan rumbled in his chest, “Beautiful.” 

“I’m sensitive, Marcus,” you murmur, pulling at the silk ties he has your hands bound above your head with.

“I know, this perfect little pussy has taken so much. And you’ve been so brave and submissive. I’m so proud of you, honey.” He places a light kiss on the patch of hair right above your clit. 

Your orgasm happens so quickly and without him even touching you. A lustful gasp leaves your lips as you shake under him. His voice is full of lustful admiration as he says, “Good job, baby.”

Your muscles tense, hands fisting, as the orgasm rolls through you. You whine his name, equally desperate for the orgasm to end but also for it to never stop. “Just relax, that’s my good girl.” 

“Oh god,” your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath. 

“Look at me, darling.” Marcus said sweetly, the soft pads of his thumbs running up and down the slick lips of your pussy. 

You look down at him, the soft expression of his face riddling you with emotions. You can feel the tears prickle behind your eyes. Tears of what you aren’t sure. Happiness, that’s for sure. But also a sense of overwhelm and insatiable need, it’s all mixed together. You can stop it, a hot tear runs down your flushed cheek. 

“It’s ok. I’m right here,” He says softly. “You can do this, baby. Just three more, then I’ll run you a bubble bath and give you my sweat pants and all the cuddles. Can you do that? Can you give me three more?” 

“No,” you say through a shaky breath. He’s trying to kill you, you’re sure of it. And while death by orgasm might sound like a great way to go, your pussy is aching and tired. 

His thumbs stop their ministrations. 

“Do you need to use your safe word?” 

You shake your head, “No.”

He lowers his mouth to your swollen clit, lightly feathers his tongue over the tender bundle of nerves. You pull so hard on the restraints that the delicate silk snaps and your hands card through his hair, pulling him back. He has you on that paper thin line of pain and pleasure, but the slight attention to your puffy clit slices through you. “Nonono - please stop.” 

“Do you need to use your safe word?” He asks again.

You shake your head no.

“Do you need me to go get some ice? Make my tongue nice and cold, then make your pussy feel better?” 

“Yes, please.” You pout, sticking out your bottom lip. 

Marcus stands and removes his belt. “Ok baby, but first, my naughty little girl broke her restraints. Arms up.”

You put your arms back above your head and he expertly loops the belt around your wrists. He leaves the scraps of silk that are still around your delicate wrists and then wraps the belt around the headboard.

He stands beside the bed, looking down at you hungrily. “Fuck, I could torture you for hours,” his eyes flick to the alarm clock across the from you and then back to your flushed face. Smirking a little, he corrects himself. “I already have been, so I guess I should say that I will never be sick of seeing you like this. So submissive and sweet. Listening to my every word. Teetering on the edge of pain and pleasure. You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” 

He runs the back of his hand down your cheek, you keen into his touch and smile at him. “Yes, I’m a good girl, Marcus.” 

He bends down, kissing your forehead and then the tip of your nose before he walks out of the bedroom. You look him up and down, so sexy in his dress pants and white dress shirt, his strong, veiny forearms on display. You had no idea what you were in for when he ditched the tie and suit jacket the moment he walked in the door tonight. But you knew that look. When frustration etched his eyebrows and a hunger flashed in his eyes. You knew he needed an escape, and you knew it came in the form doing exactly as he says.  

Marcus grabs a small bowl and fills it with ice from the freezer. He grabs you a bottle of water and then pops an ice cube in his mouth, letting the frozen water melt on his tongue as he walks back up the stairs. As he re-enters the bedroom he sees you lying there - spread eagle and arms bound, eyes closed peacefully, long lashes resting on your cheeks. Your swollen tits rise and fall, nipples hard and slightly purple from the rose gold clamps he had on them earlier. You look sinful and delicious. He meant what he said, he could do this to you forever and never get sick of it. But as your pleasure dom he knows he’s going to have to stop soon. The folds of your pussy are puffy and red, he sucks the ice cube harder, making it small enough so he can speak. 

“Goddamn,” it comes out as groan. “You’re so fuckin beautiful.” 

You flutter your eyes open, “So are you.” 

You swear he blushes as a shy smile crosses his face. “I’m going to make it all better now, baby. I’m going to use my mouth to make you come again now. My tongue is nice and cool, it should help with that ache.”

He puts the water on the bench at the foot of the bed and then climbs between your legs, placing the bowl of ice on the bed beside your hip. “Are you ready, baby girl?” 

You gulp before whispering, “Yes.” 

His cold tongue licks a slow, flat, languid line from your entrance to your clit. The cooler temperature of his mouth soothes the burning heat between your thighs. 

“Mmmm - Th-thank you, Marcus,” you hum as he repeats the motion with his tongue two, three, four more times. 

He grabs a new ice cube and pops it in his mouth. As he sucks on it, he grabs a second cube and runs it down the right outer lip of your cunt. He hushes you as you cry out and then does the same thing to the left side. The cube in his mouth has melted enough now for him to continue tasting you. He places the flat of his tongue on your clit and presses down, his hand with the ice cube comes to your right nipple. Ice starts to combat the fire in your veins, and as he trails the ice cube around your nipple, his tongue mirrors the pattern on your swollen nub. 

And then it happens again. For the eighteenth time tonight, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your convulse under his cold tongue and as quickly as the orgasm starts it’s over. You’d think after coming this many times in the last two hours that you’d be satisfied and exhausted, but the quickness of that last one leaves you wanting more.

He stills his tongue and lets you grind on him, the ice cube he was trailing along your body has melted. He grabs a fresh one and traces it along your body as you shamelessly hump your husband’s face.

He brings the ice cube to rest right above your mound, the cold water running down your folds, causing you to hiss as it hits your clit. 

Marcus pulls his tongue away quickly to say, “Come on, baby.” He lays his tongue out for you again and you push your hips into him harder. 

“Fuckfuckfuck - Marcus, I - I’m, oh fuuuuuck.”

He slips the ice cube between his tongue and your cunt and you shatter around him.

“Oh god, mmmmm, yes.” Your voice is hoarse, throat dry from the combination of your rapid breathing and incoherent ramblings throughout the night.

He stays still, letting you control your nineteenth orgasm. His name spills from your lips as you circle your hips. The walls of your pussy clench and release around nothing, slowly and deeply, over and over. Sparks of pleasure light behind your eyes. 

“Marcus. Yesyes - oh my god,” your legs start to tremble as you come down the other side of the most intense orgasm you’ve had so far tonight. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, kissing up your hip bone to your stomach, your navel to your sternum, the swell of your breasts to your neck, and finally your lips. “You’re doing so well, baby. Just one more. Can you do just one more for me?” 

You strain your neck to press your lips to his again. Kissing him deeply and slowly. “One more,” you mumble into his lips. 

“I’m going to untie you for this one. I want to feel your fingers tug at my hair as I suck on that perfect little clit while pushing my fingers against that little spot inside of you that drives you absolutely wild. Is that ok, little one?” 

“Mmm,” you hum. Mischievously adding, “Yes, daddy.” 

Marcus laughs flirtatiously as he releases your wrists from his belt and the torn silk ties. “Are you okay, baby?” 

You nod as he guides your arms down and then situates himself between your soft, plush thighs, sitting back on his heels.

“Do you need a drink?” He asks, grabbing the water from the foot of the bed. 

“Yes, please.”

He cracks the lid and then helps you sit, guiding the bottle to your lips. You sip a little, the cool water soothes your throat. Marcus’s brown eyes bore into you, soothing the rest of your body. “One more, baby,” he whispers. 

You hum in agreement before lying back down in the bed. Marcus leaves your ankles restrained as he unbuttons his dress shirt and then tosses it on the floor. You eye his hard chest and slightly soft belly, a line of dark hair that starts at his navel and travels down to his cock, which is rock hard under his dress pants.

He gives you a shy closed lip smile, “Do you need to use your safe word?” 

“No,” you say breathily.

Marcus grabs an ice cube and holds it in his fist, his lips coming to place lingering kisses on your clit. Making out with one of his favourite parts of you. Kissing and kissing, occasionally running his tongue along it before kissing you deeply again. 

Once the ice cube in his hand has melted, he teases at your entrance with two cold fingers. You cry out, as pushes them all the way in and then he curls them forward, turning you into a moaning mess. You wrap your fingers into his hair like he asked, holding his face against you. 

“That’s my girl,” he says between kisses. “So good for me.” 

He sucks your clit into his mouth, pumping his fingers against your g spot. A pained cry passes your lips, “aah, it hurts.” 

“I know, baby. You’re so close.” He whispers encouragingly, pausing the suckling on your clit, keeping his fingers still. 

“I - I can’t.”

“You can do it, baby. You’re almost there. I can feel you clenching me.” He curls his fingers forward slowly. “Come on, my love.” 

“M - Marcus. It hurts, baby. I can’t. I can’t.” You whimper. 

“Relax, baby.” His free hand presses on your lower belly and the pressure behind your navel becomes nearly unbearable. “That’s it, fuck baby. I can feel her fluttering for me. Can feel your orgasm building. You’re amazing, did you know that? Give me number twenty, pretty girl.”

You whimper again, willing your body to relax. Willing for the dull painful ache to blossom into pleasure.

“Good girl. Just relax,” he presses down on your stomach harder, his fingers still cold inside you as they tickle against the front wall of your pussy. 

You tighten your grip in his hair and he hisses at the pain in his scalp before bringing his lips back to your clit. He sucks it into his mouth loudly, lewd sucking noises filling the room, only interrupted by your mumbles of building pleasure. 

He releases your clit, “Let go for me.”

With a final steadying breath it hits you. Your last orgasm sashes over, erasing every thought until all you are is the pleasure Marcus gives you. Your abused pussy flutters weakly around his fingers as he pumps them inside of you. You gasp and squeal as your body breaks out in goosebumps, but simultaneously glistens with a fresh sheen of sweat. 

Marcus slows his fingers and looks up at you through his lashes. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers in awe as the involuntary full body twitching of your orgasm starts to slow.

“So…” he kisses your mound.

“...Very…” he stops his fingers and kisses your hip. 

“...Beautiful,” he starts to slowly slip his fingers out and your body goes slack. 

You lay there panting, trying to catch your breath and find your muscles. Marcus unties your ankles and climbs beside you, pulling you into him and tucking your head into his neck. 

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hairline, kissing you softly. “You did so well for me. Twenty orgasms. My good girl.” 

You roll into him tighter and wince when your thighs squeeze together. 

“Aw, baby. Is she sore?” 

You pull back to be able to look at him. “A little, yeah.” 

“Come here,” he pulls you closer. “Just let me hold you a little and then I’ll run you that bubble bath I promised.” 

“Will you come in with me?” You ask sleepily. 

Marcus laughs gently, “Of course. Whatever my baby wants.” 

You nuzzle deeper into his skin and let your eyelids close. Completely and utterly surrounded by your beautiful husband. 

[softiedingo]

[qveerthe0ry]

Your Ride, Best Trip

Summary: You sleep with your boyfriend Marcus for the first time Word Count: 9,001 Pairing: Marcus Pike x f! afab! reader Rating: 18+ Explicit Warnings: 18+ mdni, first time, vaginal fingering, oral (m! and f! receiving), unprotected PIV, squirting, creampie, dirty talk, so much fluff, so much kissing Betas: @for-a-longlongtime and @perotovar as ALWAYS. Love you homies I'm kissing u both <3 A/N: I have nothing to say for myself this time

Marcus Pike is perfect. 

He’s your dream man. 

He’s sweet. He brings you flowers just because, and he’s remembered your go-to coffee order, and he never goes to bed without texting you goodnight.

He’s effortlessly kind. He offers to walk your dog for you when you aren’t feeling well enough to get out of bed, and he always does the dishes when you cook for him, and he makes sure his bathroom is stocked with all the personal products you use at your own place. 

He’s fucking handsome. His smile is straight and pearly white, and his big brown eyes warm you up, and the way his broad shoulders fill out those suits he wears to work never fails to make you weak in the knees. 

He’s so smart, and he’s so funny, and he’s all yours… finally. 

See, when he hadn’t so much as kissed you by your third date, you wigged out a bit. 

How could you not? He’d been so thoughtful and caring and all you wanted was to feel those pillowy, soft lips against your own. 

So you asked him what was up, and he told you.

Divorced. Broken engagement. A whole year of therapy to pinpoint what went wrong, what he could change, and how he could do better, how he could feel better. And then, he said, he found you— like fate— when he wasn’t even looking, when he least expected it. 

You had no problem taking it slow. You’re still convinced you’d wait forever for him, as perfect as he is.

After too many little dates to count, he told you he wanted to be your boyfriend, if you’d have him.

You told him you’d love for him to be your boyfriend, of course. You’d be crazy not too. 

And then he finally kissed you.

It was slow and hesitant, but it still made your heart race, made your stomach do flips. He cut it off before it could become anything more than chaste, and left your front door with a sheepish goodnight. 

You’ve kissed a lot since then. You never really enjoyed kissing that much, before. It always just seemed like a means to and end, a formality before moving on to other things. 

But now it’s one of your favorite ways to pass the time with him. Waiting for an Uber to take you downtown, finally getting to his place on Friday after a long work week, cuddling in bed together with an old movie playing.

You haven’t made out with anyone this much since high school. And you enjoy it, you do, but Jesus Christ, he’s been your boyfriend for three weeks now and you need him. 

It doesn’t help that he touches you like you’re the last person on earth. His hands are so big and they’re gentle and electric when they find the bit of skin just under the hem of your shirt. 

You think it’s going to happen, this time. Friday night takeout has long been abandoned in the living room. You’re in his bed, in his clothes, and his pinky is teasing at the waistband of his sweats that you’re wearing. 

His tongue in your mouth is making you dizzy, and there’s no more blood in your brain with all of it rushing between your legs. You whimper, and you arch against him, and you want him so bad but you can’t say it. You’d feel bad, making him rush when he’s made it clear he wants to take things slow. 

When his lips leave yours, you open your eyes, and find his pupils obstructing all the deep, dark brown you adore. 

You have to squeeze your thighs together for a miniscule amount of relief. He notices. Of course he does. Damn that Quantico training. 

“Sweetheart—”

His eyes flicker down to your lips. You’re sure they look obscene, red and slick from nearly an hour of him sucking and nibbling on them. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

You don’t know why you say it, but you are sorry. You feel so bad for wanting him like this, desperate and aching in his bed, over eager. 

“Don’t be,” he shakes his head and gives you a reluctant smile, a smile that tells you you’re going to fall asleep extremely sexually frustrated. 

But it’s fine. He’s so worth it. 

You give him a soft smile back, and lean in to peck his lips. But he pulls away with his brow furrowed. 

“What do you want?” 

His voice is gentle when he asks. So is his hand on your back, under his shirt you’ve claimed. But it doesn’t stop that fight or flight response from kicking in. 

“Nothing! Nothing, Marcus, I’m okay— I’m great. Just wanna cuddle.” 

But the creases in his forehead don’t smooth out, and his hand ceases the soothing circles across your spine. 

“You’re lying.” 

You sigh and close your eyes. 

“I’m not lying, I’m just— I don’t want to push you to move too fast.” 

You expect him to be angry. But when you open your eyes again, his own have taken on that puppy-like quality you usually love. Right now, it just makes you feel guilty. 

“I’ve been lying, too,” Marcus whispers. 

It’s your turn to scrunch your face up. Your blood runs cold, waiting for him to elaborate. A million scenarios run through your head at lighting speed— all worse and worse until your breathing picks up and you beg him with your eyes to just get on with it—

“I have a small dick.” 

His face is so flushed. He can’t meet your gaze.

He’s staring at the bedsheets between you, and you’re both just silent for a long, awkward moment. 

“I mean— the divorce and all that, it’s all true. And I did want to keep from moving too fast. But— the last few weeks I guess I’ve just been… stalling?” 

He finally looks up from the threads to gauge your reaction. 

“Marcus…”

“I get it, okay? If you wanna go. I know I lied, and you didn’t sign up for—“

“Marcus.”

You watch his shoulders raise and his mouth snap shut, and he looks terrified.

“I don’t want to leave. You didn’t lie. It’s just— you really think that would bother me?” 

He lets out a big breath, and the tension in his body eases up a little. 

“I don’t know. Most people were… bothered. I guess,” he shrugs. 

You cradle his jaw in your hand, let the day-old stubble tickle the pad of your thumb as you think about how to best navigate this conversation. 

Because saying ‘I don’t care’ seems too dismissive. But you don’t. You couldn’t possibly care less about what’s in his pants, when everything else about him has made you fall so, so deep already. But you don’t want to make it sound like it’s something you have to even bargain with, like the pros outweigh the cons, like it even is a con. Because it’s not. 

“I’m not bothered,” you finally tell him. 

He still doesn’t meet your eyes, in fact, he rolls his. 

“You don’t have to lie to me. It’s okay, I’ve heard it all. I know I’ve lead you on—”

“Jesus,” you cut him off, “what did— who made you feel this way?” 

He finally looks at you. His eyes are wide and he looks vulnerable and hesitant. You swipe away some hair that’s fallen flat across his scrunched forehead. 

“Everyone?” 

You sigh his name, and you’re tentative when you lean forward to kiss him, softly, when he lets you. 

He looks less terrified when you pull back. You try to smile, but this whole interaction has left such a bad taste in your mouth that it feels more like a grimace when your lips turn up. 

“That’s— Fucking awful, to be frank. Pardon my French.”

He chuckles, but his gaze falls away from your face again. His sheets are not that interesting to look at. 

“Really, Marcus. I mean— maybe if someone’s just looking for a hookup, then I get it. You want something specific, whatever. But why would you ever think you were leading me on?

All you’ve done is be sweet to me, and shown interest in me, and taken care of me. Unless you’re like, secretly an ax murderer, or committing some kind of major tax fraud, you haven’t led me on at all.”

He’s still not looking at you. Why won’t he look at you, and believe you? 

“I don’t want to sound dismissive. I understand you’re insecure about it. I’m insecure about some things too. I don’t want to invalidate that. But I need you to know that the last thing I care about is how big your dick is.” 

There. He’s looking at you. He looks a little mortified, but he’s finally meeting your gaze. 

“Really?”

You scoff. 

“Really really.”

A reluctant smile tugs on the corner of his pretty mouth. 

“Why?”

“Because— now, don’t go getting a big head about this— you’re perfect. Like, everything about you. You’re sweet and you make me laugh and you’re gorgeous.”

His face flushes, but he lets you continue.

“And I’m in this, with you. I want this to go somewhere. And I think we’re super compatible.”

“Me too,” he whispers.

“Good, so… we’re on the same page then.”

You watch him lick his lips, and his hand that’s been loosely draped over your waist finally starts back up, drawing little circles across the base of your spine. 

“And… There’s other reasons,” you mumble, voice low with a hint of mischief.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah… For one, your hands.”

“My hands?”

He emphasizes his question with a squeeze of your hip, and you giggle at the way it tickles, and also with a bit of embarrassment. 

“Yeah… They’re uh… big. I look at them a lot. Honestly surprised you haven’t noticed.”

He huffs, lets his big hand travel further up the shirt on your back. 

“Your nails are always trimmed, and— your fingers are long and thick. I’ve thought about them a lot.”

He breathes your name, and now you realize you’re the one avoiding eye contact. When you look back, his pupils are all blown out again, and it spurs you on.

“And I love to give head.”

“Jesus.”

“And the bigger it is, the quicker I get tired. I could stay down there all night, if my jaw didn’t get sore.” 

“Sweetheart—”

“Really, it’s one of my favorite things, making someone fall apart under my mouth. But I hate gagging and choking my way through it. It’s tedious.”

He says your name again, this time with a warning tone. 

You bite your lip to keep anything from tumbling from your mouth unwarranted. 

“You’re not lying.”

His eyes dart back and forth across your face, and you shake your head in lieu of opening your mouth again. 

“Fuck.”

It’s the first time Marcus has cursed in front of you. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and your clit throbs. 

“I’ve thought about you so much. Your lips, you have to know, right? How plump and full they are… I think about them at night, when I’m touching myself.” 

That’s convincing enough, apparently. Before you can embarrass yourself any further with your confessions, he surges forward to press those plush lips against yours and groans into your mouth. 

His hand flattens against your back and pulls, manhandling you closer to him. Your fingers find his silky hair and tangle in the strands, holding on for dear life at this shift between the two of you. 

You can’t muster up an ounce of shame. Finally, you have Marcus where you want him, pressed against you. You hike a leg over one of his, getting it between your thighs for even the smallest amount of friction. 

You feel him gasp, chest inflating to press even closer against yours. It’s a rush, finally getting this after waiting so long. 

Your hands scramble to get under his white t-shirt. His skin is hot, even against your sweaty palms. There’s so much to feel, the slight swell of his stomach, and the muscle of his flank, the soft but firm pecs. 

You whine when he pulls away from your lips. He shushes you gently, and you open your eyes to watch his slick lips and his hooded eyes and flushed face disappear briefly, just quick enough to shed his shirt. 

Smooth, is the first thing that comes to mind. His tan skin has no hair above his belly button, just the errant freckle here and there. His nipples are peaked, and you reach out to press your thumb against one before your mind catches up to the action, before you realize you’re gawking. 

But when your hand stutters against his skin and you look up at him, he’s smirking, amused and turned on. You falter a bit, mouth open while you search for something to say, some sort of excuse as to why you’re devouring him like you’re starved. 

He saves you though, with his low, grumbled voice. 

“I think about you, too. All the time.” 

You dig your nails into his soft skin at his admission, scraping against his chest. 

“You know that? You think I haven’t had you a million different ways in my head?” 

Your heart stops beating, and you stop breathing, and the heat between your legs only gets heavier and wetter. 

“You want me to show you, sweetheart?”

Your heartbeat comes back as a rush in your ears, and you squeeze the meat of his pec as you nod. 

He kisses you again, licks at your lips until you suck his tongue into your mouth, and now it’s just filthy. No more pretense, it’s been months of pretense, and neither of you have any more patience. 

His fingers seek out your own nipple, a tight bud protruding through cloth, and he rolls it between his fingers gently over the material of his shirt. 

“You come over and wear my clothes like this, and you think you don’t drive me crazy?” 

The words are grumbled into your mouth, against your cheek, then your jaw and your neck as he seeks out more of you to kiss. 

“I don’t wash them when you leave. I wear them and I smell you all day and it makes me feel insane.”

You mewl at his admission. Everything he says now is so fucking raw, now that you’ve broken down his walls. He shushes you again, grabs the hem of his shirt to help you pull it over your head. 

He curses when he sees you. It’s the first time. You’ve both been toeing this line of modesty, and maybe you’d be more nervous if you weren’t careening toward the pleasure he’s promised you. 

He coaxes you to lie on your back beside him, and his mouth works a slow trail down the side of your neck, nipping and suckling until he finally gets your nipple in his mouth. You arch into it, encouraging him with a hand tangled in his thick hair. You feel his groan reverberating around your rib cage when you scrape your nails back and forth across his scalp. You need him, like nothing you’ve ever craved before. 

“Marcus—”

“I know, I know.”

His syrupy voice isn’t as soothing as his lips, though, when he cranes his neck back up to kiss you again. He nips there, a sneaky distraction from the way his fingers trail down to circle your navel, and then even farther, teasing the hem of his sweatpants you’re wearing. His featherlight touch makes you jolt when it finally registers, your stomach jumping under his fingers. 

“Can I?”

You’re nodding against his lips, into the kiss, and then whining when his hand breaches the waistband. Those thick, long fingers flutter across your mound. Your breath catches on every wiggle. But when his fingers splay out, half on one side of your slit and half on the other, teasing your lips, you exhale hard and press up into his touch. 

“Oh, are you that sensitive?”

His voice is half-teasing, half-shocked, as he mumbles into the tingling skin of your neck. 

“It’s just you.” 

And it’s true. There’s no ego-stroking here. You’ve waited too long to get this and now you’re fiending, any touch is a relief. 

And he’s huffing into that skin under your ear, like you’re playing it up too much, but he bites down on the skin anyway and groans. 

“So sweet, huh?”

You make a disgruntled noise but there’s not enough blood in your brain to get your point across. Instead, you wrap your hand around his meaty forearm and force his fingers lower, where you know your underwear is a soaking, sticky mess. 

He curses and pulls away from his assault on your neck to look at you. You’re certain you know what he sees, blown out pupils and sweat-slick forehead and bitten, shiny lips. 

“That’s all for me?” 

There’s a sly smile tugging at one side of his mouth, just barely there, but you see it in the way one dimple grows more than the other. You nod in answer, scrape your nails up the hair on his arm and watch him shudder.

But he retreats from between your legs, and chuckles when you squeeze his forearm tighter in protest. The sound makes you shiver, all low and gruff and teasing. But he softens the blow with another one of his kisses, heated and sloppy and needy. His hands, always so gentle and careful and big, find the creases between your hips and thighs. It makes you arch up into the touch and whimper again, and you wonder briefly if you’ll ever not be desperate for him again. 

He watches your face twist up when he pulls away from you, watches the way your breasts move with every heave of your lungs. His dark eyes travel lower, where his thumbs sear circles into your hips, and his tongue swipes across his lower lip. 

“Can I take these off, sweetheart?” 

The tenderness in his voice fills you with a completely different warmth, white hot flames simmering into a blaze of feelings you aren’t sure you’ve ever truly experienced before. You let it consume you. 

“Yes, please.”

He hums a satisfied little noise as his fingers hook under the waistband. He takes his time, making sure to catch your underwear as well. It’s a sight, his huge hands working your only remaining cover down, down, until you’re bare to him and he’s gently cradling each of your calves to fully remove the last of your clothes. 

Those hands work their way back up, attentive, memorizing the valleys and peaks of your flesh, the nuances of your skin, the way it bends over your joints. Before you know it, he’s propped himself up beside you once again, one arm supporting his weight so his other hand can work its way between your thighs. 

You drag your eyes away from his fingers to look at him, only to find him focused on your face. 

It’s a few long moments before either of you move or speak or breathe. It’s you who breaks the spell, only because you know you’re at the very edge of control. 

“You sure you’re ready?”

You reach up to cradle his neck in your hand. It’s hot to the touch, and so are his ears, the tips of them burning a cute pink where your thumb grazes them. His eyes get softer and crinkle even more around the edges.

“I’m positive… can’t believe I psyched myself out for so long.”

He huffs and shakes his head at himself. You’re ready to kiss that apprehension away again, but his hand on your thigh pulls, as gentle as everything else he’s done, to spread yourself open for him. 

The cool air makes your breath catch in your throat. Or maybe it’s the anticipation. So close to what you’ve thought about every single night for weeks. Months– since the day you first met, if you’re being honest. 

He keeps his eyes on you, and you hold his gaze even though it burns. But only until his fingers brush you. Your eyelids flutter shut at the feeling, mouth open wide in shock at how electric just one simple touch feels. 

His finger glides so easily around your opening, and you hear him gasp as he explores all the slick.

“You’re soaked.” 

His voice is thick with awe, as another finger joins in on the fun, gathering up your arousal. But they don’t breach, and you feel like he’s teasing, readying a whine in protest. 

The noise gets stuck in your throat when they trail up, gliding through your swollen folds. They find your clit, full and begging for attention, and circle with hardly any pressure. 

Oh, he’s fucking good at this. 

There’s no apprehension in his movements. It’s like he’s read a fucking manual on how to press all your buttons. The light, slick touches are building up that heat in your gut quicker than you can ever remember with anyone else. 

You’re stunned silent, eyes pinched shut and your head tilted back into the mattress, digging in for even an ounce of grounding. 

“That feel good, sweetheart?”

Your vocal chords come back to life, finally, as you whimper from the gentle drag of his fingers. 

“You have no idea.”

He chuckles, and you open your eyes to see his own still trained on your face. 

“I think I do,” he mumbles.

He shifts, presses his hips into you, and the hard line of him digs into your side. 

You clench around nothing, and your clit pulses under the pads of his fingers. He curses and responds to the needy little bud, applying more pressure and speeding up those little circles. 

All the while he grinds his hips into you, soft little movements that sync up with his hand, and you want him so bad. You’re losing patience by the second, the only thing keeping you from pouncing is the way his fingers work you over so perfectly it’s like you’re touching yourself. 

You’re not, though, and that becomes perfectly clear when one thick, long finger presses lower and slips into you. It slides so easily, despite how much girth it has on one of your own. You both make stuttered noises at the feeling, and Marcus’ lips capture your own to let them mingle together. 

Your hips egg him on, lifting and shifting, but he is teasing now. It’s a slow drag in and out, his finger pin straight, and if he hadn’t been so diligent this entire time you’d think he didn’t know what he was doing. 

But you whine, a soft plea of his name into his mouth, and he obliges. That thick finger crooks up, just as the heel of his hand flattens against your clit, and stars bloom behind your eyelids. 

You groan, and he laps it up before his lips leave yours. 

“That’s it. This what you needed?”

A pathetic whimper comes out in response as you nod your head. His finger presses harder into that perfect spot, and his palm slides over your wet clit. You’re clenching around him, savoring the feeling of being filled by him, working your hips down and back to meet his motions. It grows and grows, that feeling in your gut, so close that you can’t be bothered to worry about what needy noises you’re making.

He mutters another frantic curse, and his hips jump to press his cock into you harder. 

“I gotta taste you, sweetheart. Can I? Will you let me?” 

You nod so fast you’re surprised your head doesn’t detach from your neck. He soothes that frenzied part of your brain with another kiss, slips his finger out of you, and moves to get between your legs. 

You thread your fingers through his hair to keep him still, even if it’s just for a moment. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and the drag of his sweatpants across your sensitive center makes you arch up into him for more, to seek out more friction. 

He just huffs a laugh against your lips and angles his hips away, denying you the simple pleasure of grinding against the tent in his pants. 

“Not yet. Let me take my time with you. You’ve waited so long, right? I’ll make it up to you, you just gotta let me.” 

You huff. 

You should’ve known Marcus would be just as much of an infuriating tease in the bedroom as he is outside of it. The trivia dates and the cocky smirk he always sported when he won, the little bets he’d make on how a movie’s plot was going to twist, the refusal to ever let you pay for dinner— it’s all adding up now, and you can’t believe you didn’t expect it. 

Marcus Pike is a smug little prick underneath the humble, sheepish grins, and it’s hot and it’s yours. 

“Put your money where your mouth is,” you breathe. 

He chuckles and trails said mouth down the length of your naked body. You watch his plump lips explore your skin and leave wet patches littered in their wake, shiny little stakes claiming you. His five o’clock shadow is just long enough to abrade your skin a bit, delightful little pricks that make your muscles jump involuntarily.

He makes it to your mound before looking up at you. His brown eyes are mostly obstructed by his pupils, but they shine all glassy in the dim lamplight of his bedroom. His shitty grin has faded and he looks determined, and it steals the breath from your lungs. 

He teases some more, of course he does. His lips peck and tickle the creases of your thighs, the skin of your outer lips, and the very tip of your hood before you finally see his pink tongue slip out. 

All of a sudden you can’t watch, can only let your head fall back and close your eyes and drown in the anticipation. 

The pointed tip of his tongue just barely grazes you, tracing a razor-thin line from your dripping hole all the way to your mound. It tickles, and your breath comes in faster as he does it again, and again, and again. 

Just before you can beg for more, he flattens his tongue and drags it up your slit. He laps at your folds, slow and calculated, and the satisfied noises tumble out of you as you feel his taste buds glide against you. 

All you can think to do is find his hair and use it to hang on. Your legs spread wider, and he takes the encouragement. His tongue finds your clit, so swollen and sensitive with need by now. He circles it, then wiggles his tongue back and forth, playing with it, playing with you. He shakes his head from side to side to give you more, presses even more firmly, and the heavy feeling in your gut tightens tenfold. 

Your hips start to move on their own, rocking up into his face, helping his motions along. He groans with it, muffled and wet between your legs. 

A delirious thought gets stuck in your horny brain. You don’t know how you’ll ever let him leave this spot between your legs now that you’ve finally got him here. It’s so wet and warm and incredible, and your nails dig into his scalp to drive the point home, to try and lock him here forever. 

His voice snaps you from your reverent thoughts, thick and deep. 

“Fuck, sweetheart. You taste so good, looks so fucking pretty.” 

You brave a glance down at him, his red soaked mouth and his dark eyes that are boring holes into your pussy. One of his hands releases its grip on your thigh to glide across the dripping mess of your center. He toys with you, spreading you open with splayed fingers, watching the way your folds bend to his whim. With it exposed and protruding and aching for his touch, he leans down to wrap his plush lips around your clit and suckle. Curses fly from your lips at the concentrated attention, and it’s so so so fucking good you’re sure you’re going combust. 

His hand slips lower, and his mouth doesn’t stop, and you’re dangerously close to tipping over the edge. And then two thick fingers slip easily into you, immediately seeking out that spot inside you and tapping there. 

It’s blinding pressure overwhelming the two places you need him most. He drums up a rhythm that would remind you of a dance, maybe, if your brain were cognitive enough to form a coherent thought. Down with his head, engulfing your clit, and up with his fingers, squeezing that spongy spot inside you. Over and over, he works you with soft grunts against your cunt until your fingers lock up in his hair and your hips start to shake. 

“Please don’t stop,” you pant, “I’m so close.” 

To his credit, and this is more than you can say for the majority of men you’ve been with, he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow down, nor does he speed up. He keeps at you exactly how you need it, moaning strung-out little noises into your center until you’re dropping. 

All the wind is knocked out of you. Your hips jolt into his face and he takes it in stride, lapping at your clit when the seal of his lips is broken from your erratic movements. You tremble through it, clench around his fingers, and squeeze his head between your thighs as you ride it out on his tongue. 

As the shivers roll through you, Marcus’ fingers slow, and though he can’t remove his tongue from you because of how your legs have him in a headlock, he stills his tongue so you can take the last bit of what you need from him. 

His breathing is just as heavy as yours, wheezing out moans and muffled words of encouragement. When you feel yourself slipping down from your peak, you let go of the death grip on his hair, and open your legs, and grant yourself a few deep breaths before you dare to look down at him. 

He carefully, cautiously pulls his fingers out of you. A comforting ‘shhh’ is cooed into the sweaty skin of your thigh when you make a strangled sound. Both of his hands splay out on either hip, a light and grounding touch accompanied by the kisses he’s dropping all over the skin he can reach. 

Finally, you grant yourself a peek down at him. The first thing you notice is how his broad shoulders are, heaving with baited breath. Then, his normally pristine hair, sticking out every which way and then some from your frantic fingers. 

His face is red, you guess from exertion. Or maybe you really did restrict some blood flow. Christ. That’s what he gets, being so goddamn good at that. 

And then his lips. His lips. Those lips that up until now you’ve only ever kissed or dreamed of. They’re even more plump, swollen and slick with you, shining just like his chin is. 

You don’t know what to say. You know you want to kiss him. Funny, considering that’s how all this started, but you’re dying to see what you taste like on him. 

Luckily, he breaks the silence, after licking those delectable lips and clearing his throat. 

“So… How’d it compare?” 

Your face contorts on its own, surprised at the sudden and intrusive question. 

“Pardon?”

But then he laughs, pressing those wet dimples into your heated skin to hide them. 

“To all those thoughts you told me about. How’d I do?” 

You laugh too then, a weary huff of breath as you sit up. 

“Don’t go fishing for compliments,” you tease, though there’s not much heat behind it with how out of breath you still are. 

He goes to respond, but you get a hand in his hair again and coax him up. You meet him halfway, swallowing his surprised noise when you finally get those pillowy lips against yours and lick at them, his tongue, his teeth, until you aren’t sure what taste is you and what is him. Until you realize you’re flat on your back again as he hovers over you, still between your thighs. 

You both hum when the kiss breaks, and you rest your forehead against his, nuzzle his nose and sigh at the floaty feeling in your limbs. 

“Better,” you whisper. 

You feel his grin bump into your own. You nip at it, playful and languid as you finally begin to get some of your bearings back. 

And then you’re shocked back into the realization that there’s all this smooth skin right in front of you, this hunk of a man hovering above, the one who just melted your brain into a fuzzy little mold of itself. You grab his hips as he licks into your mouth and scrape your nails up his flanks, unhurried, while the touch makes him shiver. 

You feel out the strength in his pecs, those broad shoulders you often daydream about, and then you push. Catching him off guard, he gasps as he loses his balance and tumbles to the side, and then laughs when you press him into the mattress and straddle his hips. 

You laugh along with him, but it slowly tapers off as his hands find your naked skin— your stomach and hips and back and then your ass, where it hovers just above that bulge in his sweatpants. 

He’s looking up at you with what you can only describe as horny apprehension. 

His eyelids droop over his dilated pupils, but his brow is all pinched up in the middle. His mouth hangs open, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. 

So you kiss him, soft and gentle, as gentle as he’s been with you all night. His sigh washes heat across your cheeks, and you feel him relax under you just a little. 

But then you shift in his grasp, lower your ass, and press your soaking center to his crotch. You whimper at the feeling of his sweatpants dragging across your sensitive, wet cunt. He moans and bites at your bottom lip maybe a little too hard. 

But it’s okay. He pulls away and pants your name and you settle there, your weight pressed down on his cock. Your lips find that smooth patch in his stubble, biting that chiseled jaw, licking down the curve of his neck, his shoulder, up to his ear. You delight in every goosebump you draw, and breathe in his scent before you speak up. 

“Will you let me suck it?” 

All his breath rushes out in a big gust. His fingertips dig into your naked sides, and he nods. 

“Please.” 

It’s a barely-there whisper. You pull away from that silky soft skin where his pulse is hammering to check his reaction. 

He’s begging with his eyes. It makes you smirk, sitting up straighter, trailing your fingers down the front of his body until you reach the drawstring of his sweatpants. 

You’re still sitting on his groin, though. You give a little playful wiggle, and his hips rock up to grind harder. But you don’t want to tease any more. Every moment spent teasing him, you’re also denying yourself, and you’ve been patient for long enough. 

So you shift down the bed, nestled between his legs, and get to work on the tie of his pants. Every time your fingertips brush the hair below his belly button, he sucks in a breath. You finally get the thing untied, and look up one last time for permission before you start to drag the material down, grabbing his boxers as you go. 

Your eyes stay trained on his face instead of staring at his crotch, especially as he wiggles a bit and lifts his legs to remove his pants. You don’t want to stare, and you also don’t want to not look, you don’t want him to be uncomfortable at all with you. 

You want it to be perfect. You want to make him feel the way he makes you feel. 

He nods his head, and you cease averting your eyes to trail down his body, the bushy happy trail and the neatly trimmed hair above his cock and his cock. 

His little cock. 

It is, indeed, on the smaller side. Probably one of the smallest you’ve seen in real life. Three and half or four inches long, if you had to guess. 

And it’s so pretty, cut and on the thicker side, the slightest upward curve that makes your pussy tighten around nothing. 

You dive right in, press your nose to all the hair while you kiss at the base of him, humming when his cock twitches against the side of your face. He smells so good and clean, like always, but down here there’s even more of that Marcus smell that always lingers beneath his soap and cologne, salty and warm.

When you drag your eyes up to him, his head’s thrown back against the pillows, not looking at you. You want him to look, you want him to see how much you’re going to enjoy this. 

You’ll make him look, one way or another. 

For now, you just lathe your tongue up the underside of him, then back down to tickle his balls, all the while enjoying how his prick jerks under the attention. 

He’s making little noises, mostly puffs of breath and gasps, and his hands twist up in the sheets beside you. You grab one of them, slow and steady, and lead it to the back of your head. 

And then, you finally get your lips wrapped around the head of his dick, and you slowly sink down until he’s entirely in your mouth. 

It’s not until your nose presses against the flatness above his cock do you hear him release a strangled groan. That’s when you look back up at him and find him staring down, mouth agape, locked on your mouthful of him. 

You pull back up, wiggling your tongue as you go, memorizing the ridges and hairs and veins. Your eyes are locked on his, and his are locked on your lips, so you try to give him a show. 

You open your mouth and stick out your tongue, nod your head up and down to let his cockhead tickle your tastebuds. A gruff noise leaves him, hearty and hoarse, and you want to smile but you’re not in a position to. 

Instead, you flick your tongue against that little band of tissue just under his slit, and his hips stutter as his grip on the back of your head tightens. 

“Fuck, sweetheart.”

Now you do smile, your lips upturned against the head of his cock, and it jerks against your mouth while you kiss it, until you envelop it once more. 

You hum around him, at the weighted feeling of him occupying your mouth, how smooth it feels against your tongue and how nice it is to take him all the way in and not gag or choke or drool. 

It makes your cunt ache, makes you crave him even more, makes you want to be full of him everywhere. 

You reach a hand down to touch yourself. You’re still dripping, can feel it all slipping from your entrance and cooling your skin in the air conditioning. You’ve had just enough time to recover from the mess Marcus made of you. You’re sensitive but not too sensitive, when you trace your clit with your fingertips and moan around the mouthful of cock. 

“Oh fuck, are you touching yourself?”

Your eyes flicker open and look up to him. He’s clenching his jaw, grinding his teeth as his nostrils flare. You hum and nod your head to answer, his cock slipping back and forth through the ring of your lips. He whimpers, and his head tips back against the mattress again, and it makes you speed up the efforts on both him and yourself. 

He curses, soft little chants, kneading the back of your neck in his big hand as you suck him in over and over. You close your eyes and lose yourself in it for a bit, the way he slips so easily in and out, the way his hips move just a little, like he’s trying not to but he can’t help it. The sounds, his grunts and your sloppy mouth and your fingers working over your slick folds. 

He says your name. 

You hum, use your free hand to play with the fuzzy skin of his balls. 

He says your name again, and this time it’s urgent, almost panicked. 

“Sweetheart, stop, please.”

You do, immediately. You open your mouth wide and let him fall from your lips and unhand him while you look at his exerted face. 

“Are you okay?”

He huffs, and his cock bobs beside your face. 

“I’m so okay. I just— did you want me to…? It’s okay if you don’t, I just didn’t want it to be over—”

“Marcus.” 

His heated babbling stops as he clamps his mouth shut. His broad shoulders lift and drop with his heading breath.

“Do you want to fuck me?” 

You smooth your hands across the scattered hair on his thighs when you ask. His prick twitches again at your question. 

“I— Yeah. Yes. I do.”

He looks almost guilty about it, with his wide eyes and the bashful expression spreading across his face. 

“I want you to fuck me so bad,” you tell him, “I’ve wanted it for way too long.”

His breath leaves him in a shuddery exhale, something like relief or awe. 

“Yeah? You still want it?” 

His hand skates from the back of your neck to your jaw, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. 

“Please, Marcus. Give it to me.” 

You turn your head to kiss his thumb, a sloppy little peck before you take it into your mouth. You smile around it when he groans, and bite it before it slips away. 

“Can you get on the edge of the bed for me?” 

You can, but not without throwing a cheeky ‘yes sir’ his way. You’re not sure if the noise he makes is from arousal or a lack of  amusement, but there will be plenty of time to explore that later. 

For now, you do as he says. You scoot so your ass is just about to fall off the side of his bed. The wooden bed frame is the perfect height to rest your heels on, and as Marcus slips a pillow under your head, you’re as comfortable as ever.

The mattress dips when he gets up to stand in front of you. The lamplight from the nightstand is really doing things for him. The slight sheen of sweat on his chest glistens, as does the wetness at his temples where his hair is starting to curl up. All those lean muscles have never been more apparent than they are now, the golden glow creating beautiful shadows across his naked body. 

He’s so hot. 

It doesn’t help that his big, warm hands snake up your bare thighs as he gets between them. His small dick stands at attention, pointing toward the ceiling, and you feel your pussy spasm with anticipation. 

“Please,” you whisper. 

He nods, steps closer as you spread your legs wider and wiggle even further off the bed. 

“Perfect, sweetheart.”

He leans over you with one hand on the bed to brace himself. The other is wrapped firmly around the base of his cock, and he looks down to watch it as he glides it through your slit. 

“Are you ready?”

You nod and hum your affirmative. He takes the go-ahead and his cockhead slides across your clit, down, so slowly, until it catches on the rim of your hole and you both gasp at the feeling. 

You look down to watch too, lifting up on your elbows to see the moment your pussy lets him sink inside, fluttering around him, engulfing his prick one inch at a time. 

You knew it. You fucking knew his cock was perfect but still you’re shocked at the way the curve makes him drag across your upper wall. And when his hips are flush with yours, all that pressure is concentrated at that bundle of nerve endings inside of you, and you’re going to lose your mind if he doesn’t move.

“Oh fuck.”

You let yourself flop back in the bed, but reach for his hand that’s supporting his weight. Your nails scrabble for purchase against the skin of his wrist as you curse again, your walls contracting around him as you tense. 

“Fuck, Marcus, please.”

You’re so far past caring about how desperate you sound. You need him, the textbook definition of it; it’s an absolute necessity that he fucks you. 

He curses, and you realize you’ve closed your eyes. When you open them, his jaw is hanging and he’s looking at you, your face, like it’s something he’s never seen before. Like he’s shocked you’re here in front of him. 

But his hips are still, and you’re helpless to the way your own cant up to urge him, and finally he’s pulling back out. The slow drag against the most tender spot inside you rips a noise from your throat, involuntary. He pulls almost all the way out, until the head of his dick is kissing your opening and you can feel how he stretches the tight ring of muscles. 

And then in again, almost as slowly, and you’re already out of breath. The feeling steals all the wind from your lungs. It’s setting you on fire, perfect friction against just the right spot, the one that’s still tender and alight from your previous orgasm. 

“It’s so fucking good,” you manage to choke out. 

Marcus moans above you, and his hips snap into you, and his free hand finds your waist so he can dig his nails into your flesh. 

“It is, fuck, sweetheart, you’re so fucking good.”

A bead of sweat drips from his nose and lands on your belly, and that seems to make you snap out of it. 

“Fuck me. Fuck me hard, please, make me come.”

You watch his mouth quirk up into a pretty smirk, dimples on full display. 

“Yes ma’am.”

Your giggles only last for a moment, dissolving into a high whine when he slides out of you and back in, a harsh thrust of his hips that doesn’t let up. 

He fucks you. You try to watch; it’s too hot not to. His biceps flex respectively, one with his effort to hold himself above you, and the other where he holds you in place by your waist. 

His neck, the one vein there that’s protruding as he bares his teeth. The way his chest is rapidly rising and falling as he drives into you. His big brown eyes, even darker now as he succumbs to the feeling of you. 

But you just can’t keep your eyes open for long. It feels too good, you’re too close to the edge. Your insides are so tender and alight from the first time you came. Every single thrust inside you is taking you apart and building your second so quickly. Your eyelids droop closed and there’s already stars blooming behind them. 

His little noises are louder, like this. Grunts and gasps and moans, falling over you, all for you. 

“Fuck, I’m so close,” you warn him.

Your back arches to encourage his pace. His skin slaps into yours faster as he groans.

“Thank god, me too. What do you need, sweetheart?” 

Without a verbal answer to his strained question, you slip your hand down to press against your throbbing clit. 

“Shit, yeah, play with your pussy for me. I wanna— fuck— let me see you come. Looks so gorgeous.”

His voice is thick in his throat, and you work your fingers over yourself faster. You’re clenching wildly around him, you can’t help it. Every thrust in sets your nerves on fire, almost too much, but not quite. His grunts are turning into growls, uninhibited and primal. You feel the mattress shift and open your eyes to find him standing up straight. 

Both hands grab your hips now, and that little angle change makes him grind even harder into your g-spot, and you’re tumbling over the edge. It’s been building under the surface for so long that when it hits, it’s blinding. There’s static in your toes that washes over you, up, up, dragging a fiery heat with it that consumes your center and makes your head fuzzy. 

There’s screaming. 

You’re screaming. Your eyes are clenched so tight, as are your fingers, all your joints, your pussy, around Marcus as he fucks you through it with sloppy thrusts. 

“That’s it, oh my god, sweetheart, you— fuck. I’m gonna come, I’m— where?”

“In me.”

Your throat is scratchy when you answer, and you don’t have any time to elaborate on why that’s not a bad idea. You’re still coming, wave after wave of warmth rolling across your body, and you’re vaguely aware of how wet everything is, the sound of him fucking you even more obscene. 

His shout doesn’t quite rival yours, but you feel it when he empties inside of you. His cock jerks and and twitches, wringing out every little bit of pleasure from you, and you think you’re still coming, the pinpricks of pleasure are still too intense to be aftershocks. 

He stays pressed as deep as he can be as his stomach convulses and his thighs shake, just like yours do where they’ve somehow wrapped around him. Your eyes open again, and the lamplight is so bright now, his breathing is so loud. He grunts and pulls out a bit, then presses back in, and again, until it falters and his whole body slumps. 

His top half collapses onto you, his little breaths huff and tickle the tingling skin of your belly. Your own breath comes out in a weak moan, and it takes all the strength you can muster just to run your fingers through his sweaty hair. 

“Jesus,” he says.

Your name cascading off his lips in such a strung out voice that it makes you clench around him again. 

“Huh?” 

God, how are you ever going to move again? 

“You uh… Is that a common occurrence?”

Christ, why is he using such big words? 

“What are you talking about?” 

He clears his throat. 

“You like— You squirted?”

You laugh, one delirious huff. It makes his head rock on your jiggling belly. 

“I what?”

You gather the will to look down at him. His mouth is open, surprised and amused, and his eyes are shiny and bright. 

“Yeah, like, a lot.”

He’s still inside you but softening, and his own chuckles make him slip out. 

You lift up on your elbows as he stands up straight and the evidence is clear. The hair above his dick and high on his thighs is all dark and soaked. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

The sheets on the edge of the bed are absolutely ruined, and you pray he’s one of those men that has a mattress protector. You’re more than a little mortified, and the way he’s staring at you, silent, is beginning to make you squirmy.

“What?” 

“Why do you seem so surprised?”

His fingertips are feather-light across your thighs, and you shiver. 

“I’ve never actually… done that? I would have warned you.”

He makes a pained sound, and those fingertips turn into a tight grip just above your knees. 

He doesn’t speak up. Instead, he lies on the bed beside you. He holds himself by his elbow, but that hand strokes your scalp while the other traces up and down your thigh, your hips, your breasts, anything he can reach. You avoid the topic at hand to relax into it, and you think you’re finally coming down as that boneless feeling washes over you. 

You’re vaguely aware of his cum dripping out of you, but the sheets are a lost cause anyway. You just watch his lax face, the way the wrinkles in his brow are all smoothed out, the way his eyes follow the patterns he’s drawing on your body. 

He catches you staring. His gaze meets yours and he smiles and it’s sunny. It warms you through, despite all the sweat that’s cooling on your body. 

“Hi,” he whispers. 

You giggle, and he does too. He tries to hold it in by biting his lip, but it’s no use. You will your exhausted bones to shift and face him, and he presses his lips to yours and they meld together.

It’s languid, unhurried, just reacquainting after too long apart. It feels a little goofy, with how you’re both smiling so wide, but it calms you into settling down after such a high. 

Both of your breathing seems even, when you part. 

“That was—”

“It’s never—”

You both chuckle. 

“Ladies first.”

You feel shy now. You can’t imagine why, but a fluttery feeling overtakes your stomach. 

“I was just gonna say… That was better than all those times I imagined it.”

You didn’t think it was possible, but his smile grows even wider. His eyes flicker from yours to the sheets between you, and you think maybe he feels as bashful as you do. 

“It’s never been that good.”

A sigh escapes him when he speaks, and his nervous gaze lands on you when his face falls into something more earnest. 

It takes your breath away. Because it’s never been that good for you either, and isn’t that such a perfect coincidence?

You tug him to you by the back of his neck, eat up the surprised little sound he makes against your mouth. 

“When can we go again?”

[thetriumphantpanda]

thunderstruck | marcus pike

Summary | You're scared of storms but it's okay, because Marcus always knows how to soothe you.

Pairing | Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Word Count | 1.4K

Warnings | Explicit - descriptions of thunderstorms, softness/fluff, rain, established relationship, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, our boy Marcus just being Marcus. No use of y/n.

Authors Note | This is my contribution to @undercoverpena's April Showers Challenge. It's a blessing that I got anything out because this brief gave me so many ideas, but I've missed my man and knew he would be the one I'd want to comfort me through a rain storm. Enjoy.

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Divider by @saradika

Are you busy?

No baby, what’s up?

I don’t like the storm.

They’ve never been your favourite. Something about growing up on the coast, when the rain and wind would bring the waves crashing near your home, and your parents would walk about like nothing was wrong and there wasn’t the immediate danger of your house being washed out to sea. The nights, when the wind would clatter the shutters against the windows and drag tiles from the roof to break onto the ground. It might be Washington D.C. now and you might live in a new apartment building, but it doesn’t make the torrential rain and gale force winds any easier to handle.

You’re sitting on the couch, curtains drawn with all the lights on to try and make it feel less scary, but when the first clap of thunder hits you jump and scream all the same, burying yourself further under the blanket, some childhood wish for that to keep you safe.

There’s a knock at the door a little while later, the only thing that could drag you from the warm cocoon of blankets. Padding gently to the door, you open it, Marcus stood in front of you, dripping wet from the storm outside. He steps across the threshold, arm wrapping around your waist as he dips to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

“This feels stupid.” You grumble as you shut the door behind him, following close to his heels as he walks through your apartment, so familiar with it now that it feels like home to have to him here.

“It’s not stupid if you’re scared, baby.” He soothes, sitting down on your couch, opening his arm to encourage you to snuggle into his side, which you do without question.

You can feel his thumb tracing soothing circles on your arm as you settle a little, but it’s short-lived, when a crash of thunder bellows through the room from outside, making you jump and bury your head into the side of his neck with a groan.

“I blame the coast,” You speak softly, “I was always so scared of it blowing our house away when I was small.”

“You know what helps?” Marcus murmurs against your head, another soft kiss placed to it.

“Hmmm?”

“Sometimes you’ve just got to be louder than the storm.”

You look up at him, confused for a second, until you can feel him moving the two of you, laying you gently down on the couch. His mouth sponges kisses across your neck, trailing down across your collarbone before he drags it away to peel your tank top from your body. You hear Marcus hum in approval at your lack of bra, his hands gently pressing your tits together before his mouth is suckling a nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking over it until it’s stiffened to a peak, giving the same attention to the other side until you’re gasping, bucking your hips into his, the bulge in his trousers evident as his mouth trails further south, tongue leaving a trail from your tits and down your stomach until he gets to the waistband of your pyjama pants.

“Lift up.” He murmurs softly, voice almost drowned out by the constant smattering of rain against the windows.

Doing as you’re told, you lift your hips up, letting him hook his fingers into the waistband to drag them down your legs. You miss the weight and warmth of his body when it’s gone, but then you feel his warm palms on the inside of your thighs, pressing your legs open, and then you don’t mind so much at all, especially when you look up at him, watching him admire the already sticky mess accumulating between your thighs.

Marcus moves to run his thumb across your folds, dragging your slick across your skin, but not daring to dip below to where you truly want him.

“Such a pretty pussy.” He muses, moving to situate himself between your legs, hot mouth pressing wet kisses to the delicate skin of your thighs, teasing you by putting his mouth everywhere but where you need it most.

“M-Marcus, please.” You whimper when his face moves, he’s so close to your cunt you can feel the hot of his breath.

“What do you want, baby?” He asks, running that damn thumb over your folds once more, this time though, his other thumb rests to the side, gently pulling your folds apart to bare you to him, “Want me to kiss it a little?”

“Oh god, oh please Marcus, please.”

“Sound so pretty when you beg for it.” He speaks, and you’re about to say something smart when he leans forward and presses a single, open-mouth kiss to your clit.

It’s tiny in comparison to what you really want, but it makes you throw your head back anyway, back arching, trying to press your cunt closer to his face. Thankfully, he takes pity on you, kisses your clit once, twice more, and then you can feel the tip of his tongue, flicking up against your clit, then dragging back down, sometimes circling, working you gently until you’re whining and bucking your hips into his face.

You’d almost forgotten about the storm outside, the movements of his tongue distracting you just enough, until the loudest clap of thunder echoes through the apartment. It makes you scream, jumping slightly, but you feel Marcus’ hands grip tightly to the skin of your thighs, tearing his mouth away from you. You look down at him, mouth glistening with a mix of your slick and his spit, glint across his brown eyes.

“What did I say?” He asks, squeezing at your thighs again, “What did I tell you earlier?”

“Um…” You wrack your brain, trying to remember, “I needed to be louder than the storm?”

“That’s right, my clever girl,” He praises, heat rising across your skin, “If you scream for me, you won’t notice.”

Once again, before you can retort with your smart mouth, he’s back on you, lips closing around your clit, tongue resuming it’s flicking across your bundle of nerves, but then you can feel two of his fingers sinking inside you, easing into your walls, curling up against that perfect spot inside of you.

It makes you cry out, his name dropping from your lips as you arch off the couch, his tongue working in time to the press of his two fingers in your cunt. You’re chanting his name into the room, moving your hips in time to the movements of his hands until you’re teetering on the edge of bliss. He knows, of course he does, the way your walls start to flutter around his fingers, so he slows his fingers, keeping you dangling over the edge but not quite pushing you just yet.

“Marcus p-please,” You whimper, hands tangling in his hair, “Please make me come.”

“You asked so nicely, baby,” He muses against your pussy, letting his fingers curl just perfectly against the spongy spot inside you, “Whenever you’re ready honey.”

It takes very little more, his mouth suckling at your clit, his fingers pressing inside you, and then you’re crashing, skin aflame with pleasure as you do exactly as he told you and scream his name into the living room, body convulsing, gushing around his fingers as they still inside you. You’re clenching around him as his tongue moves gently across your clit to work you through your orgasm until you’re boneless and pliant beneath him.

Marcus drags his fingers from you, letting them run up the skin of your thighs, as he finally relents and pulls away from you, just in time for more thunder to sound out, this time a little further away.

“Well, listen there,” He whispers, fingers moving to undo the button of his trousers, “Storm still hasn’t passed,” He speaks as he drags the zipper down, “Think you can make a little more noise, baby?”

You reach up, hand clutching the back of his neck to pull him back down on top of you, mouth meeting his, tasting yourself on his tongue as he kisses you before you pull away, “I can make all the noise you want.”

[coulsons-fullmetal-cellist]

Has anyone else done this?

[ficjoelispunk]

The Coffee of Love - Capítulo 03 - Segunda-Feira. (+18)

Avisos da fic: Descrições históricas de Positano e Amalfi, descrições de lugares e cultura. Nosso querido Marcus Pike sendo um galanteador, cavalheiro, charmoso, brincalhão e sedutor. Tensão sexual. Masturbação. álcool. Acho que nada mais.

Capítulo 01 - Sábado.

Capítulo 02 - Domingo.

Resumo: A conexão entre você e Marcus é algo difícil de mensurar, complicado de explicar. Seu cérebro diz uma coisa, e seu corpo grita outra completamente diferente. Existe uma confusão em você. E o tempo não vai parar para você decidir o que fazer.

Antes mesmo de você abrir os olhos a dor de cabeça fazia um zunido dolorido no seu cérebro. A ressaca de tantos Limoncellos tinha tomado conta do seu corpo, e como uma boa adulta você era incapaz de mover um musculo do seu corpo. Você tinha certeza de que demoraria três dias para se recuperar dessa ressaca horrorosa. Você gemeu na cama, e contorceu o rosto. “Escolhas ruins” você pensou enquanto esfregava a palma das mãos nos olhos.

Você estucou o braço em direção a mesa de cabeceira, para alcançar o celular, e ligar para Sr. Fran, e avisar que hoje não iria conseguir ir à cafeteria. “Irresponsável” você se culpou. Passou a mão pelos objetos da mesinha, e ainda de olhos fechados encontrou o celular, suspirou antes de abrir os olhos, e a claridade do dia, te fez ter forças para abrir apenas um olho.

Conseguiu discar o número, tentou disfarçar a voz de esbornia e recém acordada, enquanto falava com o Sr. Fran, que apesar de o mais próximo de família que você sentisse que ele era para você, ainda era seu chefe. Ele não se importou, e te tranquilizou o máximo que pode, por você não ir hoje. Afinal, era sua folga, certo? Certo.

Você ficou deitada por mais um tempo, esperando o seu corpo se acostumar com o fato de que você estava com o álcool em seu organismo ainda. E enquanto você olhava para o teto, e esticava seu corpo inteiro em uma espreguiçada que quase te causou cãibras nas pernas, você parou subitamente, e até a sua respiração ficou pausada.

O beijo. A lembrança do beijo que rolou entre você e Marcus te fez sentir um arrepio na espinha. “Oh, Deus!” você tombou a cabeça de lado, ainda olhando para o teto, e deu um leve sorriso. Porque cara, aquele beijo foi realmente bom. Marcus tinha algo, um charme, uma química que deixava o ar difícil de ser respirado, um toque que fazia seu corpo querer mais e mais..., e ele era um homem muito bonito, aqueles olhos castanhos que fixam nos seus olhos, o contato visual que ele faz com você, a forma como ele é cuidadoso, engraçado, gentil...

Como aquele homem foi entrar naquela cafeteria? Você é romântica demais, para não pensar que só poderia ser o destino. Era fácil fazer uma auto análise e perceber que ninguém fazia você se sentir da forma como aquele estranho fazia. Você se sentou na cama, e continuou pensando nele. No dia que vocês tiveram ontem. Nos olhares que vocês trocaram. Na forma como ele olhava para as coisas que você gostava e o jeito que era bom vê-lo apreciando tudo aquilo também. Uma combinação tácita.

Você se esforçou para gravar cada detalhe, o som da risada dele, o jeito dele andar, como ele passava os dedos sob a barba, a forma que ele coçava o queixo, o sorriso, o cheiro, o timbre da voz, você queria guardar essa arte que era Marcus Pike. Porque ele iria embora em breve, e se você pudesse fazer algo por você, seria aproveitá-lo. E não esperar nada em troca. Tentar programar seu coração para saber que aquilo era bom, mas finito.

Quando você se levantou, cambaleou um pouco, ainda meio tonta. Sorriu com sua jovialidade de acordar bêbada em uma segunda-feira. Café! Era o que você precisava para começar esse dia. Enquanto você preparava o café solúvel de procedência duvidosa para que sua manhã se iniciasse, você amaldiçoou você mesma quando deu o primeiro gole. Como você tomava café todos os dias na cafeteria, achava que poderia economizar com isso em casa, mas hoje você se arrependeu, e não tinha plano nenhum de sair do apartamento. Ia organizar algumas coisas, e focar nos trabalhos com as telas que você tinha deixado de lado nos últimos dias. Precisava realinhar os chakras, e isso só era possível derramando um pouco de tinta na tela branca.

Seu uniforme de pintura era um clássico. Você prendeu o cabelo em um coque alto, mas seus cabelos novos caiam na lateral do seu rosto, fazendo um penteado despojado. Camiseta branca, e uma jardineira jeans, já toda suja de tinta óleo, deixam registrada a história de todas as outras telas que você já havia produzido. Você abriu as janelas do apartamento para que o ar corresse dentro do espaço, e você conseguisse sentir o mediterrâneo entrando dentro do seu corpo através do oxigênio, e preenchendo seus sentidos com a maresia italiana.

Arrastou o cavalete para a janela que tinha vista para o mar, e agradeceu silenciosamente sr. Fran por ter te ajudado a conseguir alugar esse lugar, com essa vista privilegiada. Separou os pincéis, limpou a espátula, deixou a paleta separada ao lado. Puxou o banquinho, colocou o rádio antigo que já era do seu apartamento quando chegou, no chão perto do seu pé, e deu play, você sempre deixava sintonizada em uma rádio que tocava músicas italianas instrumentais, nesse momento tocava O Sole Mio de Jack Jazzro, você sorriu, amava o clichê, e se sentou no banco com o pedaço de carvão nas mãos para iniciar um desenho.

A tela branca olhou para você, você olhou para a tela branca, e foi como se sua mente projetasse no branco da tela a imagem que você iria desenhar. Seu cérebro muito sábio em contato com seu coração apaixonado, comandaram suas mãos para que você reproduzisse o lugar onde você levou Marcus para tomar sorbetto, depois que saíram da Chiesa di Santa Maria Assunta.

Bem em frente à barraca de sorvetes, do outro lado da rua, a mágica que Positano proporciona em relação à vista - já que a cidade é construída sobre um paredão de pedra -, é que você sempre consegue ter visões privilegiadas, e a maior parte da cidade parece mirantes de frente para a imensidão do mar. As casinhas coloridas pontuando cada espaço vazio entre o mar e a rocha em terra firme. Naquele cantinho da calçada, onde a mesinha com as cadeiras que vocês se sentaram, a vista era ímpar.

E com certeza a companhia de Marcus, tornou aquele cantinho memorável. Enquanto você desenhava, você viajava para o ontem, lembrou que mesmo sentada olhando o mar, você sentia os olhos de Marcus em você, o sentimento gelado no estomago tomando conta de você, o nervosismo, e o leve desconforto de alguém te olhando por tanto tempo tomando conta do seu ser. Era difícil alguém olhar para você, não superficialmente. Mas Marcus te olhava, parecia que queria ver sua alma. O homem era intenso. Você sorriu.

Você se afastava um pouco para olhar de longe a tela, cerrava os olhos, analisando minuciosamente o retrato que você reproduzia do local, não queria deixar escapar nada, nenhum detalhe. Mentalmente ia construindo as cores do desenho para depois se lembrar quando fosse passar a tinta sobre os contornos. Inclinava a cabeça numa tentativa de recalibrar o cérebro para que ele coordenasse suas mãos precisamente em cada linha que você traçava.

Esse momento era sua terapia. Nada no mundo podia te deixar tão a vontade como uma tela em branco para você expressar seus sentimentos. Suas memórias. Seus momentos. Despejar todo o amor, o ódio, a felicidade e a tristeza em cima de um retângulo branco, te trazia paz. Você fez uma pequena pausa olhando para a janela que estava na sua frente. Colocou os pés no banco e abraçou seus joelhos. Imersa na música e na sensação de estar ali. Fazendo o que você ama. E sendo abençoada com as cores da Itália. Como era mágico.

O barulho da campainha te assustou, e num movimento desajeitado, saltou do banquinho, esbarrando no cavalete, e quase derrubando tudo no chão. Mais do que de pressa, você segurou a tela, e ajeitou o cavalete. Ficou confusa. Talvez aquela fosse a primeira, se não a única vez que sua companhia tocou. Você tinha campainha? Nem sabia disso também. Olhou o relógio, era menos que o meio da manhã. Você demorou um pouco para voltar ao mundo real, sua bolha tinha sido muito bem construída, enquanto estava desenhando. Olhou para os lados, e caminhou até a janela ao lado da porta, para olhar quem havia tocado sua campainha.

Quando você se debruçou no parapeito da janela, depois dos olhos se acostumarem com a claridade ofuscante la fora, seu rosto já tinha sido tomado pelo sorriso aberto. Marcus estava parado no primeiro degrau da escada. Você balançou a cabeça sorrindo. Ele estava com uma camiseta branca de algodão, shorts de tactel para praia, e chinelos. O óculos pendurado na gola da camiseta. Perfeitamente lindo, simples e incrivelmente lindo. Como era possível?

“Você não foi trabalhar hoje” Marcus perguntou, sem realmente perguntar. Ele se encostava na parede com um pé na escada e outro na calçada olhando para você. As mãos fazendo sombra no rosto, enquanto olhava para cima para te ver.

Como ele sabia? Ele tinha ido te procurar? Seria legal se tivesse ido. Já que na noite anterior ele foi embora sem combinar um outro encontro entre vocês.

“Hoje é minha folga” você respondeu se inclinando um pouco na janela. “Você não consegue ficar longe de mim mais, não é mesmo?” suas sobrancelhas arqueadas, num tom arrogante e convencido, brincalhão.

Ele inclinou a cabeça de lado, arqueou os lábios, ergueu as sobrancelhas e deu de ombros “É inevitável… principalmente quando você é a única pessoa que eu conheço nessa cidade” ele balançou a cabeça ainda mais arrogante que você.

Você segurou a beirada da janela com as mãos e arqueou para trás rindo. Marcus não conseguiu te ver rindo, seu corpo ficou escondido dentro da janela.

“E eu pensei que você precisaria disso” Ele tirou do bolso aspirinas.

Você voltou a se inclinar sobre a janela, para ver o que ele mostrava, “Hmmmm, muito esperto.” Você assentiu.

“Porque eu precisei hoje de manhã” ele sorriu um pouco, e subiu mais um degrau. “Eu comprei um passeio de barco hoje.”

“Olha só para você! Todo independente. Que orgulho. Eu fui tão ruim ontem que você decidiu me dispensar na primeira oportunidade?” você fez um drama, e um beicinho se formou no seu rosto.

Marcus sorriu, “Pois é, eu comprei o passeio, mas acidentalmente eu errei nos cálculos, e comprei dois lugares” ele tirou dois tickets do bolso e segurou como cartas abertas nos dedos, na altura do rosto para que você visse.

Você franziu a testa, jogou a cabeça para trás. Passou o polegar e o indicador sobre seus olhos, e se debruçou na janela novamente, balançando a cabeça com um sorriso sem graça.

“O que você me diz?” Marcus subiu o terceiro degrau. E bateu os dois bilhetes na palma da outra mão. Analisando seu rosto enquanto esperava uma resposta.

Você mordeu a bochecha. “Marcus...”

“Não tem devolução, é inaceitável que você não venha comigo.” Ele te interrompeu, olhando para você com os olhos castanhos mais lindos que você já viu. Os braços abertos em volta do corpo.

Você mordeu os lábios. “É muito caro, eu não tenho como te pagar. Sinto muito, não posso aceitar.” Você encostou sua bochecha em seu ombro, e se encolheu agarrando seus braços um no outro.

Marcus subiu mais três degraus de uma vez. “É um presente, você não precisa pagar. Além do mais eu não confio em nenhum outro guia turístico fiel a arte e a história com tanta devoção como você.” Marcus parecia uma criança que queria convencer os pais a ganhar um presente. Os olhinhos brilhantes e implorando por um sim. “É um favor a Positano que você fará vindo me acompanhar…” ele apelou.

Você se afastou da janela, e abriu a porta.

Marcus tombou a cabeça de lado, para te observar. “Você ta passando por uma reforma ou algo assim?”

Você revirou os olhos. “Algo do tipo.” Gesticulou para ele terminar de subir as escadas, “Vou precisar trocar de roupa, entra aqui.”

Ele subiu correndo os últimos degraus, você segurou a porta para ele entrar. Era a primeira vez que alguém entrava no seu apartamento, desde quando você mudou. Não se sentia confortável em ter outras pessoas no seu ambiente. Era algo íntimo para você. Ali você podia ser quem você quisesse ser. Suas coisas nos seus lugares. Toda a sua arte ali uma em cima da outra. Não precisava se preocupar com que horas a visita iria embora. Ou com organizar a bagunça de uma festa. Você gostava de ser só você. Você amava estar presa no seu próprio mundo. Era meio individualista, mas foda-se.

Quando Marcus entrou no seu apartamento, ele deu três passos largos para dentro e ficou parado no meio do corredor. Você fechou a porta atrás de vocês. E ficou atrás dele encostada na porta observando.

Marcus nunca tinha visto tantas telas reunidas em um só lugar, a menos que fosse um museu, ou um assalto. Eram tantas que, estavam sob o chão apoiadas na parede. E faziam uma fila de três, quatro delas uma na frente das outras. Ele deu mais passo, e você acompanhou se desencostando da porta. Você se inclinou para o lado, buscando o rosto dele, queria ver a expressão no rosto dele. Mas quando você se virou para a esquerda, ele se virou para a direita. E quando você se inclinou para a direita, ele se virou para a esquerda.

Você se lembrou dele dentro da Chiesa ontem, os movimentos eram os mesmos. Curiosos. Você andou até ele, e segurou os braços dele, virando-o de frente para você.

“Marcus?” Seus olhos estudaram a expressão dele. Ele parecia encantado. Os lábios estavam levemente separados, em surpresa. E um leve sorriso era construído, assim que os olhos dele encontraram os seus.

Ele levantou o indicador, apontando em círculos para as suas telas.

“Você fez tudo isso?”

Você mordeu o canto da boca, e assentiu.

“Posso?” Ele perguntou, pedindo permissão para seguir para o outro cômodo, o que você estava antes dele chegar.

Você assentiu. “Vou trocar de roupa, fica a vontade.” Você saiu indo para o final do corredor.

Esse cômodo era como se fosse seu ateliê, ele imaginou. Você havia dito a ele que era artista, mas ele nunca iria imaginar isso que estava diante dos olhos dele. Todo o apartamento era o seu ateliê. Mas esse cômodo em específico, era destinado para isso. Marcus foi andando por entre os cavaletes, alguns com telas prontas, e outros esperando para serem finalizadas.

Tinha uma mesa comprida, cheia de materiais que você usava para pintar, telas e tecidos. Tintas, vários frascos de vidro, com uma infinidade de pinceis, de diferentes tamanhos, cores e cortes. Muitos papeis, alguns com desenhos, esboços e outros em branco. Tintas. Uma infinidade de tintas, cores e tipos. Óleos. Solventes. Espátulas. Grampeadores. Madeiras. Eram muitas coisas.

Estantes com muitos livros de arte, de diferentes países, diferentes gêneros, diferentes artistas. O pé direito do seu apartamento era bem alto, então a luz natural deixava o lugar tão iluminado, fresco e pacífico. Você havia começado a pintar uma das paredes, o mar, as ondas levemente se formando, algo tão detalhado, Marcus podia sentir o vento do mar, enquanto olhava para aquelas ondas que você reproduziu de forma tão realista que se ele tocasse, podia achar que molharia as mãos. Os tons de azul perfeitamente sobrepostos. Trazendo uma luminosidade realística a cada ponto da água.

Marcus estava tão imerso em toda a sua arte, que só então ele percebeu o som vindo de um radio antigo no chão, ao lado de um cavalete próximo a janela. Ele caminhou até o cavalete, sorriu para a música italiana ambiente, e observou o desenho que você estava começando a fazer.

Você tentou reunir o máximo de itens importantes para um passeio de barco, na sua maior bolsa. Mas você não fazia ideia do que levar. Então só tentou reunir o máximo de coisas essenciais como protetor solar, canga, toalha, óculos, boné, celular e carteira. Jogou tudo la dentro. E foi atrás de um biquini. Queria encontrar um que fosse bonito, mas que não chamasse muito atenção. Um que fizesse Marcus olhar para você e te achar bonita. Mas que não o fizesse pensar que você estava se exibindo. Certo, não tenho roupa. Não havia nada que fosse bom o suficiente.

Você se sentou na cama e soltou o ar pela boca. Colocou as mãos no cabelo, coçando seu couro cabeludo. Estava nervosa. Balançou a cabeça revirando os olhos. Qualquer um vai servir, foda-se. Vestiu um conjunto de biquini de top branco com pequenas borboletas azul marinho, a calcinha era da mesma estampa, um pouco mais cavada, mas era fofo. Não era sensual, era um biquini. Vestiu por cima um vestido de ilhós branco com as alças de amarrar no ombro, e um babado na bainha, ele era curto, um pouco acima dos joelhos, com um decote em V profundo nas costas.  

Calçou um chinelo de dedo colorido. Pegou um chapéu de praia que estava pendurado no cabideiro, a bolsa com as coisas. Tentou se arrumar o mais rápido que pode, e correu de volta para a sala. Marcus estava na sala de estar, que você deu lugar ao seu ateliê improvisado. Ele estava parado olhando o desenho que você estava fazendo antes dele tocar a campainha. Ele escutou você entrar na sala.

“Esse é o lugar que ficamos sentados ontem antes de entrarmos no bar...” ele perguntou, sem perguntar. Sem olhar para você, ainda com os olhos fixos na tela.

“Uhum” você caminhou até o lado dele, com os braços nas suas costas, segurando sua bolsa e seu chapéu atrás de você. Se posicionando ao lado de Marcus, que continuava olhando para o seu desenho. Você olhando para ele.

“Isso é lindo demais.” Ele apontou para a tela com o desenho. E se virou para você, mas olhando para o ambiente, e todas as suas telas. “Isso tudo é lindo demais.”

Voce olhou por cima dos seus ombros para ter a mesma perspectiva do que ele estava olhando. E sorriu sem graça, olhando para o chão.

Marcus gentilmente levantou seu queixo para que você olhasse para ele.

“Como essa beleza toda pode estar escondida aqui?” os olhos dele eram de curiosidade e admiração.

Você sentiu o calor colorindo suas bochechas. E sorriu, se virando para caminhar até a porta. “Vamos?”

Marcus girou mais umas duas vezes na sua sala, antes de caminhar para a saída. E passar pela porta. Você coçou a cabeça enquanto esperava que ele saísse. Foi a primeira vez que alguém teve contato com todo o seu material, suas obras. Você nem sabe o que Marcus viu, porque estava dentro do quarto preocupada com qual biquini usar. Foi uma sensação diferente. Você se sentiu exposta. Vulnerável.

Antes de terminar os degraus, Marcus se virou para te olhar, você estava a uns dois degraus atrás dele, o movimento dele, fez você parar. Ele estendeu a mão para você.

“Oi.” Ele sorriu enquanto te olhava. “Você está linda.”

Você tombou a cabeça, e tentou segurar o sorriso mordendo os lábios. “Obrigada.” Você segurou a mão dele, ele te puxou e beijou sua testa. Ele era impossível de não se apaixonar.

No caminho, Marcus mostrou para você os tickets do passeio que ele havia comprado, e vocês discutiram a melhor forma de irem para Amalfi, uma cidade vizinha da costa de Positano, o barco sairia de lá. O passeio duraria umas 4 horas, e vocês sairiam a tarde, depois do almoço. Então você sugeriu saírem de ônibus, o horário que vocês estavam, teria saída de um ônibus as 10:20, então poderiam chegar em Amalfi umas 11 horas, e ainda daria tempo de conhecer algo por lá, almoçar e ir para o passeio.

Marcus te acompanhou pelo trajeto até o ponto de saída do ônibus, ele foi tirando fotos pelo caminho, se encantando com a cidade. A viagem de Positano até Amalfi dura 40 minutos. Vocês se sentaram no ônibus, e foram apreciando a paisagem, lindíssima por sinal, árvores por todo o caminho. Ele perguntou se você tinha música no seu celular, e vocês dividiram o fone para ouvirem a mesma estação de rádio que tocava no radio da sua casa. Vocês foram o caminho todo com os braços entrelaçados, e as mãos dadas descansando sobre a perna de Marcus. O outro braço dele rodeando você sobre seus ombros, sua cabeça encostada no ombro dele, e as costas encostada em no peito largo dele, ambos olhando para a janela.

A última parada do ônibus em Amalfi, deixavam vocês bem próximo da Cattedrale di Sant’Andrea. Você sugeriu a ele que fossem até lá, antes de procurarem um lugar para almoçarem.

“Confio na minha guia.”

Ele direcionou a mão para as suas costas, e te acompanhou o caminho todo, conectado a você tocando a pele nua da suas costas, pelo decote do seu vestido. Era um deleite sentir as mãos de Marcus em você. Desde que vocês saíram da sua casa, de alguma forma vocês estão conectados. Ele nunca deixou de estar tocando em você. Te trazia um carinho e segurança.

Até agora ele não falou sobre o beijo de ontem. E nem você. Estava apenas vivendo o momento. Caminharam até a Cattedrale, e vocês dois concluíram que a beleza dela, é diferente da Chiesa, a Cattedrale é muito mais elaborada, é uma catedral árabe-normanda, ela é toda ornamentada, por qualquer lugar que você olhe há desenhos e formas esculpidos nas paredes, nos pilares, o teto é todo trabalhado, e pintado com diversas imagens que remete a diferentes momentos da história, as cores e o ambiente trás um ar de riqueza, a fachada bizantina é a marca registrada, tem sua beleza diferente da igreja em Positano, afinal é uma catedral.

Depois de um passeio razoavelmente rápido, vocês desceram as longas escadas da Cattedale, e Marcus insistiu que gostaria de almoçar em um restaurante indicado pelos amigos, Marina Grande. Você tentou negociar, sabia que era um restaurante chique, refinado e caro. Não queria ficar gastando um dinheiro que nem era seu. Porque sabia também que não tinha como pagar aquilo, mas Marcus era inegociável. E lá estavam vocês dois sentados no terraço do restaurante beira-mar.

“Posso te fazer uma pergunta?” Marcus falou atrás do menu, enquanto olhava as opções de almoço.

“Sempre.” Você olhava o mar, e brincava com um guardanapo, decidiu que pediria o mesmo que Marcus pedisse para ele, assim, ficaria tudo na mesma faixa de preço.

“Onde você aprendeu a pintar?”

Você hesitou, não sabia se queria entrar nesse assunto.

“Aprendi sozinha.”

Marcus ainda não olhava para você.

“Você sempre pintou?”

“Uhum, é algo que eu sempre gostei.” Seus olhos estavam perdidos na imensidão azul.

Marcus fez um gesto com a mão, e chamou o garçom, fez o pedido, e você ajudou na pronúncia dos nomes dos pratos.

“E por que você está aqui? Por que escolheu Positano? E não um lugar onde poderia te trazer mais possibilidades? Quero dizer, você está na Europa, poderia estar em Londres, onde tem várias escolas de artes, ou em Milano, já que escolheu a Itália...”. Agora ele falava enquanto olhava para você, você sentiu os olhos dele em você.

Você sorriu ironicamente enquanto ele dava as possibilidades impossíveis para você, suas mãos inquietas começaram a beliscar o canto das suas unhas. Não queria reconhecer a ele que você era um fracasso. Um caso perdido, e que no mínimo sua fama e reconhecimento viriam depois que você já estivesse morta. Como tantos outros artistas mundialmente conhecidos. Não queria explicar para ele que você não tinha dinheiro, e parou onde razoavelmente você conseguiu se estabelecer com muita sorte, e muita ajuda e compaixão de um senhor que nunca viu na vida.

Marcus era um agende federal. Ele tinha uma carreira. Reconhecimento. E por toda generosidade que ele estava tendo com você, certamente ganhava muito bem. Você não queria demonstrar essa vulnerabilidade a ele. Fazer parecer que você era alguém que precisava ser cuidada ou sustentada. Por mais que fosse ótima a ideia. Você jamais se colocaria nesse cenário. Você sempre trabalhou, e lutou pelas coisas que quis. E mesmo assim não conseguiu sair do lugar. Estava presa em uma cidade linda, que você amava, longe de tudo, para afastar a dor do fracasso. E não era ali que você reconheceria isso para ele.

“Você sabia que Amalfi é o epicentro da Costa Amalfitana, aqui é um dos pontos mais importantes de todo o litoral do Golfo de Salerno.”

Marcus deixou cair a cabeça para baixo sobre os braços que estavam cruzados sob a mesa e balançou a cabeça entendendo que você estava fugindo do assunto, e da resposta.

“Você já pensou em expor seus quadros em alguma galeria? Não sei se você tem intenção apenas de expor, mas eu tenho certeza de que choveria compradores...”

Você suspirou, e seus pés começaram a balançar. Seu corpo reprovando completamente o assunto. Você não tem tempo e nem dinheiro suficiente para visitar galerias de artes, e escolher uma que fosse apropriada para o seu tipo de obra. Como você visualizaria suas obras expostas, se você nem conseguiria visitar sua própria exposição. Você não possuía nenhum contato, não conseguiria nem mesmo iniciar um networking, para que alguém abrisse as portas para você. Não tinha contato com ninguém desse universo.

Fracasso. Fallimento! Era esse o único caminho que você estava fadada. A conversa, o vento do mar, o som ambiente. Tudo estava tornando sua respiração difícil. Um zunido na sua cabeça. Você se endireitou na cadeira.

Voce passou anos pensando no que poderia fazer, quais eram suas opções. E em todas as possibilidades, você entrava em um labirinto que levava a um único caminho.

“O que vamos fazer no passeio? Você sabe a programação?” Você perguntou.

Marcus soltou um ar pelo nariz, e esticou a mão sobre a mesa para que você cedesse sua mão para ele segurar. Você olhou o gesto, e suspirou fundo porque sabia que ele não desistiria do assunto, e você estava prestes a explodir. Não havia nada mais dolorido do que expor sua ferida, você sabia tudo que deveria fazer, tudo que poderia fazer, e sobretudo sabia melhor ainda, o que não conseguia fazer. E isso te deixava frustrada, e decepcionada consigo, e com a sua vida.

Mas você cedeu a sua mão para ele. Ele acariciou a pele da sua mão com o polegar. E colocou a outra mão livre em cima das mãos de vocês dois unidas.

“Olhe para mim” Ele pediu. De fato, você não olhava para ele desde que entraram nesse restaurante caro.

Você suspirou, e percebeu que era difícil não fazer o que ele pedia.

Marcus olhou fundo nos seus olhos. “Minha querida, você é muito talentosa...” você sorriu ironicamente, desviou o olhar, e tentou puxar sua mão. Mas ele segurou. “Olhe para mim” ele pediu mais uma vez, se inclinando sobre a mesa, para estar mais próximo de você. “Eu nunca vi tanta beleza reunida em um só lugar. A sua pintura parece uma foto, que parece a imagem real, parece que eu poderia entrar dentro da sua tela, e estar no lugar que você pintou.” Ele falava como se fosse uma súplica. “É um pecado, um crime, ter tudo aquilo ali, só para você, e não abençoar os olhos do mundo, com suas obras.”

Seu coração apertou. E você sentiu a ponta do seu nariz arder, seus olhos encherem de lágrimas. Você desviou o olhar dele. Ninguém nunca tinha falado algo sobre seu trabalho, da forma como Marcus falou. Ele entendia de arte tanto quanto você. Ele era um apreciador. Era o trabalho dele.

Era difícil saber que você poderia ter muita coisa se tivesse uma oportunidade. Mas não tem nada, e nem se quer sabe se um dia teria.

Vocês foram interrompidos pelo garçom, que trouxe os pratos de vocês. Marcus não soltou sua mão, apenas se ajeitou na mesa, para dar espaço ao garçom. E você aproveitou a distração para limpar as lagrimas que escaparam dos seus olhos.

Quando o garçom saiu, você aproveitou a deixa para que o assunto fosse perdido.

“Está com uma cara ótima, estou faminta.” Você disse olhando para o prato.

Marcus sorriu, e liberou sua mão, para que você pudesse alcançar os talheres. E então você começou a comer. Sentiu que ele te olhava por um tempo, antes de mexer na comida dele. Mas ignorou. Não queria dar continuidade aquele assunto.

Marcus não conseguia por um momento esquecer as obras que conseguiu ver em seu apartamento. As imagens dançavam em sua cabeça. Ele estava extasiado. O caminho todo para Amalfi, ele só conseguia pensar em como você era a melhor artista que ele já tinha vista em todos esses tempos. Ele segurava suas mãos como um presente. Acariciava seus dedos com devoção.Só não conseguia entender o porquê de você estar aqui. Nessa pontinha de mar. Sendo que você deveria estar viajando o mundo e mostrando sua arte para os quatro cantos desse planeta.

Ele não conseguiu se concentrar em muita coisa. A catedral que vocês visitaram era lindíssima, mas ele só conseguia pensar nos quadros. Os que ele não conseguiu ver. Os que estavam atrás das telas empilhadas umas nas outras. Onde você aprendeu a pintar? Onde você estou? Quais eram seus objetivos? O que você já tinha tentado? Onde você queria ir?

Ele precisava dessas respostas, e ele poderia ajudá-la. Ele tem contatos em todo o mundo. Batava uma ligação. Um e-mail com fotos. E você seria conhecida por toda a indústria da arte. A quantidade de material que você possuía apenas no seu apartamento, era o suficiente para fazer duas exposições. Ele estava inquieto. Ansioso.

Durante o almoço, ele não conseguia entender o porquê de você fugir das perguntas dele. E era visível sua sensibilidade com o assunto. Nesses dois dias anteriores, ele não vislumbrou nenhum desses sentimentos pelo seu lindo rosto. E ele não queria pressioná-la mais. Era seu espaço, seus limites. Mas ele queria poder ajudar. Você não poderia estar escondida aqui. Você precisava brilhar.

Ver você com os olhos marejados após elogiar seu trabalho, mexeu com seu coração. Ele precisava que você fosse devidamente reconhecida. Jamais havia conhecido alguém como você. Você era algo cheio de dualidades. Uma beleza que doía os olhos. A pele tão macia que poderia cortar. Os cabelos tão rebeldes, que comportavam seu rosto. Os olhos tão doces e inocentes, que contrastavam seus lábios tão sensuais e cheio de luxuria. O sorriso era tão largo e sincero, que fazia esquecer os segredos que você guardava em si. O corpo tão leve e suave, que ardia com o toque quente e firme. Tão generosa e educada, que a ignorância de não a conhecer machucava.

Como Marcus voltaria para DC, e deixaria essa peça tão rara aqui? Ele já começava a pensar em formas de prolongar os dias com você. Planejava meios de voltar. Ou de quem sabe você ir. Sua companhia deixava as coisas mais interessantes. Mais bonitas. Mais legais. Mais divertidas. Seu jeito simples de ver as coisas, era tão envolvente. Marcus gostaria que você pudesse vê-la, da forma que ele a via. Marcus queria te conhecer, saber mais sobre você, sua história, seus medos, seus gostos.

Marcus estava começando a entender, que poderia estar apaixonado. Desde o beijo que vocês deram na noite anterior, a única coisa que ele pensava era em você. Seu toque, seu cheiro, seu gosto, seu corpo, seu calor. E ele estava começando a ficar desesperado. Não haveria como propor que você fosse embora com ele. Ele te conhecia a três dias. E esse erro ele já cometeu antes. Não queria errar com você. Queria fazer a coisa certa. Queria ao menos uma chance de poder tê-la por perto. Ou fazer loucuras e viver uma vida em uma semana.

Vocês terminaram o almoço, e se dirigiram para o cais de Darsena, conversando apenas sobre o passeio, e de resto silêncio, mas um silêncio confortável, ele sempre segurava sua mão, ou descansava o braço sobre seus ombros, ou colocava as mãos na sua cintura, ou nas suas costas, jamais sem ter um contato físico com você.

Marcus reconheceu a equipe que vestia camisetas iguais, com a logo da marca da empresa responsável pelo passeio. E vocês se agruparam com outras pessoas que também dividiriam o passeio com vocês. Marcus te ajudou a entrar na embarcação, e sentaram-se. Receberam um briefing sobre a programação do dia.

A rota levou vocês para as melhores praias da Costa Amalfitana, bem como perto de arcos rochosos naturais e cavernas marinhas, dando-lhes a oportunidade de admirar as antigas torres de vigia que pontilham toda a extensão desta costa. Fizeram uma pausa em praias acessíveis apenas por mar e tiveram tempo para mergulhar em águas cristalinas e em grutas.

Você nunca havia mergulhado antes. Marcus providenciou tudo para vocês. O mergulho foi incrível. Não haveria formas de descrever. Somente a forma como Marcus ajeitou os óculos de mergulho em você, e depois acariciando seu rosto.

“Pronto” Ele falou depois de dar um beijo na testa.

Ou a forma como ele segurou sua mão quando você entrou na água. O jeito como ele sorria para você, vendo sua euforia ao ver os peixes. O modo como ele se aproximava de você. Essas coisas poderiam ser descritas. Marcus era um homem muito romântico. Ele sabia o que estava fazendo, o que aquilo poderia ocasionar, e mesmo assim fazia.

Não muito longe do ponto de partida, logo após sair do centro de Amalfi, vocês chegaram perto da Gruta de Santo André, uma enorme caverna marinha natural cheia de estalactites com o nome do santo padroeiro de Amalfi (Andrea).

Depois de passar pelas praias de Duoglio e Santa Croce, vocês fizeram uma parada no "Arco dos Amantes", um arco natural de rocha criado há milhões de anos pela erosão do mar cuja forma lembra dois elefantes no ato de se beijar.

“Sabia que não muito tempo atrás, os casais jovens costumavam se casar em cima disso.” Você apontou.

“Acho que já posso riscar o local da cerimônia então.” Marcus sorriu, e olhou para você apertando seu ombro quando puxou você para o lado dele.

Você revirou os olhos, balançou a cabeça e sorriu, “muito espertinho” você empurrou a perna dele com a sua.

Um pouco mais tarde, vocês cruzaram em frente à antiga vila de pescadores de Conca dei Marini, passando perto da vila de Sophia Loren e vendo o histórico hotel “Il Saraceno” localizado na praia de La Vite. A partir daqui vocês também tiveram uma vista deslumbrante do Mosteiro de Santa Rosa.

Você cutucou as costelas de Marcus com o cotovelo, e apontou discretamente “Ali é um antigo convento agora convertido em um hotel de luxo, antigamente era casa das freiras dominicanas.”

“Então aqui é a hospedagem para a lua de mel.” Ele olhou para você de forma maliciosa.

Você ignorou, “Foi nas cozinhas deste mosteiro que nasceu a deliciosa "Sfogliatella Santa Rosa", uma massa em forma de concha recheada com creme de ricota e pedacinhos de frutos secos, típicos da tradição culinária local.”

“Você já experimentou?” Ele perguntou sério.

Você começou a rir apenas com o ar do nariz. “Qual parte do luxuoso, você não entendeu?”

Marcos revirou os olhos e fez uma careta para você. Você beliscou de leve a cintura dele. Ele deu um pulinho com cócegas.

Depois que passaram o litoral de Conca dei Marini, você entrará em sua bacia ocidental, onde terá uma bela vista das vilas de Furore e Praiano e das ilhas de Li Galli e Capri, juntamente com as conhecidas Rochas Faraglioni. Mais para dentro desta bacia, tem uma pequena gruta, a Gruta de Runghetiello. Em seguida vocês chegaram então ao famoso Fiorde Furore, o único fiorde natural da Itália e local da competição internacional de mergulho "MarMeeting" vocês ancoraram para uma pausa para nadar ou mergulhar.

“Todos os anos em julho, mergulhadores profissionais de todo o mundo competem pulando do topo da ponte que tem 28 metros Alto. É absurdo...” Você explicou para ele.

“Teria coragem?” Marcus perguntou.

“Jamais. Nem que me pagassem.”

Vocês dois riram.

Marcus e você desceram para andar um pouco pela pequena praia que tem pelo Fiorde. Agora você teve tempo de reparar o corpo deste homem. Os braços longos definidos, bíceps bem delineado, os ombros protuberantes e malhados, as veias dos braços bem visíveis. O peito definido, e o abdome não era trincado, mas era malhado, era gostoso, você queria passar a mão por todo aquele corpo largo. O pensamento fez com que uma ardência latejante no meio das suas pernas começasse a piscar. Você movia suas pernas para tentar evitar a sensação de necessidade por um toque.

Em compensação, você ficou um pouco envergonhada, porque mergulhar só de biquini, era uma coisa mais tranquila, seu corpo estava submerso pela água. Mas agora caminhando pela pequena faixa de areia, seu corpo estava exposto. Você passou um braço na frente da sua barriga e segurou o outro braço do outro lado do seu corpo, numa tentativa de esconder a sua pele.

Mas Marcus puxou seu braço, e colocou em volta do corpo dele, atras das costas, para que você ficasse abraçada com ele, o corpo largo, quase não permitia que você alcançasse a outra extremidade da cintura dele. E ele segurou seu ombro. Vocês se desequilibraram um pouco, mas logo conseguiram andar em sintonia.

“Como você encontrou esse passeio de barco?” Você perguntou.

“O pessoal da recepção do hotel me ajudou.”

Você assentiu.

“Precisava de uma desculpa para ver você hoje de novo.” Ele olhou para você por cima dos ombros.

Você sorriu. E olhou para ele. “Você é um perigo Agente Pike.”

Marcus parou de caminhar, e segurou nas laterais dos seus braços, deixando você de frente para ele.

“É apenas a questão de combinação de lugares paradisíacos e um bom papo.”

Ele subiu as mãos lentamente até seu pescoço. O polegar dele afagando seu maxilar.

“Uhum, o ambiente causa uma confusão mental...” suas mãos seguraram o punho dele.

Ele se aproximou de você, e seus corpos quase podiam se encostar. O rosto dele estava próximo o suficiente do seu para que você sentisse a respiração quente dele.

“A minha confusão mental tem nome, e endereço...” Ele falou, enquanto uma das mãos dele passaram por entre seus cabeços na sua nuca. A sensação fez sua cabeça inclinar para trás, você fechou os olhos.

Marcus se inclinou para frente e alcançou um beijo no queixo. O toque desarmante do lábio dele, te derreteu, e você inclinou a cabeça para o lado, para ele alcançar seu pescoço. Ele desceu os lábios pelo seu maxilar até seu pescoço e pressionou um beijo lá. Você gemeu. Você sentiu a pontada em seu núcleo. Suas mãos contornaram os braços dele, e desceram para segurar a cintura dele. Ele manteve uma das mãos em seu pescoço, e a outra desceu para a sua cintura. O toque dos dedos dele em sua pele, te davam tremores, irradiavam choques.

“A sua sorte é que tem gente demais nessa praia” Ele sussurrou no seu ouvido, e mordeu levemente seu lóbulo. Seu corpo inteiro se arrepiou e ele sorriu sentindo o relevo em sua pele.

“Eu não entendo o seu conceito de sorte. Para mim isso é um azar.” Você abriu os olhos para ver o sorriso se formando naquele rosto lindo, e mostrando a covinha perfeita que ele tem. Você ficou na ponta dos pés, e moveu seus braços para envolver os ombros de Marcus. Ele se inclinou um pouco para diminuir a distância entre vocês, ele te ergueu. Você soltou um gritinho baixo.

E agora na altura dele, você segurou o rosto dele com uma mão, o beijou.

“Esperei o dia todo por esse momento” ele disse.

Você sorriu, e ele pressionou outro beijo em você. Seus lábios macios contra os seus, lentamente se abrindo para que suas línguas se encontrassem. O corpo de vocês tão junto, tão encaixado. A pele dele na sua parecia que era a combinação perfeita. Marcus te segurava com os dois braços ao seu redor. Deixando suas mãos livres, você acariciava o ombro dele, subindo para o pescoço, e agarrando seus cabelos molhados. Um beijo quente, mas gentil. Um beijo de saudade.

Vocês foram interrompidos quando foram chamados pela tripulação. Você ouviu, mas continuou beijando os lábios dele, suas línguas em perfeita sintonia. Até que ele se separou dos seus lábios, e encostou suas testas.

“Preciso daquela água relada até chegar no barco.” Ele falou meio ofegante.

Você sorriu, e ele te abaixou lentamente com cuidado até o chão.

Vocês voltaram para o barco. Navegando um pouco mais adiante até à vila de Praiano puderam ver de perto uma gruta marinha maior, a Gruta Africana, onde a água tem uma cor azul distinta graças à refração única da luz.

Finalmente, contornaram Capo Sottile e continuaram navegando até Positano, onde terá outra pausa para mergulho em uma praia acessível apenas pelo mar e, portanto, não lotada: La Porta.

E com uma conversa muito elaborada, conseguiram ficar em Positano ao invés de voltar para Amalfi, pois o passeio terminaria de volta lá, e não em Positano. Mas conseguiram.

Vocês dois estavam muito cansados, o dia todo de passeio, caminhadas, nado, sol, calor, bebidas. Estavam exaustos. Mas Marcus insistiu em levá-la para casa.

“Meu hotel é caminho, e eu jamais deixaria você voltar sozinha.” Ele falava, uma das mãos estava segurando sua nuca, por debaixo dos seus cabelos, fazendo movimentos circulares com o polegar. E com a outra mão, segurava sua bolsa enquanto caminhavam.

Você aproveitou para abraçá-lo, enquanto caminhavam. E foram a passos curtos e lentos em direção ao seu apartamento.

Quando estavam quase se aproximando das escadas da sua casa.

“Tenho mais quatro dias aqui.” Marcus falou, pensando alto. Você olhou para ele.

“Não se preocupe, vamos dar um jeito de te manter ocupado por mais quatro dias.” Você sorriu. E ele também. Vocês dois sabendo que esse não era o problema.

“Quer jantar?” Ele parou de andar.

Você não podia fazer esse homem gastar mais dinheiro com você. E não dava pra negar que estava faminta.

“Eu posso preparar algo pra nós em casa.” Você sugeriu. “Já chegamos mesmo.”

“Tudo bem.”

Vocês dois seguiram, e entraram em seu apartamento. Você acendeu as luzes, e jogou a bolsa no chão no canto da porta.

“Vou fazer um macarrão pra nós. Fica a vontade...” Você falou dando liberdade para ele remexer no que quisesse. E viu de relance a satisfação se formando em um sorriso no rosto dele. Antes de você sair, ele segurou sua mão, e deu um beijo nela, em agradecimento.

Você foi para a cozinha, e separou um vinho, abriu e pegou as duas únicas taças que você tinha. Deu um gole. E se virou para separar os ingredientes que precisava para o macarrão. Já sabia o que iria preparar e um carbonara, sempre é algo assertivo.

Enquanto colocou a água para ferver. Você foi para o ateliê. Marcus estava parado em frente a parede olhando a pintura inacabada que você havia iniciado anos antes. Você colocou sua taça na mesa, envolveu seu braço nas costas dele, ele automaticamente ergueu o braço dele para que você se encaixasse nele, e ofereceu a taça de vinho para ele.

“É impressionante. Eu poderia ficar dias apenas olhando para isso...” Ele apontou para a parede com a mão segurando a taça.

“Eu nem terminei...” você abraçou a cintura dele, e deu um beijinho no seu peito. Se soltando para voltar para a cozinha.

Enquanto você preparava o macarrão e o molho, Marcus estava imerso em seu ateliê. Você finalizou o molho. E arrumou os pratos e talheres, acendeu algumas velas pela cozinha, e na mesa. Colocou guardanapos, e o vinho sobre a mesa.

Voltou para o ateliê, ele estava dedilhando alguns quadros que estava escondido sobre os outros na parede.

“Já tem seu favorito?” Você quebrou o silencio.  

“Hmmmmm, muito difícil. Mas vou ter. Vou esperar ele ficar pronto.” Ele indicou com o queixo o quadro com o desenho que você iniciou hoje de manhã.

Você sorriu e caminhou até ele, ficou na frente dele, de costas para o peito dele, e puxou seus braços em volta de você, direcionando-o para a cozinha. Ele descansou o queixo no topo da sua cabeça.

“O cheiro está muito bom.” Ele falou enquanto vocês andavam.

Marcus parou na entrada da cozinha. Te fazendo parar também, era impossível puxa-lo, toda a força que você fazia era porque ele permitia, o homem era uma muralha perto de você. Você se virou para olhar para ele. Ele estava mordendo o lábio, segurando um sorriso.

“É demais?” você perguntou em relação as velas.

“Eu adorei.” Ele falou baixinho em seus cabelos, te segurou mais firme contra ele. E beijou sua têmpora. Soltando o seu corpo, e seguindo ao seu lado, para se sentarem na mesa. Você serviu mais um pouco de vinho, e ergueu a taça para brindar.

“Santé” Ele falou.

“As coisas simples da vida.” Você completou.

Em seguida você serviu uma colher de macarrão para ele, e molho. Outra para você. E fez um sinal para que ele provasse, enquanto você assistia.

“Ual” Ele falou de boca cheia.

Você também experimentou, de fato estava bom.

“Tem algo que você não seja boa?” Ele perguntou enquanto limpava a boca com o guardanapo.

“Você se surpreenderia...” você olhou para ele enquanto tomava um gole do seu vinho.

Ele endireitou a postura na cadeira. Desviou os olhos, pensativos, e voltou para te encarar com um sorriso malicioso.

“Impossível.” Ele concluiu dando outra garfada na comida.

Você deu risada. “Você é pervertido.”

Ele ficou em silêncio enquanto comia.

“Obrigada por hoje.” Você falou enquanto dava mais um gole em seu vinho.

Ele te olhou, limpando a barba do guardanapo novamente.

“Eu que agradeço, sua companhia é especial.”

“Não, de verdade. Obrigada pelo passeio, nunca tinha feito esse passeio dessa forma, foi tudo muito lindo. Pelo almoço. Pela companhia. Você é muito gentil comigo.”

Ele sorriu, enquanto você estava completamente hipnotizada pelo olhar tão profundo dele. E ele balançou a cabeça.

“Por que você está me olhando assim?”  Você perguntou.

“Nada. Eu só...” Ele bebeu um gole de vinho. “Quero memorizar bem você.”

“Você pode me seguir no Instagram, facebook, as redes sociais são uma ótima aliada quando se tem amigos distantes.” Você brincou.  

Ele revirou os olhos, e seguiu te encarando. Você deu mais um gole em sua taça de vinho, sem quebrar o contato visual.

“As luzes de vela têm algo a ver com confusões mentais causadas pelos ambientes e um bom papo?”

Você desviou o olhar para a mesa, mordeu os lábios, segurando um sorriso.

“Eu jamais tentaria confundir um agente do FBI.”

Ele riu. “Você é um perigo.”

Vocês terminaram seus pratos. Marcus te ajudou a lavar a louça. Vocês organizaram a cozinha. Ele se sentou no parapeito da sua janela do ateliê, você ligou o rádio, um som ambiente agradável. Ele esticou o braço te chamando para sentar-se junto com ele. Você seguiu o comando dele, e se encostou no peito dele, no meio das coxas dele. Ficaram ali por algum tempo observando e sentindo a brisa fresca do mediterrâneo enquanto vocês finalizavam o vinho.

O calor do peito dele nas suas costas nuas pelo decote do vestido, te dava um conforto, e incitava um desejo dolorido. Marcus terminou sua taça, e colocou no chão ao lado de vocês. Colocou as mãos em volta dos seus cabelos, ainda desgrenhados pela água do mar. As duas mãos trabalhando para juntar seus cabelos e liberar um acesso ao seu pescoço, a sua nuca.

A movimentação, fez sua cabeça abaixar, seu queijo tocando seu peito. Ele ergueu levemente sua cabeça puxando seu cabelo, inclinou de lado para que pudesse beijar a sua veia pulsante do seu pescoço. Você soltou um suspiro.

Ele se sentou mais ereto, e te empurrou pra frente gentilmente, ainda segurando seu cabelo, tendo domínio total do tronco do seu corpo, apenas segurando seu cabelo. Seus lábios desceram do seu pescoço para seu ombro. Ele deslizou com a mão livre a alça do seu vestido para o seu braço. E começou a beijar levemente seu ombro, fazendo um caminho até a sua nuca.

Você segurou nas coxas dele, para se equilibrar. Marcus foi descendo os beijos pela sua espinha. Seus olhos se fecharam, você sorriu. Seu corpo inteiro foi se arrepiando, conforme o toque dos lábios dele no comprimento das suas costas. Suas mãos apertaram em torno da coxa dele, e ele soltou um riso baixinho na sua pele. Seu corpo estava formigando. Você sentia uma urgência correndo por dentro de você. Sua respiração estava erradica. Todo o seu corpo estava cedendo aos comandos e ao toque de Marcus.

Você empurrou seu corpo para trás, e ele soltou seus cabelos. Você virou para olhá-lo. E uma de suas mãos subiu para o pescoço dele para puxa-lo para você, você queria beija-lo.

“Calma.” Ele falou, enquanto a mão que antes segurava seu cabelo, estava deslizando o vestido pela sua perna, dando mais acesso a sua coxa.

Marcus estava fermentando o desejo em você. E era tão fácil de ceder. Você sentia um calor se acumulando no meio das suas pernas, um calor dolorido e carente. Você tinha urgência. Necessidade.

“A janela é um lugar perigoso para se ficar.” Você murmurou.

Ele riu. “Você sugere qual outro lugar?” Ele perguntou.

Você se levantou, Marcus acompanhou seu movimento com os olhos. Suas mãos puxaram ele e o empurraram gentilmente para o chão. Ele se sentou encostado na parede, a cabeça dele poderia descansar sobre a janela. Marcus ficou te olhando, em pé na frente dele. Com as mãos na parte de trás dos seus joelhos. Você passou a perna por cima das penas dele que estavam esticadas no chão, e se agachou, colocando os joelhos em volta do quadril dele. As mãos dele, subiram para a sua cintura. Ele te olhava com desejo e luxúria. Os olhos escuros. E um sorriso malicioso.

“Esse é um lugar perigoso para se ficar.” Ele falou com a cabeça encostada no parapeito da janela atrás dele.

Você sorriu, enquanto passava os dedos nos cabelos da nuca dele. E puxou gentilmente para que ele ficasse nivelado ao seu rosto.

Marcus estava enebriado. A forma como ele olhava para você, parecia que ele estava bêbado pelo desejo. E ele estava. Pela mesma necessidade que você tinha dele. Ele tinha de você. Enquanto seus dedos passeavam pelos seus cabelos, as mãos dele foram descendo pelo seu corpo, passaram pela bunda, e pararam embaixo da sua coxa onde o tecido do seu vestido não separavam o contato de suas peles.

Você começou a beijar a mandíbula dele, passando os lábios por sua pele, descendo para o pescoço. As mãos dele subiam para a polpa da sua bunda por baixo do seu vestido, e desciam para a parte de trás da sua coxa. As mãos firmes e fortes acariciando seu corpo. Você se movimentou no colo dele, e pode sentir o pau dele embaixo de você. O cumprimento longo e duro. Você choramingou pela camada de tecido que separava o contato de vocês. E ele rosnou, puxando você para mais perto, enquanto jogava a cabeça para trás no encosto da janela, como se você estivesse o torturando.

Você continuou em um movimento de vai e vem em cima dele, enquanto passava os lábios pelo seu pescoço, e de vez em quando parava na altura do seu ouvido pra ele sentisse o calor da sua respiração. A sensação causando arrepios na pele de Marcus. As mãos de dele estacionaram na sua bunda, onde ele apertava os dedos enquanto comandava o seu movimento, te puxando para ele, pressionando você mais contra ele. Você consegui sentir o pau dele enrijecendo embaixo da sua boceta. E sentia o molhado que começava a se formar na calcinha do seu biquíni.

Sua boceta estava latejando, quente, febril, o músculo endurecido do seu clítoris dolorido, implorando por um toque mais atencioso. Você se afastou dele, ele endireitou a cabeça, olhando para ele. Se aproximou tocando seu nariz no dele. Ele avançou em um movimento urgente, em busca dos seus lábios para te beijar, você recuou um pouco, sorrindo. Criando uma dança inocente, jogando com o desejo dele.

Uma de suas mãos desceram até os braços dele, que estavam firmes segurando sua bunda com tanta força, que você poderia jurar que ficariam marcas ali. Mas com seu toque ele suavizou o aperto, e você direcionou a mão dele para um caminho mais baixo da sua bunda, de um jeito que os dedos dele resvalaram sua boceta. O toque te fez enrijecer, e sua respiração ficou tremula. Ele assistiu a resposta carente do seu corpo ao simples toque de sua mão em sua boceta.

“Você tem certeza?” Ele perguntou com a foz rouca. Se controlando.

Você assentiu, direcionando novamente a mão dele para o seu meio.

Marcus não perdeu tempo, e pressionou os dedos sobre o tecido do seu biquini, e você gemeu de alívio, sua cabeça inclinou para trás, e você movimentou seu quadril na direção dos dedos dele. O toque que você estava febril para receber. A outra mão dele segurando firme sua bunda, agarrada a pele do seu corpo.

“Sim… preciso sentir seu toque” Você disse voltando o olhar para ele, que te olhava com os olhos semicerrados, você aproximou seus lábios do dele, ambos com as bocas abertas, respirando pesado. Marcus soltava sons baixos da garganta, e você se agarrou aos ombros dele.

Marcus afastou o tecido do seu biquini, e passou o dedo por entre você, tão molhada que os dedos dele afundaram em seu meio e deslizaram facilmente. Ele gemeu.

“Meu Deus, você está tão molhada…, tão quente.” Ele falou abafado. Sem conseguir afastar o pensamento de como seria ter o pau dele dentro de você.

Um gemido baixo ultrapassou seus lábios com a sensação do toque dele no seu cumprimento. A necessidade de mais dele, fez você ceder ao beijou. Urgente e ofegante. Seu quadril se movia junto com a mão dele embaixo de você. Fazendo seus corpos entrarem numa luta corporal, suas línguas estabeleciam um ritmo coordenado em suas bocas. Marcus enfiava mais a língua dele dentro da sua boca, quando ele descia o dedo até a borda da sua entrada. E beijava mais lentamente quando seus dedos subiam para tocar seu clítoris. Você não conseguia se concentrar no beijo, quando ele tocava seu nervo enrijecido e sensível.

Marcus circulava sua entrada molhada e sedenta por algo para preenchê-la, e arrastava para o dedo cima e para baixo, por todo seu cumprimento, lubrificando toda a sua boceta. Depois de deixar sua fenda enxarcada de você, ele começou a pressionar com mais atenção seu clítoris. Você se movimentava sobre ele, tentando perpetuar o contato.

“Marcus...” você gemeu o nome dele. Se ele continuasse naquele ritmo você iria gozar. Sua respiração estava ofegante, e você sentia o seu canal se pressionando no vazio. Você precisava de uma penetração.

“O que você precisa querida, me peça que eu farei qualquer coisa para você...” os dedos dele trabalhando seu clítoris em círculos apertados. Seu nervo estava tão rígido que você podia senti-lo dolorido. Você precisava de alívio.

Sua cabeça tombou para trás, e gemidos baixinhos saiam da sua boca, com sua respiração ofegante, Marcus beijou seu queixo, seu pescoço. Roçou a barba áspera dele na sua pele te causando arrepios pelo corpo todo. Era muita estimulação. Suas unhas cravadas no ombro dele.

Marcus poderia jurar que você estava tão molhada para ele, que você pingava. O pau dele latejava por baixo do shorts. Ele queria desesperadamente enterrar o pau dele na sua boceta molhada, até que vocês dois não tivessem mais forças para levantar. Ele sentia tanto tesão em te ver se movimento urgentemente sobre a mão dele, buscando um contato, um alívio, que ele estava pronto para te dar. A sua boceta quente deslizando em seus dedos.

Todo aquele momento era muito intenso. Seu corpo estava a muito tempo sem receber o toque de alguém. Sem o contato de alguém. Fazia muito tempo que você não tinha relação sexual com ninguém. Alguma luz acendeu no seu cérebro. E uma mensagem para recuar foi mandada as pressas.

Marcus sentiu a tensão em você. E seu ritmo frenético em busca do alívio, da liberação, ir diminuindo. As sobrancelhas dele se inclinaram nem entender.

Seu cérebro dizia uma coisa, mas seu corpo gritava outra totalmente diferente. A necessidade que você tinha por esse homem, era algo diferente de tudo que você sentiu.

Gentilmente, e ofegante, você puxou as mãos de Marcus de baixo de você. Ele não insistiu, e seguiu seu comando.

“Desculpe...” Você disse enquanto ajeitava sua calcinha.

Você podia ver o peito de Marcus subindo e descendo irregularmente assim como o seu. Sua testa encostou na dele.

“Eu não posso...” Você completou, segurando as mãos dele, nas suas.

Marcus estava te olhando confuso, o sangue não circulava direto no corpo. Ele buscou seus olhos. Tentando encontrar uma resposta. Algo que ele tenha feito de errado.

Você segurou o rosto dele entre suas mãos, e fechou os olhos. “Não posso fazer isso” Você tentava encontrar o ar, e levar até seus pulmões. “Estou muito envolvida. Parece absurdo eu sei...”

A sua respiração não deixava você completar uma frase. E você não conseguia se concentrar como deveria para formar qualquer frase.

“Eu só não quero que… é que depois você vai…”

“Tudo bem.” Marcus te interrompeu.

Você morde os lábios. “Vou sofrer. Você vai embora e eu vou sofrer. Sou estúpida eu sei.”

Marcus se afastou de você para que você olhasse para ele. “Você não é estupida” Ele passou as mãos pelos seus cabelos. “Eu entendo você. Não sei explicar como e nem o que, aconteceu nesses três dias.”

Você sorriu, e suspirou. Agradecendo por ele ser compreensivo, e te respeitar sem muitas perguntas. Você sabia que se continuasse e vocês transassem, ele tomaria conta da sua mente. “Desculpe.” Você se levantou e passou a mão pela testa, com a outra mão na cintura, tentando recuperar o Norte.

Marcus se levantou também. “Esta tarde, amanhã você trabalha, é melhor a gente descansar.”

Você passou seu ombro pela lateral do seu rosto e assentiu para ele. “Me desculpe” Você falou mais uma vez, coçando a orelha sem jeito.

Marcus, caminhou até você, pegou suas mãos nervosas e deixou cair em volta do seu corpo, você conseguia ver o pau dele duro marcado na bermuda fina de praia. E fechou os olhos, para não imaginar a sensação dele em você. Caralho!

Ele segurou seu rosto, para que você olhasse para ele. “Está tudo bem. Não tem o porquê se desculpar, ok?”

Você assentiu.

Ele inclinou com uma hesitação, em direção aos seus lábios. Olhou em seus olhos procurando vestígios de negação ou impedimentos. Mas você ficou na ponta dos pés. E ele pressionou um beijo demorado em você.

Depois que Marcus passou pela porta. Você correu para o banho, a água fria correndo em seu corpo para tentar dissipar a necessidade dele dentro de você. A lembrança dos dedos dele se movimentando em você de forma tão precisa e perfeita que você poderia jurar que se ele continuasse você conseguiria gozar só com o toque dele.

A água fria não te curou. Você só dormiu depois que se masturbou pensando e imitando o toque de Marcus em você.

Fodeu. Eu tô muito ferrada.

[jdmorganz]

PEDRO PASCAL as Marcus Pike The Mentalist | S07E01 - Nothing But Blue Skies

[nicolethered]

Big win today for all the Marcus Pike fans