#Marcus x ofc

[lokischocolatefountain]

at last, my love has come along

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Wife!Reader Rating: PG13 Word count: 2.9k words Summary: After the end of a loveless marriage, your father finds a match for you in General Marcus Acacius. Warnings: age gap, arranged marriage, mentions of maternal and infant mortality, widowed reader, widowed Marcus, past neglect, virgin!reader. A/N: Marcus Acacius has me in a chokehold and he knows I like it. This is a second look at the characters from home in three days, do not wash but happens earlier. You can read them in whatever order you wish. Title stolen from Etta James' At Last.

“What is he like? The Dominus?” 

“He is very kind,” said one of the girls who worked on your toga. You nodded, the pearls in your earrings brushing against your skin and making the hairs on your body stand upright. 

“What of my hair?” 

“What of it, Domina?” 

“The sun has already set. You said the Dominus will be home soon,” you said, fidgeting with the silk fabric that your sisters had presented you with before you began your travel from your village to the city. Something that would help you fit in better with the fashionable ladies and not make your husband, the General, look bad in society’s eyes. 

It was not for lack of wealth that you did not own many luxurious fabrics. Only that such things did not reach your village easily and your father, despite his place in the Senate, never brought the right things home. Not for a lack of love for you and your siblings but a lack of taste in women’s clothing and jewelry. 

You thought as a young girl of only fourteen that your husband, the first one, would bring you the soft silks and lustrous gold unlike your father. But he did not even bring himself home. You had been married off through letters exchanged between him and your father. It took two of living in his mansion and raising his two children from his last marriage before he finally came home. And when he did, he did not act as a husband should. Not how your older sisters told you he ought to be. 

When Consus passed, you mourned not as a wife but as a friend. 

“The dominus prefers unbraided hair,” the girl standing behind you said. You nodded, registering the information in your heart. You wanted to know all that there was to know about him before he even arrived. Perhaps then you would be pleasing enough to have a fate different from your last marriage. 

It had been all but a year since you were widowed that your father brought you news that you would be wed to a General who lived in the capital. There was no wedding for you even this once. A repeat of your last fate. You had resigned to never knowing your husband when you reached his grand home and spent your night with servants rather than his bed. 

How foolish you were to hope. 

But the situation changed for the better quite suddenly when you received word that General Acacius was returning from his travel soon. You expected that the news would calm your nerves but it somehow achieved the opposite. Fear. 

When the girls were happy with how they had decorated you for your husband’s eyes, they led you to his chambers. They left you there alone to stew in your anxieties about how the night would fare. The quiet of the night did not help matters. All that filled the space was the tides of the sea and the occasional clinking of your bangles as you fidgeted with your dress. 

It was all you yearned for in your last marriage, a night of intimacy as a husband and wife should. But now that you were at the precipice of getting what you wanted, dread filled your chest. You’d heard from your older sisters and servants what it was like to lay with a man. From their stories, it did not seem enjoyable. Not for women. It was only something to bear for the sake of having children. And all you wanted was to have children. 

You loved Consus’ children of course. They were all you had in the lonely life you led with him. But they were taken from you soon, married off or sent to battle in many campaigns. And you wanted your own children. Have what your brothers and sisters had. Hold your newborns in your arms and raise them from their first breaths rather than from the middle of their childhood. 

In your fantasizing of motherhood, you had completely forgotten that you had to be bed by your husband to become a mother. You had forgotten your sisters describe how painful it would be the first time a man took you. If one’s husband was a barbarian with a big cock, it would hurt each time although not as much as the first. A servant girl told you that she had the luxury of a kind husband who would not touch her if she said she was feeling unwell. But there were also husbands who would beat their women for refusing to perform their marital duties when asked. 

Your thoughts grew louder and louder in your head until you couldn’t hear the ocean anymore. And you most certainly did not hear when the doors opened and your husband entered. When you perceived his presence, he was already sat by you. When he spoke your name, your heart nearly jolted out of your chest. 

He laughed softly and looked you over with a smile on his plush lips. The candle lights illuminated his golden skin and the strands of gray that interspersed his dark hair. The candle on his other side shone bright to highlight his silhouette, his aquiline nose standing bold, characteristic of a valorous man. The sight had you transfixed and you wondered if his godlike visage aided him in battle. If it distracted his enemies long enough for him to slay them. 

He reached his hand out to yours, brought it up from your lap and placed a kiss on your fingers. He looked up at you from your fingers, his brown eyes drawing you in like Cupido himself was pulling your strings like a marionette. 

“I have kept you waiting for long.” 

Not as long as Consus did. But you kept the comment to yourself. You’d never come close to a marital bed but something told you that men did not want to hear about a woman’s previous husband. 

You spoke for the first time in his presence. “You are an important man. I understand.” 

He smiled, dropping your hand to the space between you but not leaving it. His hand was rough from battle yet gentle in touch. It enveloped yours, exuding a soft dominance like the rest of him did. He was quite large and you winced internally, hoping that it did not translate to his size elsewhere. Did your sisters ever tell you about the relationship between the size of his man and his manhood? You couldn’t quite remember. 

“Have the servants made the home comfortable for you? It has been quite a while since this home had a domina.” 

You nodded and licked your lips, wishing you could run out to fetch some water for your drying mouth. “It is comfortable. And very beautiful. I have never seen the ocean before.” 

“There is nothing like the peace the sound of the waves brings. Nothing like the cool breeze at night and relaxing on the balcony to indulge in the stunning blue expanse.” 

“The sight of the ocean when the sun sets is truly incomparable. I spent many evenings mesmerized by it.” 

Like magic, the pressure in your lower belly disappeared. You spoke about the beauty of Rome and indulging in it. He put you at ease, drawing smiles out of you, each one wider than the last. But you had a way of finding something to torture yourself over. As you exchanged details about your past, you blurted the question out. 

“Am I to your liking?” 

“You are beautiful. Worthy of the praises your father sings of his younger daughter in the senate. And at banquets. The bathhouses and libraries and markets. Rome does not know your name but she knows you.” 

“I…” you swallowed, relieved that he found you beautiful but afraid for everything else to come. You were inexperienced but even you knew that beautiful faces were not enough to be an adequate wife. It was not adequate for Consus and you did not want a repetition of that with the General. “I do not know what you require in a wife. But I will learn. I have kept my hair out of braids. I learned that you prefer it that way. I will learn everything else too.” 

Please allow me to learn. Do not discard me for my inadequacies before I have the opportunity to prove myself. 

“Your father also described you as dutiful. I see he was right.” 

“Stand up,” he said and took your hand once again, guiding you to stand in front of him. “Undress. Let me see you.” 

He leaned towards the headboard of the bed, relaxing with his arm draped over it as he looked at you. You felt your heart thud like a galloping horse on the battlefield. Like a good soldier would, you persisted into your own battle and undid the ties and clasps that kept your clothes in place. He sat back, exuding power with his broad shoulders, wide chests and thick thighs spread apart. 

Something about the situation made you feel like cattle in the market being evaluated by customers. Did the cows feel the way you did? Did they wonder as they were purchased if they would be slaughtered for meat or kept to be bred and milked? At least they had the peace of mind knowing that the man who bought them was satisfied with his purchase. 

The General hadn’t seen you before he took you for a wife. 

Silk pooled around your legs and the cold breeze he’d waxed poetic about caressed your skin. The cold and the shame of being bare in front of a man persuaded you to cross your arms over your chest. You kept your eyes on the ground, focusing on his feet and yours being so close together. 

You jumped when his hand grazed your elbow but refused to look at him for fear of what you would find. Disappointment? Disgust? Anger? You could not fathom which would be the worse outcome. 

“Do not hide from your husband,” he said, gently prying your arms apart. Arms by your side, you dug your fingernails into your palm to keep from covering yourself again. Consus never laid a hand on you— never bedded you, never hit you. The General had been sweet so far, but you did not know who he was and what he did when angered. 

He held your hip and caressed your soft skin with his calloused hand. You inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by the proximity of his hand to your core. You pressed your thighs together, your feminine demureness anxious to keep your most intimate parts hidden from men’s eyes. 

“Turn around. Slowly,” he said, guiding you by your hips. As soon as you faced away from him, you brought your hands back up to cover your breasts. He did not seem to notice as his hand trailed down to your rear and grabbed your flesh in both hands. You whimpered, feeling somehow more exposed though you had not become more naked.

“Beautiful…” he hummed as he rotated you to face him once again. You dropped your arms to your sides as though you had touched a hot pot, his instruction ringing in your ear. 

“And obedient… I could not have chosen better. Now show me what you can do, girl.” It was enough for you to finally look up at him. There were none of the expressions you feared you would see. He looked quite relaxed and you were afraid you would ruin that with your ignorance of what you were to show him. 

“I will do anything you ask,” you answer meekly, hoping he would tell you exactly what he wanted you to do. Hoping he would instruct you every step of the way. 

“Show me how you will serve me.” 

You swallowed, thinking through every bit of information your sisters and servants had given on pleasing a man. It all came down to obedience, to lying down and taking what your husband gave you. Were you supposed to do something else? 

“P-please,” you whispered, the world distorted as it spilled from your trembling lips. “Show me what I should do.” 

He stood up, startling you and forcing you to take a step back. He placed a hand on your lower back and caressed gently like you did a litter of feral kittens when you were a girl. 

He placed a finger under your chin and nudged you to look up at him. “Nothing you should do, beautiful girl. I only want what you want to do.” 

“I have never…” you trailed, shaking your head in denial. “I am still chaste,” you blurted out. He froze in place, deep brown eyes boring into you.

“Your father said you were a devoted mother.” 

“To Consus’ children. Borne by his first and second wives. After his second wife died in childbirth, he— I raised the children.” 

“You do not want children of your own?” 

“I do!” You exclaimed quickly, afraid this life would be taken from you once again. You kept silent throughout your marriage and you couldn’t do that again. Not if it meant your womb staying barren. “I do. Consus, he— both his wives before me died in childbirth and the children— he did not want them to lose another mother. So he never touched me. I am chaste.” 

“Your father did not tell me.” 

“I did not tell him. Consus wrote to my family that I lost pregnancies. Had my father known that he was— that we did not live as a married man and woman— he would have had me divorce him. Consus did not want that for the children and I could not tell my family the truth until he passed. Please… If my father believed I could not bear children, he would not have arranged for our marriage.” 

You naively believed your father would have informed the General of your predicament. Giving one’s daughter to a man when you believed her barren was no small slight. Your felt as though a stone had lodged itself in your throat. You had just doomed yourself and your father. He could march up to the senate come sunrise. Humiliate your father. Take his sword to his neck. All because you were too foolish to know how to please a man. 

“What of you?”

“What of me?” You asked, confused. He took your hands in his and guided you to sit on the bed. He joined beside you.

“Why did you remain loyal to such a loathsome man? One who besmirched you to your family rather than admit to his deficiencies as a man?” 

“I was young and foolish. When I realized that he would never give me children, I… he had already lied enough to my family about my—” you stopped and shook your head. There was no need to speak ill of the dead man. No need to remind yourself how your barrenness made you the laughing stock of the village. “I resigned myself to the fate the gods had chosen for me. And I grew to love his children as my own.”

“I want more children. I ha— all my sons are dead, a few daughters too.” 

You nodded, your chest clenching from the pained look in his eyes. It was universal. Almost everyone who’d had children had lost children. But the pain never subsided. You’d seen it in your sisters, noble women of the highest ranking, in servants and slaves. The first time in a General.

“I want to have children.” 

He smiled and nodded before picking up your linen stola from the ground and wrapping it around you. He cupped your cheek, his hand engulfing the entirety of your face. He tilted his head, a soft sigh escaping his lips as his eyes bore into yours.

You leaned closer to him, praying you remembered how to kiss from the few times with a servant girl when you were only thirteen. Anticipation and anxiety had your heart racing together. When he finally touched his lips to yours, he quietened every anxiety, leaving only excitement behind. You placed a hand on his armor, the hardness of the metal underneath the leather contrasting the softness of his lips. Your other hand moved of its own accord, finding the nape of his neck. His soft curls tickled your fingers and he sighed into the kiss. 

He traced your lips with the tip of his tongue and you opened up, welcoming him. A sense of calm settled in you as you explored each other. In his arms, you found safety for the first time since your arrival. His lips coaxed you to the gates of heaven and you followed as you imagined soldiers followed your General into war. With some fear of the uncharted territory yet brave because they trusted his leadership.

When you pulled away from each other, something felt changed. He no longer felt like a stranger. Something in his eyes, an openness inviting you into his life. 

The ravages of war and time were evident in his features. A scar on the bridge of his nose perhaps from a time he came too close to his own end. His skin was spotted with marks from the sun. His eyes were soft not from the naïveté of youth but from seeing the harsh world. His golden skin peeked from under his beard decorated with a few grey flecks. You caressed a patch of skin where his beard did not grow. 

Not an hour had passed since you met him but in his embrace, glancing into his eyes, you knew life would be peaceful.

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[fictionalreads]

This Was Never Meant to Be What It Feels Like (Part 3)

A/N: Heeeeeeey...How y'all doing?....I know it's been a couple weeks when I said days but a part of this just did not want to be written! Also, this one is a bit of a beast, just over 5,200 words. This is the final part of this lil mini series, I hope y'all enjoy and the conclusion is satisfying for you guys.

Part 1 Part 2

Pairing: Armando Aretas x Original Female Character

Fandom: Bad Boys Movies

Prompt: Mike gets a couple visits, Shay has some news and Armando makes a decision.

Warnings⚠️: Cussing, Mentions of bad parental relationships, uh.... I think that's it for this one.

Mike Lowrey was no stranger to being called into back rooms for an off the books meeting. What was unusual was the CBI agent waiting for him when last time he checked none of the cases he had been part of lately had anything to warrant federal attention. Well, besides the one with his son but he had been cleared almost a full year ago now and Julie had corroborated his story. Nah, this was something new.

“Officer Lowrey, I’m Agent Garrett with the California Bureau of Investigations. Please have a seat.” She was standing at her full height on the other side of the table while gesturing to one of two chairs in the room, the only one near him. He saw straight through her bullshit tactics to make him feel like she was in charge and had the upper hand.

“It’s Detective Lowrey and think I’ll stand. Now why don’t you cut the shit and tell me what the hell you want.” Her jaw tensed and he just barely managed to hold back a smirk. She wouldn’t get what she wanted by using the same perp tricks he had been using when she was still in diapers. You can’t bullshit the bullshitter.

Coming clean, she began, “I’ve been put in charge of running a task force out in LA, similar to your AMMO squad here. Our goal is to find and stop cartel drug from entering the country, maybe stop a few murders while we’re at it.”

So this was about Armando, just more recently than he thought. Damn son of his was definitely payback for the hell he raised when he was younger. If he was back on his shit, he might not be able to help him this time.

“Sounds like a good idea. I wish you luck,” he stated, feigning ignorance as to what this was really about.

“Your son Armando Aretas has many connections on the west coast that could be useful. Figured I could use him to knock down some of my open cases.”

She clearly had found out their connection, but he still wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. “I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news lately, but my son isn’t here in Miami. He’s been on the run for the better part of a year. I don’t know where he is.”

“You’re his father.” Agent Garrett takes the chair on her side of the table. “If anybody could find him, it’d be you. You’d know where to look right?” The flattery, the subtle leading questions to confirm what she believed and the sitting gave her away.

She was desperate.

If he had to guess, those open case files were all big cases that had her boss breathing down her neck. She’d probably been given an ultimatum with her job on the line and now she was desperate to do anything that would get her back on top, including working with a wanted man.

Mike sat. “What are the terms?”

“Terms?”

“What does Armando get in exchange for helping you?”

She looked at him in disbelief. “Terms are you don’t go to prison for aiding and abetting a murderer and he doesn’t get a bullet in his head immediately. Don’t know if you know this but cops aren’t a big hit in prison and I’m betting that’s especially true for you.”

“Don’t fucking insult me, please. Aiding and abetting implies I know where he is and I’m actively helping him. I’ve already told you I don’t know where he is. But like you said I’m your best shot at finding him. I’m also your best chance at not getting your men killed and losing him again. I’m not doing this shit without some assurances on his end. So I’ll ask again. What does he get for helping you?”

She shook her head. “You know when I came up with this whole thing, I did my my research on you. Figured I should know who I was getting into bed with. Everything I read told me you were one hell of a cop, always got your guy and made Miami just that much safer. Are you, this great cop, really going to bat for a murderer like him?”

That was where her approach was faulty. She was trying to appeal to his cop side, but he was a father first. “No, I, a father, am protecting my son.”

“I can offer him protective custody, knock some time off his sentence depending on how fruitful his tips are.” She offered lightly.

Too lightly. This was her throwaway offer, the one she knew was shit but was hoping he’d take anyway. So he called her bluff.

“He won’t come in for that. He had that deal with me already. All the shit that went down last year? The bodies dropped had to be put on someone and he got ‘em since he was a convicted felon, one that was alive and a part of the mess. Not to mention he ran off and became a fugitive. He’s looking at almost double what his sentence was when I arrested him. You’ll have to do better.”

Agent Garrett seemed to be debating with herself. She let out a heavy breath,”I’ve been authorized to grant him a special deal.”

Now they were getting somewhere.

“What kind of deal?”

“The kind that puts my ass on the line.”

Something about this whole interaction was bugging him. “Tell me something. Why are you willing to put your badge on the line for someone you clearly can’t stand?”

“I don’t trust Aretas. But this isn’t about me. Its about making my city safer. His intel could be the key to shutting down major operations. He has connections everywhere, and that’s what I care about. I’m not putting myself on the line for him, I’m doing it for my city.”

“You sure you’re not doing it for your bosses? They up yo ass about getting shit done?”

“I proposed using Aretas. They were against it. Said we were cleaning up just fine but I’m tired of cleaning up after the fact and only getting low level dealers. I want to cut this thing off at the head.”

“At the end of the day that’s my son. I need to know that somebody has his back. Why should I trust that that’s you?”

“Like I said this is my proposal. My bosses made it clear that if he fails I fail. He gives me the wrong intel, he leads us astray, he turns on us, I’m fired. I’m just as invested in his success because I have something to lose too.”

“What’s the offer?”

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

“Hi, I’m looking for Mike Lowrey?” Shay swallowed down the feeling of nausea, hoping it was just the nerves making her feel this way.

“He’s not in at the moment, but I’m his wife Christine. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Shay hesitates. Could she do anything? Hell she wasn’t sure what this Mike Lowrey could do for her either. She flew all the way to Miami, and for what? Some detective Armando had left the name of in case she needed help? This was a bad idea. She knew he was a cop, and after looking him up a supposedly good one, but how could she trust him when he socialized with a murderer? Ignoring her own dalliances with the man, she could only think about the fact that Detective Mike Lowrey had sworn to arrest people like Armando, not be someone they trusted.

She felt overwhelmed for the millionth time in the past month and a half and was debating just leaving when Christine offered, “why don’t you come in? Mike should be home soon and you can wait inside for him instead of in the heat.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the heat, Christine's sweet voice coupled with the endearing British accent or the way her face screamed warmth, but she found herself saying, “yeah. Yeah okay.”

Christine opened the door wider for her to enter and Shay marveled at the inside of the house as much as she had the outside. This guy was definitely a dirty cop. There was no way he was able to afford this on a detective’s salary. What the hell was she getting herself into?

“Please have a seat,” she gestured towards the couch.  It looked like it was more for the aesthetic than actual use but she was pleasantly surprised to find it very comfortable. “Would you like something to drink? I have water and that disgusting stuff my husband calls sweet tea,” Christine joked.

“Water is fine,” she replied with a smile. Shay watched as Christine stepped past a wall into what she assumes was the kitchen. The creeping sensation of nausea hit her once more. Digging in her purse and finding a ginger chew, she didn’t see Christine come back in the room with a bottle of water. Almost instantaneously she felt relief, so maybe it was all psychosomatic. Just her nerves going haywire.

“How far along are you?” Shay startled at the question.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.

“It’s okay. What makes you think I’m pregnant?”

“I saw the chew and just assumed.” 

She didn’t believe that for a second. “Some assumption based off just a ginger chew. What if I just like them?”

“Honestly the chew was just the cherry on top for my assumption. You hold yourself the same way my sister held herself when she was pregnant for the first time. A bit unsure, scared definitely, but ready for war all the same.”

Well, damn. She didn’t know she gave off that much with just how she stood.

Ignoring how unexpectedly open she felt, she answered Christine’s question from before.“Thirteen weeks.” Suddenly Shay realized how this could look, a random pregnant woman showing up looking for her husband and not telling her what she wants, so she quickly explained. “It’s not your husband’s!”

Christine laughed brightly, “Oh darling the thought never crossed my mind. Mike may have once been that guy, but he’s not anymore. He’s a good man.” Shay kept her doubts to herself.

“Christine? Who’s car is that out front?” The man she assumed to be Mike Lowrey was juggling a duffle bag and struggling to get his keys out of the door, not once looking in their direction.

Smirking like it was a game, Christine replied, “It’s a rental.”

“Why do we need a rental?” He finally looked up, noticing Shay in the room. She could see his guard go right back up.

“Mike, this is Shay. She was hoping to speak with you,” his wife explained to him.

“Do I know you?” He was blunt but not unkind with his words, something she hoped would continue in their conversation.

“Mike!” Christine admonished before turning to Shay with, “Please, excuse Mike. He can bring his interrogation tactics into other parts of his life sometimes.”

“It’s okay. If a random woman showed up saying she needed to speak to me, I’d probably question it too.” She was hoping her understanding would get her some traction and not immediately thrown out when he found out why she was here.

Mike still held caution in his face. “So…?” He left the obvious question unspoken, wondering who she was and why she was here in his home.

Shay paused. She wasn’t sure how to bring it up and didn’t want to say anything in front of his wife in case she truly had no clue her husband was a dirty cop. She may have been desperate enough to find this guy,  but she wasn’t going to be the one to ruin this poor woman’s marriage.

Luckily Christine picked up on her reluctance to speak in front of an audience and excused herself. “I’m going to head upstairs for a moment, give you two some time to talk.”

While Shay relaxed, Mike tensed. Once Christine was gone, he questioned her. “Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

“I was told if I ever needed anything, I should find you.”

Mike carefully focused his attention on sitting his duffle near the armchair, going to take a seat himself. He might not be looking directly at her anymore, but she knew all of his attention was on her as he spoke. “Who the fuck told you that? Better yet, why my house? Why not meet me in the station?”

Ignoring the second question, she replied, “Armando Aretas.”

Mike’s head snapped back to her. She was almost concerned for his neck with how fast he moved.

Continuing at his silence she said, “I figured you wouldn’t want to discuss him at work.”

“What about him?”

“He was in LA a few months ago.”

He first whispered to himself, “Dumbass don’t listen.” Then he spoke louder, clearly to her this time, “What does this have to do with you and why you’re here?”

She wasn’t sure where to start. How does one tell a dirty cop working for one’s murderer baby daddy that you need him to tell said baby daddy you were pregnant? “We were…together. I’m pregnant now.” She hoped he would catch on without her spelling it out but he didn’t.

Instead, Mike blinked. “What?” A million unidentifiable emotions ran over his face before he carefully shut it down, facing her with no emotion at all now.

“I am with child, in the family way, carrying a bun in the oven, whatever you want to call it.” There was still no response from him so she continued her rant, “look I’m not asking for him to come back or pay for anything. I’m fully prepared to take care of this kid myself, but not even trying to tell him was weighing on my conscience. So I figured if I found you like he said, you could pass on the message for me. I just need to be able to know I did everything I could to let him know.”

She had prepared for a lot of responses to her plea. Anger on Armando’s behalf, a dismissal, hell even laughter at her audacity, but his next words were ones she somehow missed in her spiral. “I’m not in contact with him.”

Shay tried not to be hurt at his response, not for herself, but for her baby. Okay, well a little bit for herself. She was in love with the man-yes, still- and knowing he truly didn’t leave a way to contact him again crushed the little bit of hope his note had left behind. Why would he send her to Mike if it wasn’t a way to get in touch with him? “So why would he tell me to find you?”

A pause.

“Armando’s my son.”

The statement was so far from what she was expecting to hear that she paused. “Wait so you don’t…you don’t work for him? With him? Whatever.”

Mike laughed loudly, “nah, I don’t work in that world. I stand by the badge.”

“So how did he…?” She trailed off, confused.

“Look our situation is…complicated, but if he sent you in my direction I’m gonna help you in any way I can. I mean, I’d love to get to know you and be in my grandchild’s life if you’ll let me.” His words were reminiscent of the night she had asked Armando about his family. He too had called his relationship with his father complicated.

Despite the unknown of it all, his offer was partly the reason she had found Mike. A family for her child, something she never really had. “Yeah. Yeah I’d like that.” It may not be exactly what she was looking for, but she would take what she could get. At least her baby would have some connection to their father’s side of the family. But she still had a question, one that had no answer now that her assumptions were corrected.

“So if you aren’t dirty, how do you afford living like this?”

Mike let out a laugh louder than the one from before. “I’m a trust fund kid. Never really had to work but all I’ve ever wanted was to be a cop.”

“Sounds like one hell of a trust fund,” she scoffed.

Turning serious he impressed, “One that continues to grow from a few investments made along the way. This kid will have that same freedom. They’ll be able to do whatever they want in life and never have to worry about money.”

That statement alone almost made her cry. She didn’t have much growing up, wondering if she and her mother would even be able to eat everyday. When she had found out she was pregnant, despite making more money than her mother did she found herself worrying her child would have those same experiences.

She may not have Armando, a partner she’d hoped to have, but he had made sure she had everything she needed.

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Habitual but flexible.

That was Armando’s motto. Habitual in the precautions he took but flexible enough everywhere else to not create patterns. Patterns were how you got caught, and Armando refused to be put in another cage. He always double checked his locks when he left his place, checked his surroundings before leaving and arriving at his place so as not to run into his neighbors. The less people who could identify him the better.

Which is why seeing his door wide open as he turned onto his street was so unsettling.

Normally he would just leave town, dump this alias and start over with another elsewhere, but there were a few things he didn’t want to part with. Upon his first return to Mexico, he had managed to find his mother’s emergency stash and in it was a photo of the two of them before he was forced out of the prison when he turned six. Despite his conflicted feelings on his mother’s choices and the lies she told him, he still loved her and this was all he had left of her.

If she were around she’d chastise his sentimentality.

He also had a letter his father had written him when he left Miami that he kept because even with the complexity of their relationship, he still wished he’d had the opportunity to get to know him. He wished he could have done things differently. That letter may be his only chance to know his father, even a little bit.

The last thing was a photo of Shay. He had taken it one morning before he left on a polaroid camera she had lying around. The sun had been rising and he remembered wishing what they had could be real, that he could stay in bed and wake up with her instead of having to run out and lie all the time. It was the only thing he had left of the only relationship he’d ever have again.

So he weighed his options. Either he went in and fought whoever was there, grabbed his things and hopefully made it out in time to not get caught, or he left now and hoped whoever it was left without calling for backup so he could get his things before leaving town. He either risked his freedom or he risked losing the only items that reminded him of his humanity forever.

He pulled his gun and carefully made his way into the apartment he’d called home for a couple weeks.

“Don’t shoot, it’s just me.”

Armando relaxed, but kept his gun in his hand. “What are you doing here Detective?” His tone was snippy, as though his father speaking to him was a bother. He knew that wasn’t true, but it was like he couldn’t help the animosity that came out when he spoke to his father. No matter how much he’d love to try with the man, he’d just get so angry about it all that it came out confrontational.

“What? A man can’t see his son?” Mike didn’t rise to the obvious bait of his tone, instead trying to lighten the mood with a tease.

Armando simply raised an eyebrow at the deflection. “Not when that man is a decorated detective and his son is a fugitive,” he coldly stated. He needed to know what Mike wanted so he could get on with his life. Who knows how many eyes are on the man, he was risking Armando’s freedom, not that he seemed to care. Irritated at the lack of concern for him, he accused, “you risked the badge once just to let me go, you won’t risk it again, not even for me. It means too much to you.” I don’t mean enough to you went unsaid but not unheard.

“Armando I’d risk everything for you.” The fight left Mike, and he sighed, finding a seat on the edge of the bed. “You’re my son and I know I’m not the best at showing it, but that shit means something to me. Our relationship means something to me. I didn’t have the best relationship with my father so I told myself I wouldn’t have kids cause I didn’t want to repeat the cycle. But then I found out about you. And despite the fact that circumstances made it so it isn’t easy, I still don’t want the cycle to be repeated. I love you man. I’ll do whatever you need me to, to prove that to you. Including walking away if you say no to my proposal.”

There it was. The real reason he was here now, he needed something like always. Armando put his gun away in exasperation. He was so tired of just being used that he couldn’t help but get a jab in. “Whatever man. This don’t mean shit to you. It’s all transactional for you, I’m good enough to help you get what you want and that’s why you come around. So what is it this time?”

“Is that what you think? That I don’t care about you?” What the hell else was he supposed to think?

“If you did, you would have come to see me in prison without needing my help on a case.” He argued before quietly following up with, “I would have been enough of a reason to visit.” He hated when this stupid hurt boy routine flared up. He looked weak, like una puta.

Mike stood and stepped close to Armando. Refusing to back down, Armando met his stare head on, ignoring the way his throat was getting tight and tears were pooling in his eyes. “Armando I never needed you on those cases. I knew that if I could get intel from you and put you down on paper, it would help you out. I was trying to help.” He blinked and a single tear made its way down his face. It was too much now and he had to look away.

Mike placed a hand on his shoulder, continuing, “I love you. Nothing is more real than that. If I had known you would take my help as me using you, I never would’ve asked for your help.”

Facing his father once more, Armando spoke lowly, “Si lo hubieras sabido, ¿te habría importado?” He didn’t explain what he meant, knowing his father understood what he was asking.

“Nada me hubiera importado más.” Mike asserted.

He nodded, finally having an answer to the question that had been burning inside him. He focused on the reason Mike was in front of him, not the emotions his answer stirred in him. “What’s the proposal?” He asked much more calmly this time around.

“LAPD is starting up a team like AMMO. They were hoping to recruit you to be a part of it, use your knowledge to help stop cartel drugs from entering the states.”

“And go back in a cage? No I’m good.” He shook his head, a clear no coming from him.

“You wouldn’t be arrested again, you’d be put up in an apartment. Free to walk the city after an initial probationary period of just work and home. After that, there would be twenty-four hour surveillance, random drug tests and check-ins. Eventually you would become a private citizen.”

It sounded like a trap. “If I don’t give them what they want I get arrested right?”

“Yeah, but I have all the faith you’ll be great at it. Plus I made sure it was as ironclad for you as possible.”

“Why would I agree to this? Sounds like a lot could go wrong and land me back in prison. If that happens I’m never getting out again.”

“You aren’t the killer your mother made you into. You only did any of it because she fueled you with rage and ideas of revenge before she pointed you at a target. If you were really a killer, you would’ve killed me anyway. You live by a code, and only do what’s necessary. No more, no less.”

Sometimes when he was feeling really low he’d think about what his life would have been like if he’d had a normal life. Would he have chosen violence anyway? He’d like to think he’d hav e chosen to protect. Maybe be a firefighter or an EMT cause he was still an adrenaline junkie, but maybe he wouldn’t have to hurt anybody. If his father was saying the same thing he thought, then maybe he could believe it to be true. Before he could think on it, his father spoke once more, shifting his whole world.

“Besides, Shay’s pregnant. We not giving another generation of Lowrey these bullshit daddy issues.”

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Six Months Later

“Marcus we ain’t got time for that shit.”

“I just asked the man a question!”

“No, you used the question as a cover to try and buy some damn skittles.”

“Oh so now you the skittle police? I thought we worked narcotics?”

“Yo ass ain’t supposed to have that shit and you know it. Don’t try to make it out like I’m the one that’s going overboard.”

“Aye Mike what would they call the skittle department? The rainbow division? Don’t worry everybody! Mike Lowry is working the rainbow!”

“That’s homophobic.”

“It’s the slogan! What else would it be called Mike?”

“Why the fuck are you here?”

“Man fuck you-“

“Your presence really wasn’t needed-“

“I’m just trying to be a good friend-“

“This is a moment for my family-“

“And now I’m not family to you?!”

“You called my family fucked up remember?”

“Yo son was tryna kill us and his mama was gonna let us burn in a fire!”

“Are you pendejos done?”

“Mike! That mean assholes right?”

“Yeah he just called us assholes. But Imma let it slide cause he got to be high on that new father shit to call me an asshole.”

“Nah I just think he don’t respect you. That’s what you get for not raising him. My boys would never.”

“Marcus!”

Shay knew this could devolve again if she didn’t get their attention. “Guys! Do you want to meet her?”

The men focused their attention on the baby Shay was holding against her chest. Marcus visibly melted at the sight, Mike simply softening his shoulders with a small smile. 

Armando joined Shay, leaning on the bed using a finger to trace down their daughter’s arm. When he spoke, he kept his eyes on his daughter. “This is Amada Rose Lowrey.”

“Lowrey?”Mike coughed.

Armando shrugged. “I wasn’t actually an Aretas, I was supposed to be a Lowrey. Figured she and I could claim our real family name.”

Mike nodded. “That’s cool man. Real cool,” he choked out.

“Awe Mike,” Marcus cried.

“Mm-mm Marcus. Stop it right now.”

“But Mike he’s taking your last name!”

Ignoring his bumbling partner, Mike walks over to Shay, giving her a kiss on the forehead. “How you doing Mama?”

“Extremely sore, but happy.”

“Well you did good, she’s beautiful.”

“You wanna hold her?”

Knowing his father’s aversion to holding babies, he goads hims, “Yeah Papa, wanna hold her?”

Surprising them all, he said, “You know what? I will.”

Shay handed her daughter over to Mike, making sure he supported her head correctly.

Armando joined Shay on the bed and wrapped her in his arms now that she wasn’t holding the baby. He simply watched his father holding and whispering to his baby girl with fond eyes, knowing his daughter would know nothing but love and presence from the man. They would have a real relationship right from the start. He and Mike themselves had been working on things, talking through the lies and anger and getting to a better place.

“How’s work? They give you any time off?” Marcus asked him.

In the end there hadn’t been a choice. He was going to be present in his child’s life, no matter what and sneaking into LA would just get riskier every time he did it. If he didn’t get caught just trying to get to his family, he would’ve gotten caught because if how much he would’ve been there to see them. And he’d be damned if he was raising his child from behind bars so he took Agent Garrett up on her offer.

He turned to face his uncle, replying, “Good, we wrapped a case a day before Shay went into labor. I’ll have about a couple weeks at home with the girls before I’m expected back.” 

It had somewhat surprised him how seriously Marcus had taken to being his uncle. The man was supportive of his new role with the LAPD and called almost as often as his father did, checking in and making sure he was being safe. Seeing him at the hospital now wasn’t a shock at all.

“I’m just glad they gave him any time at all,” Shay interrupted. As his employment with the LAPD wasn’t under normal circumstances, he wasn’t sure if they’d grant him time at home with his girls. Agent Garrett had stuck her neck out for him once again and gotten him twelve days exactly.

Armando leaned down and kissed her, forever grateful for the woman who stood by his side despite his past. She had lost a couple friends when they found out who he was, the ones that stayed had definitely judged her and never truly came around to him as a person. She never wavered though, taking it all with grace and holding his hand as they planed for their future. He couldn’t wait to ask her to marry him.

Amada let out a cry, disrupting his internal debate on the pros and cons of asking her right that moment. He knew it probably meant she was hungry again, so he shifted his hold on Shay so she could get the b baby again and feed her.

“I think that’s a cry for mommy,” Mike chimed as he passed the baby back.

“Yeah Mike you ain’t got the right equipment,” Marcus tossed out.

Mike turned to Marcus incredulously. “Now why would you say some dumb shit like that?”

“You don’t!”

Armando turned his attention from the bickering men, whispering to his little family, “Here they go.”

Honestly, though? He wouldn’t trade his family for nothing.

A/N: Don't forget to leave a comment or reblog/like! What did we think? I have a few other ideas in mind for Armando but I'm not sure how they'll play out, so I'm CAUTIOUSLY open to prompt from you guys for drabbles. Please keep in mind that I can't do smut.😅

Translations:

Una Puta - A bitch

Si lo hubieras sabido, ¿te habría importado? - If you had known, would you have cared?

Nada me hubiera importado más. -Nothing would have mattered to me more.

Pendejos - Assholes

Taglist:

@yeahnohoneybye @bootlegroach @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful

[avastrasposts]

A Baker's Dozen - Seven

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

Javi P got a lot of attention last week, both his visit to the bakery and for the many Pickled Peña fics he starred in. Thank you so much for all the lovely comments! It really means more than you probably reaslise! It's been a rough week and I feel lucky to have found a great community here and to have found so much fun and enjoyment in writing to keep my mind off things.

This week's Pedro boy is dedicated to my lovely friend @secretelephanttattoo who is not only an amazing writer, but also one of the best people I've meet on Tumblr. Love you ❤

Series Master List

Working in a bakery almost every day means you pick up on people’s habits, whether they come into the shop or not. You know the bookshop owner across the streets always arrives ten minutes late on Tuesdays. The bodega owner next to your bakery always picks up his dry cleaning on Fridays and the dry cleaning lady always throws out her trash on Thursday evening. And you know that the cute guy with a dimpled smile always walks past your shop at about eight forty-five every weekday morning. 

He hasn’t always walked past, it started just a few weeks ago, but now it’s routine. You’d first noticed him when he stumbled over something on the sidewalk, smacking his hand against your window to keep his balance, and making you jump. He’d given you an apologetic smile, that’s how you know he’s got a deep dimple on his left cheek. And a really, really, great smile. 

The next morning you noticed him again as he glanced in through the window and smiled, a quick wave as he hurried down the street. And the same thing the next morning and then it was a routine. Around eight forty-five, between customers, you’d keep glancing over at the window until you see him walk past in his well fitted business suit, always a tie flapping in the breeze. He has a routine with those too you notice; a blue tartan pattern on Mondays, slate gray on Tuesdays, navy blue with white dots on Wednesday and the then tartan one again on Thursdays before he ditches the ties on Fridays. You wouldn’t go as far as saying that seeing him is the highlight of your day, but when one day he doesn’t pass by, you notice. And when the rest of the week passes and he doesn’t show up at all, you feel a little bit sad, even though you never even spoke with him. 

Monday morning, eight thirty, and you’re working your way through the morning rush, serving coffee and selling croissants and cinnamon rolls, he suddenly appears again. But this time he’s in front of your counter, holding on to a credit card as he smiles down at you. 

“Hi,” he says, the dimple deep in his cheek, “I thought it was about time I stopped by and said hello properly.” 

“Hi,” you say, a little breathless, he’s even cuter, and handsome, up close, and you’re suddenly very aware of your shiny face, straggly hair and stained apron. 

“I’m Marcus, Marcus Pike,” he says, holding out his hand, “I’m the creepy guy who slams into your window and never comes inside.” 

“Hi Marcus,” you reply, taking his hand, hoping yours isn’t too sweaty and clammy, “I’m the creepy baker who stares at you every morning.” 

He laughs at that, a warm sound that makes your spine tingle as his eyes crinkle at the corners, a wide smile making another dimple pop on his cheek. 

“I guess we need to be less creepy then,” he chuckles, “maybe I can start by buying a coffee like a normal customer?” 

“That sounds like a good start,” you smile back at him, “what would you like?” 

“A cappuccino, please,” he glances up at the coffee menu behind you. 

“Coming right up, anything else?” You motion at the fresh croissants and pain au chocolat piled up on the counter and he looks at them with longing. 

“I would love too, really…but my job, we’ve got this fitness test thing in a few weeks and I’ve got to be in shape for that. That’s why I started walking to work, instead of taking the metro.” 

“Come back when the test is done then, if you pass, it’ll be on the house,” you wink at him over your shoulder as you start preparing his cappuccino. 

“Now there’s the motivation I need,” Marcus laughs, stepping back and glancing over the selection inside the display cases, “But you don’t have my favorite I think.” 

“No? What’s your favorite then?” you ask, “No, wait, don’t tell me, let me guess.” 

“Ok,” Marucs smiles as you hand him the cappuccino in a takeaway cup,” what’s my favorite?” 

You look him up and down, and he grins and takes a step back so that you can see all of him, holding out his arms and giving you a little spin. 

“Hmm…business suit, always a tie, well polished shoes and a job that requires fitness tests…” you hum, enjoying the chance he’s given you at properly taking him in. His suit stretches almost  tight over his broad shoulders, hugging his biceps, and when he holds out his arms, the shirt underneath hangs on for dear life. The suit jacket lifts up over his butt as he turns and you’re given the privilege of eyeing it for the first time. It’s just as cute as the rest of him and you have to mentally chastise yourself for ogling. 

“What’s your guess?” he smiles, coming to a stop in front of you again. 

“Carrot cake, but you wipe off the frosting to stay healthy,” you say and he manages to look both cute, amused and offended at the same time. 

“No way, I would never sacrifice the frosting!” he says, pretending to be insulted as he grins, “but nice try, I really like carrot cake, but it’s not my favorite.” 

“Hmm…maybe-”

“No,” he interrupts you with a wave of his hand, “you get only one guess per day, you can guess again tomorrow.” He gives you a warm smile and as he taps his credit card to pay for the coffee.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, keep guessing,” he says, stepping aside to let the man who’s just stepped into the shop approach the counter. With a final wave he disappears out through the door. 

The next morning he turns up again, as the morning rush dies down, and orders another cappuccino. 

“Canéles,” you say, pointing at him. “Fancy, French, just the thing a guy in a smart, well tailored suit would like.” 

Marcus grins and shakes his head, “I don’t even know what they are, but keep guessing!”

“Give me more clues then!” you protest as he takes a sip of the coffee you just handed him. 

“Hmm…I used to play bass in a band in college,” he says and you raise your eyebrows. He does not look like a bass player, or any kind of band member for that matter. 

“Special brownies?” you ask with a wink and Marcus almost spits out his coffee. 

“Definitely not,” he splutters, chuckling as he wipes his chin, “and you only get one guess per day.” 

“Says who?” you ask, but you already know the answer, Marcus’s grin tells you. 

“I do, my game, my rules,” he gives you a wink and heads for the door, “see you tomorrow!” 

Wednesday he comes in a little bit earlier and hands you a travel mug. 

“This looks brand new,” you say and he nods. 

“Decided I should save on the environment, and your takeaway mugs,” he smiles, leaning on the counter while you start preparing his coffee, “What’s your guess today then?” 

“Cinnabons,” you say, glancing over your shoulder, feeling butterflies erupt in your belly when his face splits into a wide grin. But he shakes his head and you give him a mock scowl. 

“You’re impossible to guess!” 

“Keep trying, gives me a reason to come in every morning,” he replies, “Not that I need a reason though,” he adds, a pink flush suddenly creeping up from beneath his shirt collar as he gives you an uncharacteristically shy smile. 

“I’ll keep trying if you promise to keep coming in,” you smile back at him, you can feel heat creeping up your own cheeks as you hand him his travel mug. And of course his fingers touch yours, just a light brush, but enough for both of you to glance down at your hands. You jump a little as his breath catches and when you look up at him again, his lips are parted and you see the tip of his tongue peak out, just for a split second, before he composes himself. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he smiles, “thanks for the coffee again.” 

Thursday he’s a little bit late, and he hurries through the door with his tie hanging around his neck, untied. 

“Sorry, I worked late last night and slept through my alarm this morning,” he huffs as he reaches the counter. 

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” you smile, “I only sell you your coffee,” you hand him the cappuccino you’ve already made him and he gives you a grateful look, “and let me fix your tie while you caffeinate yourself.” 

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver,” he sighs and takes a long sip of the coffee as you walk around the counter and stand in front of him. You look up at him, taking hold of each end of his tie, and you suddenly realize you’ve never been this close to him before. There’s always been a counter between the two of you. Now he’s standing barely a foot away and you can smell his aftershave, warm and woody, as you adjust the tie. 

“Over…under…over again…” you mumble to yourself, trying to remember what your dad taught you, “up through the neck and down…there, got it,” you say, gently tightening the tie up against the collar as Marcus lifts his chin up, “but you might want to adjust it.” 

“No, it feels perfect,” he says, giving you a warm smile, “thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” you smile back at him, tilting your head up a little to be able to meet his eyes now that he’s standing so close. You should really move back but he smells good and his eyes are so soft looking, the way he just smiles at you. 

“What’s your guess?” he asks, smoothing his hand down over his tie as you drop yours to the side. 

“What?” you mumble, slightly distracted by how his throat bobs just over the knot in the tie where your hands just where. 

“What’s your guess for my favorite baked thing?” Marcus says again and you blink, catching on. 

“Oh, of course! Uhmm…brownies? But real brownies, gooey in the middle and crunchy corners?” 

“Oh….that is definitely high up on my list, but not my absolute favorite, you’re getting close though,” he grins at you, putting down his coffee mug on the counter. 

“I’ve got to run, but….are you free tomorrow, after work?” he asks, his eyebrows knotting together as he waits for your answer. 

“Yeah, I’m free,” you say, you can’t stop the smile breaking out on your face at the question and he smiles back at you. 

“If you want, I’d really like to have dinner with you, maybe we can both drink something this time?” 

“That sounds nice, I’d like that, Marcus,” you reply, butterflies multiplying in your belly as he gently puts his hand on your arm, “and I’ll definitely figure out what your favorite is by then.” 

“It’s a date then,” he grins, “you supply my favorite and I’ll sort the rest, I’ll come by at closing, ok?” 

You nod and before you know it, he’s leaned in and pressed a soft kiss on your cheek, “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.” 

Friday morning Marcus stops by and buys his, by now, regular coffee, “So what’s my favorite?” he asks with a cheeky grin and you stick your tongue out at him. 

“Not telling you,” you smirk at him, “I’ll serve it tonight, I’m pretty sure I’ve got it figured out now.”

“I can’t wait,” he chuckles, winking at you before he grabs his travel mug and hurries off to work. 

Your day drags on and your nerves tingle every time you glance up at the clock at the wall. When the shop quietens down after lunch you prepare what you hope is Marcus’s favorite dessert, putting it in the fridge for baking later. 

Just a few minutes before the clock hits closing time you hear the jingle of the doorbell and look up to see Marcus step through it. He’s changed out of his usual business suit and is wearing a leather jacket over a gray t-shirt and jeans, a bright smile as he gives you a wave. You ring up your final customer, bidding them a nice weekend as Marcus lingers to the side, and then you get a chance to say hello to him as you go to lock the door and flip the sign. 

“Hi Marcus,” you smile at him as he steps forward.

“Hi,” he says, leaning down and brushing his lips against your cheek, leaving the spot tingling and your skin warm. When he straightens up he smiles at you, his eyes soft and crinkling at the corners, “I hope you don’t mind, but I have a slightly unusual plan,” he says, pointing to the duffel bag he’s got hanging from his shoulder, “Dinner’s on me, but in your kitchen.” 

“You’re cooking for me?” you ask and he nods. 

“Seems only fair, you’re making dessert, so I do the rest….well…” he gives a little embarrassed shrug, “with a little bit of help from my favorite restaurant.” 

“Sounds like a nice plan,” you say, putting your hand on his arm and his smile brightens again, “come, let me show you the kitchen then.” 

You lead him past the counter and into the back room, the kitchen clean and ready for tomorrow, except the dessert for Marcus. “What do you need?” you ask, “Help yourself to anything.” 

“First of all, I need you to sit down,” he says with a smile, looking around the kitchen for a chair and spotting only the stool with wheels on, “Not many places to sit in here, huh?” 

“When would I have time to just sit around?,” you laugh, taking your apron off and throwing it in the dirty laundry basket in the back room, “I usually just sit on the counter.” You heave yourself up onto the large workbench as Marcus starts unpacking his duffel bag. He’s hung his jacket on the hook by the door and now he’s crouched down, digging through the content at his feet. The gray t-shirt hugs his shoulders, stretching tight over his back and riding up, exposing a strip of bare skin just above his jeans. It’s so far from the man in the well fitted business suits you’ve been seeing every morning for the past few weeks, a much more relaxed Marcus. 

“Do you wear the suits every day because your job requires you too?” you ask, taking the opportunity to stretch your tired back as you get settled on the counter, baking all day takes a toll on your body. 

“Yeah, I don’t mind them but I prefer the days when I don’t have to wear them,” he answers, standing up and placing a stack of boxes next to you on the counter. “No peeking,” he says in a stern voice, smirking at you and you hold up your hands. 

“I’m not touching anything,” you reply, “But I never asked what you work with?” 

“I work at the FBI, with art theft,” he says and you widen your eyes. 

“Don’t tell me you’re an FBI agent?”

“Yeah,” he furrows his brow as he looks over at you, “do you..is- is that a problem?” 

“No, no, not at all, I’ve just never met an FBI agent. It makes being a baker seem very tame is all.” 

“Maybe tame is good sometimes,” he chuckles and looks around the kitchen and his brow furrows again, “Hhmm…hang on, I’ll be right back,” he says, grabbing the bag and going out into the shop again, “No peeking!”. 

“What are you doing?” you call out to him as you hear tables and chairs being moved around. 

“Nothing, just setting things up, just wait there,” he calls back and a few minutes later he comes back to the kitchen. 

“Now, let’s get dinner ready,” he smiles, “Plates and a small saucepan?” 

You direct him to them and soon he’s arranging food on two smaller plates. 

“Miss,” he says, winking at you and holding out his arm, “Let me show you to your table.” 

“How nice, please lead the way,” you smile at him and slip off the counter, taking his arm. He brings you out into the café part of the bakery and leads you to one of the small round tables by the window. He’s put a white table cloth on it and set two candles in the middle, another few candles arranged around the shop. The sun is setting outside and in the dim light of the shop the candles spread a golden glow, giving it an atmosphere you’ve never seen before. 

“Marcus…this is lovely, I’ve never had my shop look so nice before,” you say, sitting down as he pulls out the chair for you, “It’s so…romantic,” you let it slip out without thinking but Marcus puffs up a little and beams down at you.  

“I’m glad you like it, I really like your shop,” he smiles, “and I really like the shop owner, I wanted to make it special for you.”  

“You might be my very favorite customer, Marcus,” you smile back up at him, your cheeks heating up and he grins. 

“First course is coming right up,” he says with a smile and disappears into the kitchen. 

“You should give food walking tours of the city,” you joke as Marcus smiles at you from across the table. “I’m so full but I still want to go and eat at all your favorite places right now.” 

“I’d take them here first,” he says, “and make sure everyone knows where the best bakery in town is, but…” he leans forwards and grins at you, “Speaking of baking, I want to know if you’ve guessed my favorite dessert yet.” 

You give him a soft laugh and mimic his movement, leaning forward to meet him across the table, “I think I might have, I just need to go and turn on the oven and then they’ll be ready in a few minutes. But I just realized, you never said what my reward would be for guessing correctly.” 

Marcus hums, tapping his long fingers on his chin as he looks at you, a mischievous smile making the corner of his mouth curl up. 

“I don’t think we agreed on anything, but if you go turn on the oven and I’ll come up with something good,” he says, his smile widening, making your skin heat up as his eyes seem to suggest something enticing. 

Thank god for your industrial oven, it turns on and heats up to the right temperature in no time. While you pull out the dessert plates and take the ice cream out to soften, it hums to life and pings. The dessert goes in and you set a timer and go back out to Marcus, sitting down at the table again. 

“It just needs a few minutes,” you tell him, “did you come up with a reward?” 

“Yeah, I did, but what if you guess wrong?” he asks, “I need a reward too.” 

“If I’m wrong…” you say, thinking out loud, “you tell me your favorite, and no matter what it is, I’ll make it for you.” 

“That’s a nice idea,” Marcus smiles, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, the t-shirt stretching tight over his biceps, you swear you can hear a seam ripping behind him, “but I like my idea better.” 

“What’s your idea then?” you ask, giving him a suspicious look, he’s got a very happy grin as he looks at you. 

“If you guess wrong, I can take you on a second date,” he says and you laugh, that’s probably the easiest reward he could’ve asked for and you see the corners of his eyes crinkle as he sees your laughter.

“Hardly a difficult reward, Marcus,” you smile at him and he gives you a warm smile back, “But what if I guess right, what’s my reward then?” 

“If you guess right, you get to take me on a second date,” he grins and you feel little happy bubbles in your chest as his soft eyes stay locked with yours, you can’t help but smile widely back at him. 

“Deal, Marcus,” you say, holding out your hand to him. He leans forward and takes it, his large hand enveloping yours, thick fingers gently closing around yours as you both shake on it. 

“I can smell chocolate,” he grins, glancing at the kitchen, “I think you’re on the right track.” 

“I know you, Marcus,” you laugh, “all serious business suits on the outside, but a wild child on the inside, bass player and all.” 

“Hardly the definition of a ‘wild child’,” Marcus chuckles, “now, if I’d been lead singer or lead guitar, then maybe.” 

“Well, the dessert is only a little bit of a wild child, the defining factor is that at its heart, it’s very romantic, just like you.” 

Marcus gives you a slightly embarrassed smile, “It’s that obvious, huh?” 

“That you’re a romantic? Of course, but I like it,” you smile softly back at him, turning off the timer that’s just gone off, “Moment of truth. Did I guess right or not?” 

“Doesn’t matter, I’m getting a second date either way,” he says, winking at you as you stand up and head to the kitchen. 

Pulling them out of the oven you quickly plate the dessert and scoop up the vanilla ice cream, finishing with a light dusting of cocoa. Your hip bumps open the door to the shop and Marcus watches you eagerly as you bring the plates over and set them down on the table. 

“If this is what I think it is, you’ve got yourself a second date,” he jokes and grins up at you. 

“That’s not helpful, Marcus,” you laugh, “either way, you’ve got yourself a second date.” 

“I know, that’s the beauty of this deal,” he chuckles, picking up his dessert spoon and looking at you expectantly, “Can I guess?” 

“Sure, go ahead,” you smile and he pokes the dessert lightly. 

“Chocolate fondant?” he asks, looking up at you, raising his eyebrows, before he digs the spoon in and cuts it open. The soft chocolate cake exterior gives way to a thick river of chocolate that pours out of the interior of the little cake. Marcus giggles and scoops up a bite of both cake and sauce and puts the spoon in his mouth, humming at the flavor and closing his eyes. You watch with pride as he tips his head back and moans, the spoon still in his mouth as he sucks it clean. 

“How did you know?” he asks, a bright smile on his face when he’s finally done with his first bite. 

You shrug and smile back at him, “You’re not a health freak, you didn’t recognise the more complicated French pastry, you like gooey brownies and you’re a romantic. Chocolate fondant seemed like the obvious choice. Decadent, sweet and just the right amount of fancy,” you grin at him. 

You take a spoonful from your own fondant and put it in your mouth, watching the chocolate flow out from the inside, just the right amount of undercooked to keep the inside flowing and warm. The chocolate flavor spreads across your tongue, paired with a hint of vanilla and salt, rich and warm and you let an involuntary moan escape. When you glance up you don’t miss the dark look Marcus gives you, his eyes fixed on your mouth as he takes another spoonful. 

“You really guessed right, I love chocolate fondant, but I’ve never had one this good before,” he says, humming around the big piece in his mouth. “How come you don’t have them in the shop? Actually, don’t have them in the shop, I’d buy them all every week.” 

You giggle at his blissed out face as he takes another big bite, dropping his head into the palm of his hand as he sucks the spoon clean, “It’s like hot chocolate, brownie and chocolate sauce all in one fluffy soft shell of cake.” 

“I’m glad I guessed right, seeing your happy face makes me happy,” you smile at him and the tips of his ears go a pink in the dim light as he clears his throat and chuckles. 

“Coming to your bakery makes me happy,” he smiles, scraping the last bit of fondant from the plate while he looks up at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners and it’s your time to feel the heat rise in your face, his grin widens as he sees you shift awkwardly in your chair and glance at him with a smile.  

“Really, getting my morning coffee has become the highlight of my day,” Marcus says, “How sad isn’t that?” 

“Not sad, you coming into the bakery every morning has been the highlight of my day,” you say, finishing off the fondant and putting the spoon down while Marcus watches you with a smile. He suddenly pushes his chair back and stands up, holding his hand out to you. 

“Dance with me,” he says, the warmth of his hand spreading across your palm and down your arm as he pulls you to your feet. 

“There’s no music, Marcus,” you laugh but he just grins and spins you around before catching you in his arms, one around your waist, the other still holding on to your hand as you put your own hand on his shoulder. 

“Who cares about the music,” he says, gently swaying you back and forth while he gives you a soft smile, “it was just a clever ruse to get to hold you.” His hand on the small of your back is lightly stroking the fabric of your shirt and you’re very close to him, pressed up against his chest as he holds you near, moving slowly in a circle. You can smell his aftershave, mixed in with the dark chocolate of the dessert and without thinking, your hand slips into the soft looking curls at the back of his neck. Marcus tilts his head as your fingers play with the silky strands, letting go of your hand and moving it slowly to cup your face, his thumb stroking the soft skin on your cheek as he seems to inhale slightly and dip his head to yours.  

His lips are just as soft as you’ve imagined them, warm, gentle, as he parts them and tastes you. His steady hand holds you close, the curve of his strong nose brushing up against your cheek as he angles his head to better kiss you. You feel your fingers gripping his hair, willing him to press you even closer to him. All of his warm, solid body is pressed up against yours, his hand at the small of your back sliding up to hold you closer to him, your own hand gripping his shoulder, steadying yourself as you feel like melting into his touch.  

He’s still swaying the two of you gently, your lips moving slowly together, tasting the chocolate on each other's tongues. Heat is creeping through your body, wrapping around you, as you feel him tighten his hold on you, his breath skating over your lips as he exhales, a quiet groan leaving his throat. 

“You taste so sweet, even sweeter than the dessert,” he mumbles, his mouth close to yours, “I never want to stop kissing you.” 

You stand on your tiptoes to reach more of him, your hand around his neck, and part your lips for him, letting his tongue lick into your mouth with more fervor. He also tastes sweet and the way he pulls you closer as you steady yourself against his chest makes you moan under his increasingly heated kisses. He’s not swaying you anymore, instead he lets you melt into his body, his arm holding you up, as he bends his head, another groan slipping from him as he feels your tongue slip around his own. 

Marcus’s kisses make you forget the time, where you are, and not until he pulls away with a sigh, do you open your eyes and look up at him. His eyes are dark, filled with lust, and it’s mirrored in the way his body feels against yours, his arousal a clear presence between you. And you can feel your own fill your core with heat, a slow shiver as you touch upon the thought of having him even closer. 

Marcus keeps his eyes locked on you, his warm hand gently stroking your cheek as he seems to take a deep breath, composing himself. Your fingers are still toying with the impossibly soft curls at the back of his neck, letting them slip through your fingers, and you feel like you might drown in his dark brown eyes if he doesn’t release you soon. 

“Is it too soon to ask for a second date tomorrow?” he whispers, his eyes dropping down to your lips again, and then back to your eyes as you shake your head. 

“No, tomorrow sounds like a very good idea,” you mumble, slightly hazy from the way his hands never stop touching you, warming your body and sending shivers to your core. 

“Ok,” he mumbles back, “can I kiss you again?” 

“If you do, we might not get out of here tonight, Marcus,” you smile at him and he chuckles, nodding and pulling back a little. 

“You’re very right, maybe it’s best to save more kisses for tomorrow.” 

“I look forward to them though,” you say, letting your fingers slip from his hair and down over his shoulder, caressing his arm, his wrist, and finally his hand. He takes your hand then, enveloping it in his larger one,  and brings it to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to it. 

“Tomorrow then,” he smiles. 

Part Eight

@harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3  @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers

[pedropascalsx]

Kinktober - Day Four: Overstimulation.

Marcus Pike x F! Reader.

Summary: You challenge Marcus… and Marcus doesn’t back down from a challenge.

Word Count: 750

A/N: I’m so sorry this is a day late. I was too tired to finish it last night. I’m a little unsure about this one… but i hope you like it 🫣

Prompt from @absurdthirst’s list 💖

Each swirl of his tongue is deliciously devastating, pleasure mixed with pain as your thighs shake harder than ever before, but he shows no signs of letting up.

One of his hands holds you open as he strokes his cock feverishly with the other, he’s lost count how many times you’ve screamed and cursed his name from the amount of orgasms he’s pulled from you tonight.

But he won’t stop, not until that word falls from your lips or he feels that you can’t take anymore.

Your clit still tingles from your last orgasm, and you can feel that telltale sign of another building in your core. With a whimper of his name he doubles down on his efforts, letting go of his cock and sliding two fingers inside of you with ease.

“Marcus,” you moan, and he feels a shiver rip through your body, and you swear you can hear his cocky grin. “Please.”

He begins pumping his fingers slowly, just teasing that spot inside of you, before ramping up the pace. Thrusting them in and out as you curse his name, your body writhing and thrashing around in the most delicious way as the coil inside of you snaps and you clamp down so hard around his fingers that it almost hurts.

“Good girl,” he coos, lips still brushing against your clit, before he pulls out his fingers and spreads your slick down his shaft.

**

Marcus Pike; gentleman in the streets… absolute freak in the sheets. You had bought this on yourself, when you challenged him, despite knowing one thing about Marcus Pike… he doesn’t back down from a challenge.

**

He gives himself a few more languid strokes, and you look at the ring firmly wrapped around his cock and balls prolonging your night of pleasure.

“I want to touch you,” you murmur, as you manage to push yourself up on your elbows and reach out and take him in your hand.

“You can,” he says with a smirk, before reaching across the bed and picking up your vibrating wand, “You can stroke my cock while I keep this pressed against that pretty little clit.”

He chuckles at your loud groan, before shrugging his shoulders, “Unless you’re admitting defeat, sweetheart?”

“Slowest setting,” you hiss back, despite the fact your clit is pulsating with overstimulation, and you’re not convinced that you can cum again.

“Don’t forget who’s in charge here.” Marcus reminds you with a waggle of his brows. You mumble a quiet ‘yes sir’, as you stroke him slowly, before he places the wand against your clit.

The hiss you make as it touches your swollen bundle of nerves makes him stop for a few seconds to study your face, and once he’s comfortable that you’re okay and ready to go again, he switches it on… on the highest setting.

“Fuck, Marcus,” you groan, as your fingers squeeze tightly around his length, making his hips stutter.

“You know the safeword,” he simply coos. His spare hand reaches down to caress your tit, rolling your nipple in between his fingers before lightly slapping it, just to see the shock on your face and hear you whimper his name.

His name gets caught in your throat though, as your hips try to chase and rock away from the wand all at once, your pleasure receptors needing more even as your brain tells them no.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Marcus chants, as your hand slips from his cock and grips at the bed sheets beneath you, whimpering as another orgasm threatens to devastate and delight you.

He presses the wand just a little harder against your clit as your hips go into overdrive, rocking against the toy before you're completely awash with white hot pleasure and fireworks are exploding behind your pretty eyes.

“Marcus,” you plead, as he works you through your high, his sweet nothings filling your ears before he gently pulls it away and captures your lips with his.

His cock twitches against your stomach as he gently nibbles on your bottom lip, letting you catch your breath for a few seconds.

You watch as he slowly pushes himself up and looks down at your pussy, and his tongue comes out to wet his lips.

“It’s going to be a long night, sweetheart,” he smirks, before pressing a kiss to your knee, “and I’m only just getting started.”

You whine his name whimpering as his tongue starts lapping at your clit again.

You never should have challenged Marcus Pike.

[the-mandawhor1an]

WIP Wednesday!

(this is a scheduled post, if any of my moots tagged me, I hope you know I love you all very much)

Well well well look who it is, the same Wolke that wrote some actual filth last week has more to show. Haven't seen the filth? »click here«

This time it's for #gbtscbtf again. What is it?

She felt his rough hands discover every part of her body, gently caressing her skin. His lips would ghost over her neck, her shoulders, her chest, to land on her lips. They’d kiss greedily, his groans guttural and primal. She couldn’t see him, but stars, it felt so real, especially when he’d whisper sweet nothings in between moans. His fingers were buried in her hips, holding onto her while taking her like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

I have one more, a certain general wants to say hi.

MORE FILTH? 👀

nah it'll take a little while longer

He stared at the marble bust in disbelief. It had his armor, it looked similar to him, but still, what you were telling him didn’t make sense to him. You watched him from the side and were actually impressed, how well the sculptor had managed to capture his features. His prominent nose, the strong brows, the serious look on his face. Even the fullness of his hair they had somehow managed to simulate in the light stone.  »What do they say about me?« he asked. »You were a fierce warrior, but deep down you were a broken man, yearning to be reunited with your lover. You fought like you never feared death, in fact you would have embraced it, but the gods didn’t grant your wish.« A frown crept up to his lips with the mention of his wife. As much as the characterization fit, he hated that he was known for the pain he endured, and the pain he caused. »How did I die?« 

Tagging ALL of the moots this time. No pressure as always, babes.

@pedgito @burntheedges @whocaresstillthelouvre @user-kramer @tonysopranosrobe

@rivnedell @jksprincess10 @joelmillerisapunk @morallyinept @clawdee

@studioghibelli @evolnoomym @jennaispunk @penvisions @beefrobeefcal

@guiltyasdave @xxhypersomnia @joelsgreys @mrsmando @pedroswife69

@thefrogdalorian @zaddymandalorian @colleenispunk @djarins-cyare @djarins-wife

@roughdaysandart

[nerdieforpedro]

Those Damn Hot Dogs

Chapter One of Therapy for the Well-Adjusted

My entire masterlist and blog are for readers 18+ MDNI. I do not consent to my work being used in AI, recommended on TikTok, borrowed or plagiarized.

Word Count: 1859

Warnings: Nerdie doesn’t know how the FBI works (despite watching all the crimes procedurals), one gun shot, insulting hot dogs 🌭, random book reference, a wee bit of blood, yelling & cursing

Summary: Marcus Pike was mandated to go to therapy. His journey there was very bumpy. We meet Dr. Mint and Vernon! (both OFCs)

Notes: I started this because I wanted Marcus to be a bit unhinged. Like why not? 😀

But also because I’ve had some bad experiences with therapy and some very positive ones.

Plus I enjoyed the doctor’s names way too much. I’m on my mess with puns. 😉

If you feel you need therapy or counseling, you should research the best cost effective options for you and make sure that your therapist is someone you feel comfortable with. Vibes are important in this case.

Main Masterlist/ Marcus Pike Masterlist/ AO3 Link

Marcus is talking with his therapist, Dr. Mint. He never thought he would need to see one. Not that people don’t need to see them or take their mental health seriously, they should and he does. He has to. He’s an FBI agent. Although he is in art crimes, there’s still quite a bit of shady characters, deals and crazy crap that people will do to have their art or hide how they got it.

The journey to Dr. Mint took Marcus two months from the incident to now.

The incident in question was something he never expected. Marcus Pike prided himself on being able to roll with life's punches, no matter how gut-wrenching they might be. Prior to ‘the incident’ his team were investigating possible pieces of art that were thought to have been smuggled into the country. Supposedly from California over to the East Coast. That should have been his first clue, the mention of that state. He was briefed about two consultants coming to assist since they had dealings and information of the particular ring of smugglers.

Patrick Jane and his wife Teresa Jane.

The amount of time Marcus had put into this case had been the last few months. Tracking leads, making connections, reviewing financials, flights, etc. He implored his superiors that they didn’t need their help. They’re making headway toward busting these guys without these two, especially one of them’s penchant for causing property damage and being a PR nightmare. The higher ups said that his team had enough time to find these guys and they haven’t so this case needs to be closed now. Pike didn’t understand the urgency, these were typical smugglers, not traffickers or people or drugs, but he had to back down. He would take many deep breaths and interact with them as little as possible.

Of course Patrick Jane asked to be on my team. The vest wearing, tired brown shoes having hot dog water looking bastard.

Agent Pike knew he’d have to grin and bear it. He’s a professional and a special agent. Unlike this prick, he can’t just do as he pleases. There are rules, regulations and he would like to stay gainfully employed at a job he loves. Patrick Jane nor his hot dog water loving wife Teresa will make him lose it.

The first two weeks went fine. Limited interaction, and all about the case. The third week was when they finally caught the smugglers at their warehouse. A mix of Marcus pulling up prior maps of an area outside of DC on the outskirts of the state of Virginia and Patrick seeing a pattern in pieces they were taking. The bust was running smoothly, all of them were caught except one. Marcus was chasing him and the idiot ‘not an actual agent’ Patrick decided he was somehow going to help chase the perp as well in those slippery ugly brown shoes.

It was his own fault.

Not Pike’s. He called in that he saw the suspect, let them know he was in pursuit and was chasing them. It was Jane that called himself trying to be some action hero popping out from a nearby alley to chase the same perp. Pike yelled at him to move, Patrick chose not to listen. His ass paid the price. Literally.

Some might have thought Marcus did it on purpose, especially if they knew the extremely sorted history between Patrick, Teresa and Marcus, but he truly did not. The suspect had pulled a gun and was trying to shoot Marcus, he dodged and shot the perp in the calf, disabling him enough for Pike to run over and clap cuffs on him. He then called for an ambulance.

Pike heard Patrick cursing as he was laying on the ground. Marcus thought maybe he just fell, but there was blood, not from the suspect. Jane was bleeding from his ass, the bullet had grazed him before hitting the suspect. Before Marcus could hold it in, and remain professional he laughed. Not a chuckle or snicker but a full, down on both knees next to the perp laugh. Which made the smuggler laugh as well. Teresa and the other agents made their way over and wondered what an agent and criminal could find so funny. Mrs. Hot Dog became hysterical that Patrick was bleeding so of course he leaned into it, shaking where he hadn’t been before.

Marcus and the suspect watched and looked at each other, “That’s some bullshit my guy.” Pike agreed. Standing up holding the suspect in front of him, he took him over to be booked and processed.

Patrick was taking his sweet time getting off the ground and Teresa was beginning to yell at Marcus, telling him that she’d have his badge for harming her Patrick.

Marcus Pike had enough. He requested to not have them in this case, asked to be reassigned, and has kept interactions to a minimum. He didn’t ask Patrick to chase a suspect. He’s a consultant. He’s not supposed to be doing it anyway!

Uncharacteristically, Marcus yelled and told Teresa to “keep her hot dog water looking man out of the way of FBI business. Had he not been here, the suspect wouldn’t have shot him. Jane needs to stay in his lane and keep all his hot dog foolishness over there.” Teresa was going to say something else, “You don’t say shit to me. You left me then, how am I supposed to know you’re going to do your damn job in the field if you didn’t even have the backbone to tell me no face to face or over the phone. You didn’t ask what actually happened! Put a bun on him to soak up his blood and hot dog water.”

Everyone was silent, even Jane.

No one expected Marcus to say anything, let alone admonishing Patrick and Teresa’s behavior. Everyone knew it was a lot but Pike had been a consummate professional during their entire time here.

Teresa was mortified and started to cry. Jane finally got up and limped over to the supervising agent who just told him to go over to the ambulance to get checked out.

No one directly addressed it, not until the Jane’s were gone and they threw a party. Marcus was invited but he declined. He’d been put out on administrative leave and was at home tuning his bass guitar. Wondering about what they said. They suggested he take some time off, cool his head and could come back after some counseling session.

Marcus had tried to go to the FBI one but it ended on a weird note. The initial meeting went well, but the small older woman asked for a hug. She said that Marcus resembled her former husband. He politely declined and told his supervisors that it wasn’t going to work with the FBI’s counselor.

Pike now had two weeks to find one he could see and clear him. His colleague Mark, suggested one that had helped him and his wife during a rough period in their marriage:

Dr. Mint of “Mint and Julep Counseling: Helping therapy go down smooth.”

The name and the tagline made Marcus chuckle and highly suspicious so he researched them, Mark vouched for the group of counselors and doctors. It’s worth a try. It had to be better than the last one.

Marcus wore his red flannel shirt, open exposing his white t-shirt underneath. Rubbing his hands on his dark wash jeans, getting the sweat off them, he opened the glass door leading into the reception area. The colors were neutral: white, tan, gold and gray. There was a friendly older gentleman at the desk who wore and striking green sweater and had bi-focals, peering at Marcus upward, maybe trying to look through the upper half of the glasses.

“Good afternoon sir, here for an appointment?”

“Yes I am. New patient for Dr. Mint. Marcus Pike. Nice to meet you sir.”

“Oh! You’re early, that’s nice. Wait there. Did you want some water? I’ll let them know you’re here. Should be finishing up with the previous patient shortly.” The gentleman informed him and Marcus took a seat on one of the black leather chairs.

He waited about ten minutes, he’d been fifteen minutes early. It was easier to find than he thought and it was in a stand alone building rather than in a strip mall. It was near a Panera and a Dunkin’s so Marcus had some landmarks for it.

Dr. Mint has sepia bangs which seems to be their natural hair color. The rest of their hair is cut close and is dyed a deep plum color. Normally Marcus might have taken a pause given that they’re also wearing a cream sweater that looks one size too big for them with black slacks and loafers, but they shake his hand and have a strong grip. Pike respects this and follows the good doctor to his office. The agent figures it can’t be worse than the last therapist. Dr. Mint is a few inches taller than Marcus but thin, willowy he might say. Something about him invokes trust, could be their sharp jaw and or that once they sit and Marcus begins talking about what happened with the two hot dogs, he sees something in their dark brown eyes that he didn’t with the other therapists. Dr. Mint didn’t think he’d lost his mind.

Pike’s luck has finally changed.

The doctor thanked Marcus for coming to see them and hoped that he would make a future appointment. They also stated that given the pressure he was under and the specific circumstances, they weren’t sure there was a right way to approach the situation.

“I mean, it is kinda funny. If you think about it, Dr. Mint.” Marcus departs their office and makes an appointment for later in the week with Vernon, the front desk gentleman. On his way out, he held the door for a woman in a cobalt dress, she thanked him and smiled. Pike felt his eyes linger on her for a few moments as she went to the desk and checked in with Vernon too. She sat down, crossing her legs at her ankles after setting her black tote back in a chair next to her. She was on her phone for a few and then pulled her bag into her lap, making herself smaller despite the waiting room being empty save for the man behind the desk.

Marcus wondered what brought her to this place, it could be anything. Her blue dress stuck out in his mind and he remembered there was a book about a woman in a blue dress, what was it called? He stopped to grab a salad and soup from Panera before heading home.

“Wait…” Marcus pulled into his parking space outside of his apartment building. “Devil in the blue dress, I think it’s by Walter Mosley. Wasn’t that a movie too? Maybe I should watch it tonight.” As tonight’s feature was decided, he set about trying to find which streaming service it would be on.

Marcus felt he made a good choice today.

Hot dog haters 🌭: @megamindsecretlair @jessthebaker @avastrasposts @jeewrites @josephquinnswhore

@bishtrouille @readingiskeepingmegoing @survivingandenduring @morallyinept @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@soft-persephone @soft-girl-musings @rosecentaur1916 @rulexofxnines @inept-the-magnificent

Chapter Two

[sirowsky-stories]

The Regulars

Summary: Marcus and Missy befriend a waitress at their favorite diner.

Requested by @yourstrulylightstar283

Rating: General/Everyone Warnings: Marcus Moreno x OFC named Evey, father/daughter banter, mention of stressful working environment, otherwise just fluff and cuteness. Word Count: 1175

   ”Again, dad?” Missy asks when he puts the menu down, already knowing what he’s picked, even though he hasn’t said anything.

   “What?” he lovingly gripes in return, smiling as he knows where this is going.

   “There’s so much delicious food in this diner, and yet, every time we come here you order the same thing: the cheeseburger with fries. Are you scared of stepping out of your food comfort zone, or something?”

   “I’m not scared,” he huffs, “this is just the best burger in town.”

   “Alright, I didn’t wanna do this, but you’ve left me no choice,” she counters, and her tone clearly suggests she’s about to change his mind, whether he likes it or not.

   He loves when she gets all smart like this, so he leans back and feels a smile grow behind his cheeks as he watches her close her menu deliberately slowly before clasping her hands together and leaning her forearms on the table.

   “Dad, you’re a public figure,” she begins, very seriously, “which means that people pay attention to you. And what they’re seeing every time we come here, is that not only does Marcus Moreno support the meat-industry, which we all know is fubar, but that he’s also entirely unconcerned with his own health.”

   Suddenly, he doesn’t feel the smile in his cheeks anymore. Instead, he feels mildly nauseous, especially after he hears the next part of her reasoning.

   “Now, if you were a member of the public, which the Heroics are tasked with protecting, would you feel safe knowing that your supposed guardian doesn’t even take good care of himself?”

   He knows that she’s being deliberately manipulating, testing herself in how good she is at persuading others, but she’s also not wrong about anything she’s saying, and it’s surprisingly jarring to hear.    Before he’s had a chance to recover, however, the waitress comes to take their orders, and he feels a creeping panic at the back of his neck, realizing he doesn’t know what to do.

   “Hello, my name is Evey, I’ll be taking your orders today,” she says with a prize-winning smile which isn’t fake or overdone or disingenuous at all, and he’s momentarily distracted by the fact that he hasn’t seen this woman before.

   “Hi, I’m Missy, and this is my dad, Marcus,” his daughter responds, saving him from having to speak through the befuddled mess that is his brain right now.

   “Nice to meet you both,” Evey nods politely at them in turn, “what will it be today?”

   His daughter confidently asks for an omelet with a side of salad instead of potato fries, and then immediately turns the attention back to him, fully aware he hasn’t made up his mind yet.

   “Uh…” is all he says, before ripping the folded two-page menu open once again and scanning the options way too fast to actually make out what they are.

   He glances at Missy over the top of the pages, hoping she’ll start talking and give him a moment to think, but she just smiles knowingly at him while she calmly waits for him to make a fool of himself.

   “I can give you some options, if you prefer, sir,” the waitress suddenly offers him a lifeline, and he dives at it like he’s drowning.

   “Please, do. I’m sorry, I’m a bit distracted today,” he tries to explain, hoping not to look like a complete moron, although that ship has probably already sailed.

   “No problem, that’s why I’m here,” she smiles again, and then proceeds to list the entire dinner menu from memory, highlighting the nutritional benefits of each dish, as well as giving him a general idea of the flavor sensation associated with the various options.

   Marcus has been at five-star restaurants with lesser service than this, leaving him staring dumbly at Evey once she’s finished, trying to comprehend what such a talented server is doing in such a simple establishment.

   “You’re new here, aren’t you?” Missy pipes up after a moment of stunned silence.

   “Yes, it’s my first week,” the waitress confirms, and the Moreno’s exchange a look of impressed bewilderment before both turn back to stare at her.

   “I’m guessing you’ve been somewhere a bit more… demanding than this place before,” Marcus suggests, finally freed of the confusion his daughter had inflicted on him.

   “Demanding is the right word for it, indeed, sir,” she replies, and while the smile is still warm and genuine, there’s a hint of something heavy in her eyes for a moment as she says it.

   He knows that many prestigious restaurants can be hell to work at, no matter how skilled or experienced a person might be, so if she’s been at a place like that, he could understand if she needed to seek out a less stressful environment.    A small corner diner might not seem like a desired workplace for someone used to the glamour of the top tier in her field, but there are benefits to be found in the simplicity and quaintness of smaller businesses.

   “Well, I hope you’ll like it here,” he smiles back at her. “It’s not too crowded most of the time, and the regulars are pretty decent.”

   Missy rolls her eyes at him in embarrassment over the last part, which Evey notices, and an adorable giggle crosses her lips.

   “I take it you’re the regulars in question, then?”

   “Oh, he’s a regular alright. A regular cheeseburger abuser,” his daughter shoots, paying him back for her embarrassment by making him look like an idiot in front of this lovely woman.

   “Am not!” he desperately fires back, succeeding only in sounding childish on top of stupid.

   “Am too! And apparently also dishonest, since you won’t even own up to it,” she counters, and he doesn’t have a good comeback for that, so he ends up just sitting there scowling for a beat, before finally closing the menu and setting it down on the table.

   “Fine. I’ll have the damned burger.”

   He expects the waitress to politely excuse herself then, as this little tiff has probably left her feeling uncomfortable.    But when she’s still by the table after a few seconds, he looks up to find out what she’s doing, only to discover her grinning at him with her head cocked to the side, looking as sweet as a labrador waiting for ear-scritches.

   “Good choice,” she says with a wink. “It’s the best burger in town.”

   Missy’s head hits the tabletop with an audible bonk, followed by her exacerbated groan of disapproval, now directed at both the adults, as her masterful plan to manipulate her father has been ruined.    Marcus, on the other hand, can’t help but laugh, and when Evey joins in even though she has both their orders and doesn’t need to stay there any longer, he feels like a friendship has just begun, and it sends a nice warmth through his abdomen.

   “I’ll be right back with your dinners,” she giggles, and then right before she turns away, she adds: “I think I’m gonna like the regulars here.”

THE END

[trulybetty]

october x 500 | masterlist

for the month of october I've set myself a challenge to write 500 words a day, and me being me thought why don't I do some prompts? because you know, I haven't got enough going on. but the reality is I wanted something that wasn't tied to anything currently a WIP so I could just focus on getting out of the state of mind of 'this has to be the perfect finished version on the first go' and embrace just writing and seeing what happens. are any of these going to be any good? probably not. will many of them make sense? not at all. will they mostly be marcus pike? very likely. will I hope to have fun and stick to something for 31 days straight? hopefully.

prompts list used.

oct' x 01 - ruffled hair (joel x gn!reader)

oct' x 02 - apple scent (chiffon!dieter x bryony)

oct’ x 03 - full of colours (tim rockford x f!reader)

oct' x 04 - walks in the forest (strings!joel x reader)

oct' x 05 - autumnal (dieter x gn!reader)

oct' x 06 - falling leaves (gold rush!joel x charlotte)

oct' x 07 - chestnuts (chiffon!dieter x bryony)

oct' x 08 - umbrellas (will miller x gn!reader)

oct' x 09 - ravens (maverick!frankie x reader)

oct' x 10 - oktoberfest (sequins!joel x reader)

oct' x 11 - pumpkin spice (marcus x reader)

oct' x 12 - cornfields (sequins!joel x f!reader)

oct' x 13 - black cat (tim rockford x gn!reader)

oct' x 14 - spooky (dieter x gn!reader)

oct' x 15 - first wine (sequins!joel x reader)

oct' x 16 - flying kites (frankie x reader)

oct' x 17 - whispers (chiffon!dieter x bryony)

oct' x 18 - picking apples (sequins!joel x reader)

oct' x 19 - ghosts (dieter x f!reader)

oct' x 20 - sweater weather (chiffon!dieter x bryony)

oct' x 21 - acorns (tim rockford x f!reader)

oct' x 22 - pile of leaves (frankie x gn!reader)

oct' x 23 - harvest (gold rush!joel x charlotte)

oct' x 24 - fog (tim rockford x f!reader)

oct' x 25 - jack-o-lanterns (marcus pike x reader)

oct' x 26 - campfire (frankie x reader)

oct' x 27 - witches (sequins!joel x f!reader)

oct' x 28 - samhain (tim rockford x gn!reader)

oct' x 29 - stormy days (sequins!joel x f!reader)

oct' x 30 - seance (tim rockford x reader)

oct' x 30 - seance (chiffon!dieter x ofc!bryony)

oct' x 31 - trick or treat (marcus pike x reader)

[lokischocolatefountain]

home in three days, do not wash

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Wife!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: age gap, mild choking, mentions of child death, hurt comfort, breeding kink, lactation, reader has children, taboo for the time oral sex, talk of war. Word count: 3.6k words Summary: Your General returns home ravenous for you and you cannot decline him, even if any exposure of his act would bring him great shame. A/N: Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the awesome graphics. Napoleon said 'be home in three days, do not wash' and what was I supposed to do? Not use it for our big thicc roman general returning home from war to fuck us? I did research and shit and came to know that eating pussy was a big no no back in the day. dj Khaled would love to be an ancient roman ig. also learned that rich ladies didn't breastfeed and used a wet nurse but they knew that breastfeeding could help and some women did it. Outside all that research, it's just depravity, baby. Anyway, validate my depravity with some comments pls.

Laughter echoed through the hallways of your palatial home and you stood at a balcony with the best view from atop the hill. The campaign that had taken your husband away had finally come to an end with victory for Rome. Far from the hustle and bustle of the city, you were always one of the last people to receive the latest news of importance. This time was an exception to the rule. 

Home in three days. Do not wash.

All you wanted when you received the message was to run in the direction of the roads that would bring your beloved home. Three days were too long. You wanted to curtail the long wait, run to him so you would be in one another’s arms in a day and a half. 

But you chose the more realistic path and prepared the home for his arrival. The servants polished every surface, your handmaiden ensured you had all your most preferred clothing— that which he loved to see on your body. The kitchen was busy preparing every meal that the master loved. Your two older children with your general busied themselves recollecting everything they learned from their private tutor to impress their father. 

Your youngest, your first son, was still so young he had never met his father. He was the child your dearest had longed to have for so long. For all the luck the gods had given him in the battlefield, they had given very little in the way of children to carry his legacy. In his heart, he was father to seven daughters and six sons. The gods had only allowed four daughters to live. Two of his sons passed in infancy, one passed in birth, taking his mother with him. One other was taken by disease and another killed in battle. 

He now had only one son and he hadn’t yet the joy of holding him in his arms. Everyday that Marcus was in the battlefield was torture. Babe on your breast and fear in your heart over whether his father would live to see him. Fear sometimes subsided for anger to have its way. That very anger remained in your chest, prepared to unleash on him the moment he stepped into the home. 

When the sun dimmed, night crept in and so did Marcus. You refused to greet him at the door. A warm welcome was reserved for men who told their wives where they were going before they left. You had half a mind to ask for a bath to be prepared. To wash yourself with milk and fragrant oils in front of him so he could see your defiance in action. 

But you remained in the balcony, eyes set on the moon who served as your companion when he left you. For all the fury you had for him, there was also an ache of sympathy. You wouldn’t sour his mood the moment he entered. He must see his son first. Then you would see to that he groveled at your feet for his cruelty. 

Just as you thought, you had a long time to relax on the settee. He always went to his children first. Be it after months away on the battlefield or a mere day in the city. You asked for your son’s crib to be moved to your daughters’ room so he would be able to see them all at once, saving him the battle of choosing between his great loves. You’d sent word to him on the battlefield after you gave birth, sent him the name of his son so he would know to include him in his prayers. 

You heard whispers of his voice conversing with a servant. Your heart quickened its pace, each thud against your ribs matching the thuds of his feet against the floor. Oh how you wanted to turn around. It had been so long since your eyes were blessed with him. His towering height, broad frame, the pink of his lips and the curls you so loved to comb through with your fingers. You trembled, the cold breeze reminding you how devoid you’d been of his warmth. Yet you were resolved to not give yourself up to him so soon. You stayed in place and closed your eyes.

He stopped behind you and your name spilled from his lips like honey. It had been so long since anyone spoke your name so… The servants called you mistress and your children called you mother. Your birth family only wrote your name in their many letters. He was the only one who spoke your name, leaving you without hearing your own name since his departure. But you stayed, did not turn, did not open your eyes. He spoke it again, his voice gentle but louder as he stopped at your side. 

“Open your eyes, dearest.” 

“Where have you come, General?” You asked, your voice cold enough to be the envy of the winter breeze. 

“General?” He asked, a hint of amusement playing at his lips. 

“Are you not a General?” You taunted, finally opening your eyes. He looked weary from battle and travel. You longed to take him to your chambers and strip him of his armor to count his wounds, kiss each one be it new or old. His hair was grayer than when he left, his skin duller, but his eyes were still the soft brown that gave you peace when you first saw him as his young bride. 

“Your General,” he said with a small smile as though his words were supposed to make you forgive him at once and shower him with kisses. It only strengthened your resolve. If he wouldn’t treat you as a wife, you wouldn’t give him the respect of a husband. 

“You have a son,” you said, stretching your legs out in the settee just as he made to take his seat there. His hand wrapped around your ankle and you kicked it off, daring him to make another attempt at moving your legs so he could sit. He smiled softly, conceding as he moved to stand by your head. 

“He is beautiful, mellilla,” he said, caressing your cheek. You slapped his hand away. All of Rome may fall at his feet and welcome him back with praises of his victory. He was deserving of course, not only for his achievements but for his undying loyalty to Rome. If Rome were a woman, she would be his principal wife and you— you would only be a tavern whore he fucked and left in the dead of night. 

“You block the moonlight, General Acacius.” 

“Marcus,” he said, moving to allow you sight of the moon once again. He sat in the little remaining space on the settee and looked down at you. Despite the toll war had taken on him, he was incredibly handsome. Bold nose, pink lips and graying curls that only made him look ever so slightly more distinguished. He bent down and pressed a kiss to your lips. You did not return the kiss, but you did not push him away. There was an limit even to your anger. You placed a hand on his shoulder, the act of denying yourself the joy of your lover weighing heavy in your heart.

“I’m afraid I haven’t such an honor.” You bit down on your lip, annoyed at yourself for the trembling of your voice as you spoke. Your anger for him had a foundation of pain after all. 

His face fell and he sighed. He looked down at his lap and you hoped it was from shame.

“If you have nothing to say, you may leave. If you need it, you may summon the servants for your meal. But I am sure the emperor did not send his best general hungering for food or cunt,” you spat, rising to sit up on the settee. Hand as strong as iron wrapped around your wrist, coupling with his strong torso that trapped you in place to keep you from getting up. You squirmed in his grasp, but he did not budge.

“Listen to me.” 

“Is that an order?” 

He wrapped an arm around you and held your cheek in his hand. You looked up at him, giving him biting fury to his firm yet gentle gaze. “If it is the only way I will have your obedience, then yes. It is an order.” 

“You may speak, but you cannot make me listen and you most certainly cannot make me respond.” 

“I am your husband.” 

“A husband doesn’t leave for a year long war at the dead of night with no explanation to the woman swelling with his child,” you screamed, fist slamming against his chest. It didn’t affect Marcus. Nothing affected the great General Acacius, you thought with derision. You hit him in the chest again, tears brimming in your eyes and clouding your vision.

“Forgive me,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You ceased your attacks as his apology coupled with the pain in his eyes reduced you to tears. You’d kept everything in for so long, put on a brave face for your daughters and hid your heart in your letter to your father. It was only with Marcus that you didn’t need to hide. He always tore your fears down and pulled you into the safety of his arms.

“I wouldn’t have been able to leave had I said goodbye.” 

“I was so afraid,” you confessed, leaning into his chest. Every pretense of strength and composure left your body as you let him hold you to his chest. The gold earrings you wore to please his eyes pressed cold against your skin under his hand. He moved next to your hair and then you neck, the hand that held swords and spilled blood only to return home to love you. 

“Carissima…You were all I could think of after I left. Forgive me,” he begged, taking your hand in his and pressing a kiss to each finger. 

“Later. I have missed you. Marcus,” you whispered, craning your neck to kiss him. He returned your kiss in an instant, arms cradling you as you devoured each other. He smelled of war— blood, soil, sweat, and leather. It was far more pleasing to your senses than any fragrant oils and flowers. Your Marcus and his distinctly masculine scent was above all but the fragrance of your newborn. 

You whined as he retreated. He laughed and returned to scatter kisses along your jawline like Rome scattered rose petals along the steps of the Colosseum for his feet. He reached under your layers of silk and linen, making you tremble and press yourself closer to his chest. 

“So soft…” 

“I need you, please.” It was all he needed to hear before he walked up to the doors of the balcony and slammed them shut. What he did with you, for you, wasn’t for anyone else’s eyes but your own. 

He unlatched the gold clips that held your palla to your shoulders and set them aside. Your stola and tunic followed, piling up on the marble floor. Cold air caressed your bare breasts, bigger and fuller now as you nursed your son yourself. You traced your hand up his arm, feeling his vambrace before finding his muscular arms. You whimpered from just how big he was in your hands. You squeezed, feeling the hard muscle and rough skin. 

Your General knelt before you and you sat up straight, confused by his action. He couldn’t be… You sought his apologies and regret, but by no means would you ask him to humiliate himself for you. Such a man, superior to you in every way. 

“Dominus!” You shrieked, reminding him who he was even when he came home. 

“Shh…” 

“Are you going to—?”

“Lick you cunt? Yes. Sit back, now,” he said as he guided you to lean back on the settee. You shook your head from side to side, appalled by the circumstances and confused as to how you were supposed to stop him. He spread your legs wide, planting your feet upon the seat. He licked his plush lips and looked up at you, his eyes those of a ravenous beast. 

“You cannot. I only want you to understand the torture you put me through, not debase yourself in front of me. It’s not right.”  

A corner of his lips curled up slightly. He spat on his hand and rubbed it into your cunt. You arched into his palm, your cunt chasing any contact you could have with your beloved. “Tell me, who do you belong to?” 

“You.”

“Speak fully and speak my name.” 

“I belong to you, Marcus.” 

“Correct. Why do you think then, that you can tell me what I can and cannot do with you?” 

He parted your cunt lips and slid a finger inside you. “You belong to me. All of you. This cunt belongs to me. Does it not?” You nodded as he pumped his thick finger in and out of you. It had been so long since you’d been touched that even his finger felt a little much for you to take. You shuddered as you thought of his cock, promising the virility that came with such a size. 

“Speak,” he commanded, every bit the fearsome General who led men into battle. When even warriors couldn’t defy him, how could you? 

“It belongs to you, Marcus.” 

“Mmm,” he rumbled, curling his finger inside you, making you whimper. “If I want to lick this cunt then, do you have any right to stop me?” 

“N-no,” you cried, grabbing his wrist and imploring him to slow down for you couldn’t take such intoxicating pleasure. “If peo— Marcus! If someone knew—”

Then he dove into your core and licked the nub above your cunt, eliciting a squeal from you. He looked up at you from between your legs, tongue still licking you as he smirked. It was sinful, the sight and the act of a man serving a woman. You shook your head, your senses already addled from being so close to him after a long year. It was wrong. Wrong. But oh gods, he made all the wrongs feel right and who were you to deny him? 

Tears rolled down your cheeks, no longer from the agony of separation from your dearest but from the building pressure in your core. 

“Marcus…” you said, unable to say anything else. You reached your hand towards him, needing to be anchored to the Earth as he flew you to the heavens. He enveloped your hand in his and gave a small squeeze. His other hand and his lips were unrelenting, giving him new ways to torment you. 

How did anyone deem it submissive for a man to kneel and lick cunt? Your Marcus still looked as majestic as ever. The picture of victory that Rome worshiped. The Marcus Acacius who slew and killed was home and ruthless in his conquest of you. Even as he licked your core, he was the one with all the power in hand. This was but a new way for him to take you. 

You gasped inaudibly as he inserted another finger in your cunt, stretching you in preparation for his cock. You felt your unraveling come closer. He pulled you deeper into whatever spell he had you under whenever he touched your cunt. You squeezed his hand tighter, saying everything your lips couldn’t. Hold me, keep me safe, never let me go.

The waves crashed against the rocks on the shores of the beach as you came crashing down from the heavens. Marcus kept his wordless promise. You tightened your legs around his head yet he held you in place and kept you safe. 

When you came to, you found your fingers tangled in between his dark curls. You loosened your grip on him but did not let go, needing to feel him even if it was just his hair. 

“I should not have liked that.” 

He laughed and gave your cunt another lick, smirking as he watched you shudder. 

“But you did,” he said, getting up at last. “I knew you tasted divine, but having you directly from your cunt is something else, melilla.” 

“I have not washed in days because of you. I am sure I taste horrendous.” 

“Good girl, following orders well. But you are wrong. You taste and smell like a woman. Not a perfumed woman. This,” he said in a low voice as the tip of his nose traced up your neck. He inhaled your scent and moaned. “This is nothing you can find in a vial. This is your true scent,” he said, stopping at your ear and placing a kiss. 

“I would recognize it anywhere.” He reached under his pteruges and toga and retrieved his cock. Your cunt clenched at the mere sight of him. 

He was far too covered. As much as you loved to see your General in his armor, you loved more to see him bare. You needed to run your fingers over his bare chest and dig your fingernails into his shoulders as he wrung his pleasure out of you.  You found the ties that held his armor in place and began to undo them. 

“Impatient girl,” he chided as he aligned himself with your cunt. 

“Help me out then,” you snapped back as you struggled with the knots. He ignored your request and continued on his path of destroying you, plunging his length inside you much too quickly. You cried from the pain and pleasure of being stretched out by him once again. 

“Marcus!” 

He bent forward and whispered your name against your lips before claiming them. You moaned into the kiss as you rubbed yourself against him for friction. You were loath to pull away from his cock even the slightest as you ached for him too much to part from him. You wrapped your legs around him and pressed your heels down on his back, pulling him deeper inside you. 

He wrapped a hand around your throat, tightening and loosening every now and then. “Day and night, I longed for you,” he whispered, his breath mixing with yours. “Dreamt of the day I would be inside you again.” 

You echoed the sentiment, but he quickly silenced you with a hard thrust that you felt in the deepest part of your core. He wasn’t the gentle Marcus who treated you like you did your fine silks but the General who conquered every land he set foot on. He rammed in and out of you, reclaiming you as his. Your cunt opened up to take its master, molded itself around him like it did each time since your wedding night. He had taken you, his young bride, and shown you a world only he could. He’d taken and taken, made you a woman by showing you what your body could do for you. 

He licked up your neck, growling like he was tasting the finest delicacies from the emperors’ table after being starved for months. “You smell sweet, Carisimma.” 

“You lived in tents with men for a year. I’m sure a pig would smell sweet to you now,” you said, making him laugh even as he wrecked you. He reached down to your breasts and grabbed one in his hand. He pinched your nipple between his fingers and tugged, making you cry out in pain. 

“Marcus!” Drops of milk trickled from your breasts and he swiped it with him thumb before licking it. 

“I only regret that I could not see you grow bigger with my seed.” 

“You ha- you have seen it before.” 

“Yet I am not satisfied. I need more, I need to fill you up with my seed, keep you full with my children in perpetuity.” 

“Marcus! Please…” 

“What do you beg for, girl?” 

“Give me sons, Marcus. Let me give you heirs,” you cried, overcome by the need to become his in that primal way. It was more than just your duty as his wife. It was an innate desire. As frightening as pregnancy was, you wanted it again and again at the hands of your husband. To give him sons carry his name and daughters who would control the great General with their laughter. 

“Give me sons,” he repeated, the hand around your neck squeezing tight. This time, he did not relax, holding your air hostage as he used your cunt for his carnal desires. You gasped for breath. Your cunt squeezed around him, keeping him in so he would give you his seed and refusing to let go even for a moment. 

Every thrust after sent delicious ripples of pain. You knew that you would wake the next morning unable to walk as usual. You would hear your servant girls giggle when they thought you couldn’t hear. He would wreck you day and night, make you scream for all the house to hear. He would take you to high places in the city, an arrogant smile on his lips as he showed you off, rounded again with his child. 

As though he could read your thoughts, he spilled inside you with a cry of your name. You held him close, afraid he would part from your body and rob you of his warmth. 

He showered you with kisses, beginning as a downpour and ending with a drizzle. You melted into his arms, the tension in your muscles leaving now that you had your Marcus home. You were no longer alone, he was here and he would take care of everything. 

“Am I forgiven now?” 

You smiled, burrowing into his chest as draped your discarded silk over you and picked you up in his arms. “I will consider it if you make sure I don’t bleed this cycle.” 

You felt his chest rumble as he laughed. A kiss on the top of your head.

“As you say, melilla.”

Fic notifications blog

[radiowallet]

Eyes Open

COMPLETE

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Amy Oliver (OFC)

Summary: As leader of the Heroics, Marcus Moreno always seems to get stuck with the worst of the legislative duties, including dealing with the local police stations. He used to think the red tape the Heroics had him jump through were ridiculous, but nothing compares to the likes of the 98th precinct's Chief of Police. Derek Baldwin can't stand vigilantes, and he makes it clear any time Marcus requests anything from case files to suspect lists to surveillance footage.

But Baldwin's secretary, Amy Oliver, quickly steps in, finding subtle and not so subtle ways to get Marcus the information he needs. The two quickly fall into a working friendship, one that they hold dear despite the fact that they're both desperate for more. But can these two single parents find a way to keep their secrets and have more? Or are they doomed to get lost in the red tape?

Warnings: Eventually explicit, low burn, yearning, idiots friends to lovers, financial stressors, police work, kids, more warnings on each individual chapter.

II Main Story II

Chapter 1 - Sneak Peek

Chapter 2 - Sneak Peak

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

II Extras II

Inspo Tag

Playlist

[fictionalreads]

SUMMARY: Armando and Shay don't have an easy love story, but they have one that's worth it.

STATUS: Complete

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

Author's Masterlist

[dancingtotuyo]

Dancing to Tuyo Master List

Javier Peña Masterlist | Scathed | Crossed Wires | "come here often?" | Better man | All Farms…

Joel Miller Masterlist | Woman | Landslide | High Infidelity | Build You the World | Ivy | Overtime

Marcus Pike Masterlist | Sage

Marcus Moreno | 12:32 PM

Dave York Masterlist | Kryptonite

Frankie "Catfish" Morales Masterlist | Home

[nerdieforpedro]

Therapy for Well-Adjusted People Masterlist

Summary: Agent Marcus Pike of the FBI made an error followed by a rare outburst. Now he needs to be cleared to go back to work.

Imani Coleman is just trying to work on issues on top of other issues.

They’re both well-adjusted people…mostly. Are they ready for a relationship? Not likely, but who is really?

Marcus Pike x Imani Coleman (black fat/plus size AFAB OFC)

Please be aware that there will be discussions of possible disturbing subjects and themes at times. Both of them are processing different trauma and issues. Warnings will be in each chapter.

Chapter One - Those Damn Hot Dogs (06/12/2024)

Chapter Two - Doing nothing vs. Nothing you can do (06/17/2024)

Chapter Three - We think too much (07/01/2024)

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

AO3 link (updated periodically)

Marcus Pike Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[leslie-lyman]

And I’ll Be All in Clover

Summary: Marcus attends the White House Easter Egg Roll and finds someone he did not expect.

Pairing: Congressman!Marcus Pike x nameless OFC/f!reader

Rating: G

Word count: 3.2k

a/n: Oh hi there. It’s been a minute, huh? Remember when I promised this update like three months ago? I’ve been tinkering on and off with this installment forEVER and finally finished it! Note that we find out some more about Marcus’s mystery lady from Part 1 here; she is referred to only with she/her pronouns and no defining physical description, so you can read her as a female reader insert if you like, though she does have a specific job and background in this story. If you’d like to be notified when I post new writing, please follow my writing update blog @leslie-lyman-writes and turn on notifications.

Part 1 || Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

——���

“Alright, who is she?”

Marcus flinches, startled at the sound of Linda’s voice. He turns towards the door of his office where his chief of staff is standing, one hip resting against the door jam.

“What are you talking about?”

Linda shakes her head, wild black curls swishing back and forth over her shoulders.

“Don’t play dumb, Marcus. It doesn’t suit you. You’ve been moping around the office for three weeks, staring off into the middle distance, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because you’re daydreaming about the defense budget or campaign finance reform. So who is she?”

Linda is astonishingly good at reading people. It’s part of what makes her such an effective chief. But Marcus is also astonishingly easy to read, and Linda knows about his history with women better than most.

It’s especially embarrassing that he can’t actually answer her question. And the shame at being caught out makes him raise his hackles in defense.

“You know, just because I may have been a little quiet lately doesn’t mean it’s automatically about a woman,” he huffs. “Not everything with me is always about a woman. I’m capable of caring deeply about lots of things. Maybe I’ve been mulling over what I wanna say at the NASA hearing this week. Or wondering whether Jackie Evers is gonna agree to co-lead our economic development bill. Or wrestling with the fact that San Antonio remains the most impoverished major city in the nation.”

“Marcus…”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand people below the poverty line, Linda,” he continues, working himself up. “And what are we doing to make it better? Children going hungry, undocumented families scared for their lives, lead pipes in the walls and guns on the streets, money for fighter jets but none for child care, and you think just because I’ve been a little moody lately that it’s about a woman? You’re really gonna just walk into my office and assume that any change in my mood has to be about a woman?”

Linda waits until he’s gotten it all out of his system, watching him rise from his seat and gesture more and more broadly with his hands the more indignant he becomes. When he finally stops, breathing like he’s just run a hundred-meter dash, she simply raises one eyebrow and says:

“So what is it about, then?”

Marcus meets her stare with his own for a few seconds, then deflates entirely, flopping back into his chair.

“It’s about a woman.”

Linda has the good grace not to lord her correct assumption over him. She merely hums at the satisfaction of being right and wanders over to stand in front of Marcus’s desk. She tosses a small envelope at him, which he catches with a start.

“What is this?”

“A distraction.”

With a small frown Marcus opens it, pulling out a slip of official-looking card stock.

“The White House Easter Egg Roll?”

“Rebecca was supposed to go with me and Olivia, but she has to work. So now I have an extra ticket.”

“I suppose that I should be flattered that I’m your second choice right after your wife.”

Linda rolls her eyes.

“Oh please. You need to snap out of this funk you’re in, and perhaps getting outside and touching some grass will help. And if that grass so happens to be on the South Lawn at a wholesome family event where President Ramirez will also be in attendance, along with a certain senator whose support you need to get the drug treatment court money included in the omnibus…”

Marcus looks up, suddenly interested.

“Jones will be there? How do you know?”

“Because I know everything.”

Marcus has yet to find that to be untrue.

“He’s been dodging my calls for weeks.”

“I know.”

Linda can see the wheels turning in Marcus’s brain based on this new information, and knows that he’s probably already jumping ahead to formulating what he’d say to make his pitch for the money to the senator.

This is what Marcus needs: a cause and a plan.

“I’m gonna need updated stats on — ”

“Yeah.”

“And I’d like to look over the list of organizations that have come out in support again, too.”

“Yup.”

Marcus stares hard at the base of the lamp on his desk without really seeing it as he thinks things through.

“If I could just talk to him about it, if I could just lay out the case for this funding, I know I could convince him to do it. I know I could.”

Nearly twenty-five years in politics has made Linda nothing if not a realist. But to see the fervor with which Marcus clings to his convictions, to his belief in people and in their ability to do the right thing, threatens to chip away at her more jaded edges. She can’t bring herself to try and rein in his optimism, so she gently changes the subject.

“Olivia will love to see you too. It’s been too long since she’s gotten to hang out with her Uncle Marcus. And maybe you could try and have some fun while we’re there? You know, relax a little bit? There’s usually a few celebrities who show up to this thing. There’s a rumor going around that Bad Bunny might make an appearance this year.”

Marcus lets out a bark of laughter.

“That’s funny,” he says.

The look on Linda’s face remains unamused.

“Y’know, cause it’s the Easter — ”

“Shut up, and don’t be late.”

The sounds of Marcus chuckling follow her all the way to her office.

———

The White House Easter Egg Roll dates back to 1878. Egg rolling had become a popular Easter Monday event for Washington, DC’s children in the 1870s, who would race their eggs down the west grounds of the United States Capitol. In 1876, Congress outlawed the practice out of concern for the impact on the Capitol grounds. Two years later, President Rutherford B. Hayes initiated the first White House Easter Egg Roll as a new alternative venue for the tradition.

In its present form, thousands of families descend upon the South Lawn every Easter Monday for an event that has become essentially the world’s most tightly secured garden party. The titular egg roll is still the main event, but the vast grounds that stretch from the White House’s Truman Balcony down to the edge of the Ellipse also boast all manner of food stations, educational activities for kids, a proper Easter egg hunt, a petting zoo, various costumed characters, and a performance stage.

The United States Marine Corps Band is halfway through a rendition of “Easter Parade” when Marcus, Linda, and Olivia enter the grounds. It’s a beautiful day for the event; April weather in DC can range from sleet to blazing sun, but today is downright idyllic. Fluffy clouds float across the clear blue sky over the nearby Washington Monument. The South Lawn gleams emerald green, covered in a sea of people in mostly pastel outfits.

Dressing for an event at the White House is usually a formal affair, but per Linda’s advice Marcus has foregone a tie and opted for the most springtime-like shirt in his closet: a button-down in crisp periwinkle under a suit a shade too bright to be considered navy. A Congressman’s business casual.

Olivia is, as predicted, overjoyed to see the man she’s called Uncle Marcus since she learned to talk. She remains glued to Marcus’s side as they wander the grounds, stopping to load up on sugary snacks and feed handfuls of grain pellets to the baby goats at the petting zoo. Her long black curls and boundless energy mirror Linda’s, and before long she has grass stains and dirt streaks on her pink Easter dress but neither of her chaperones is concerned. Stains will wash out, Linda had told Marcus once, the fun she had getting them is far more important.

It’s more fun than Marcus has had in a long time. It’s a beautiful day with people he considers family, but there’s a twinge of something he feels deep in his gut that threatens to spoil it for him.

Envy.

He would be hard-pressed to find a situation that makes more clear than this one that which he lacks: a family of his own. He’s surrounded by the shrieks and laughter of children, the sight of moms and dads cheering their kids on as they race eggs down the steepest part of the South Lawn’s slope. He’s spotted many of his colleagues here, other members of Congress with their families, happy and together and full of love for each other. There is no doubt in Marcus’s mind that he loves Olivia, but nothing can ever change that fact that she isn’t his.

After the painful saga of his divorce and the whole mess with Theresa, Marcus had thrown himself not long after into the drastic career change of running for office. That had consumed eighteen months of his life and had worked wonders in keeping him so busy and exhausted that the idea of venturing out into the dating world again had been pushed from his mind. His singleness had even become something of an object of fascination to the public. Politico had dubbed him “Congress’s Most Eligible Bachelor” not long ago on what must have been a particularly slow news day. But now…

He’s starting to think he’ll never stop yearning for it, of finding that someone, that connection, that partner. Of having what everyone else does: a happily ever after. And he’s also starting to fear that it might never happen.

“I don’t see Jones yet,” Linda murmurs to him as they clean their hands after the baby goat encounter. Oh right, he remembers. This is also technically a work event.

“Somehow I can’t picture him willingly spending much time near farm animals,” Marcus replies.

Linda makes a noise of amused agreement before Olivia suddenly lets out a squeal of excitement.

“Mom, mom, look! It’s Bluey!”

Sure enough, the cartoon’s titular dog has made an appearance near the performance stage to the audible delight of seemingly every kid here. Olivia grabs Linda’s hand and starts trying to drag her over.

“You know I’d hoped when she turned five she’d move beyond her Bluey obsession, but it hasn’t happened yet,” Linda mutters to Marcus.

“The trials of parenthood,” Marcus grins.

“I’ll take her over there, why don’t you go do a lap and see if you can’t run into a certain senator?”

Marcus nods.

“And you looked at the latest stats on recidivism?” Linda calls over her shoulder as Olivia impatiently leads her away.

“Yes! Now go get your kid a picture with that dog!”

———

Marcus wanders. He stops to say hello to some of the other Members he knows and is friendly with. Several times it’s other people who stop him. He’s a more recognizable face than most other elected officials, despite his short tenure on the job, and every few minutes someone comes up and asks for a selfie.

There are also professional photographers mingling about from the ever-present White House Press Corps, the gaggle of reporters from all manner of news outlets assigned to cover the White House. Marcus runs into a journalist he’s spoken with a few times from CBS News and grants him a quick interview for the outlet’s TikTok about what his first Easter Egg Roll has been like so far. But there’s no sign yet of the senator he’s hoping to speak with.

He’s wandering past the section of the lawn where Jorge Ramirez, the First Gentleman, is reading from a picture book to a group of children when he notices a camera pointed in his direction out of the corner of his eye. He turns in the photographer’s direction and before she even lowers her camera recognition hits him like lightning.

The woman from the botanical gardens.

The surprise is written all over his face and he knows it, but he can’t muster the wherewithal to school his expression into anything more neutral before he hears the click of the camera’s shutter. But when she lowers the device, she’s smiling at him, and the unexpected delight at seeing her again has him grinning back.

She walks over to him, inspecting the photo she’d just taken on the camera’s display. She’s dressed in black trousers, a white blouse, and comfy-looking sneakers, a black camera bag slung over one shoulder.

“Hello again, Congressman,” she says.

“Hi,” is all Marcus manages.

Something from their first meeting occurs to him then that throws cold water over his excitement.

“I thought you said you weren’t press.” He tries to keep his tone as light as possible.

She fishes an ID badge on a lanyard out from around her neck and holds it out for him to see. It’s not the standard press badge all credentialed reports are required to wear when on White House grounds. It’s a staff badge.

“You work for the President?”

“I do.” She tucks the badge away. “I used to be press, but I’ve since come over to the other side.”

“Ah.”

The chatter of a thousand people surrounds them. Not far away the band finishes a medley of Disney songs to a round of applause. But to Marcus it all feels very far away. Instead he’s hyper-aware of every detail about her: her fingers fidgeting a bit nervously with the camera she still holds, the white flash of her teeth between pretty pink lips, the mismatched earrings she wears (one a carrot, the other a bunny).

“I didn’t get a chance to get your name, before,” he says.

She gives it to him, and the knot he’s carried around in his chest for weeks wondering who this woman is loosens.

“Marcus Pike,” he returns, holding out his hand.

“Oh, I know,” she replies teasingly. Her grip is firm and sends a little shiver of electricity up Marcus’s spine.

Being an FBI agent meant that Marcus was used to projecting an air of authority, to having people sit up and take notice of when he spoke. But being an elected official deferred upon him even more authority whether he felt it was earned or not, it made his time, his attention, be in great demand. If you knew who he was, you probably wanted something from him. And people were so impressed by him, so deferential to him, so flattering and accommodating. Many of his colleagues let it go right to their heads. But all it did was make Marcus constantly second-guess who he could trust.

There’s nothing of that here with this woman. What he sees is the curve of her lip and the quirk of her eyebrow and what he hears is her Oh, I know but what he feels is that she fails to find his status impressive or intimidating and how refreshing that is. How rare, these days, for him to have a conversation feeling like someone is talking to him instead of his title.

“I’m so happy to see you again,” he tells her. “I…regret that our conversation in the gardens got cut short.” He hopes she doesn’t take that to mean he’s blaming her.

She shrugs, attempting to look nonchalant, her bag shifting at the movement.

“I know how it is with Members. I didn’t want to impose on too much of your time.”

“You could have,” Marcus blurts out before he can stop himself.

“You could have,” he repeats more quietly. “Talking with you…it was the best part of my day. Of my whole week. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.” About you, he adds silently, but doesn’t say aloud.

The teasing edge to her smile fades, replaced by something shyer, more genuine.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it either,” she admits.

Warmth blooms in Marcus’s chest that has nothing to do with the bright April sunshine.

“Could I — could we talk more, sometime?”

“Are you asking me out, Congressman?”

“It’s Marcus, actually,” he says with a coy grin, finally finding the ability to flirt again that usually comes so naturally to him.

Something in her face falters, a flash of disappointment.

“Not here, it’s not,” she murmurs, “not right now.”

Her eyes slide past his to glance about at the crowds of people around them. Guilt clenches in his gut as reality floods back in, the bubble around them bursting and the sounds of the crowds around them suddenly returning to full volume in his ear. How could he be so careless? He’s a Member of Congress, she’s a White House staffer, and right now, she’s working. There are still power dynamics here that he’s completely forgotten about until this moment.

“Oh, fuck, you’re right. I’m so sorry, forget I said anything—”

“Don’t be.” She shakes her head at him, eyes wide. “What I meant by ‘not right now,’ is that—it’s not that I’m not inter—” She blows a raspberry with her lips and swipes a hand over her face.

“What I mean to say is, I should be done with work today by seven. If, if you’d like to talk more. Which I would very much like, for the record.”

She reaches into her camera bag and pulls out a crisp white business card and a pen, scribbling a phone number down on the back. He takes it from her when she holds it out to him, their fingertips just barely brushing.

“Hey boss!” The sound of Linda calling for him from over his shoulder is a rough yank back to reality. He turns to find her walking towards them, a giddy Olivia in tow.

“Senator Jones, three o’clock.” And sure enough, off to Marcus’s right, he spots the man in question, sun gleaming off both his bald spot and his veneers, talking with several other men in stuffy suits and ties.

Linda looks past Marcus at his no-longer-a-mystery woman, then back at him, the look on her face telling him that she’s immediately figured out who it is he’s been talking to.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus says, “I can’t believe I’m doing this again, but I gotta—”

“It’s okay,” she reassures him. “Looks like we both have to get back to work.”

Marcus sighs, fingers tightening on the little card he still holds.

“Happy Easter, Congressman,” she says.

“Happy Easter,” he replies with a murmur of her name, and finds he likes the way it feels on his lips.

———

The rest of the day passes in a blur.

He has a good talk with Senator Jones (he thinks, he hopes), he gives three more impromptu interviews, he eats too much chocolate with Olivia before carrying her back to her mother’s car. He grabs Chinese takeout on the way back to his apartment, a sparsely furnished one-bedroom in Navy Yard, and fights the urge every step of the way to google the gorgeous White House photographer whose number is burning a hole in his pocket.

There’s so much he wants to know about her. And he could so easily find out so much if he wanted to right this moment, her whole career likely just a quick google search away, but he resists. Don’t dive in so quick, he tells himself. Don’t rush. Besides, he wants to hear it all from her herself.

He punches in the number at 7:02.

It rings only once before she answers.

“Hello, Marcus.”

[trulybetty]

marcus pike x masterlist

x. main masterlist

Sweet Janes Series (Marcus x f!reader) Can all be read individually, or read in order as one whole series.

Art Gallery You and Marcus have been dating for a while and surprisingly it's the first time he's gone to an art gallery with you. It's also an afternoon for another first... Sick Day Marcus never cancels dates, and if he does it usually comes with his own brand of romantic gestures to make up for it. So when he doesn't, you know something isn't quite right. New York | Part I You were supposed to spend a week off with Marcus for a staycation, the FBI had other plans… and so did Marcus. Baked Goods Easy Sunday mornings with the impossible task of choosing the right pastry, pure fluff. Bad Day You arrive home after a terrible day at work and Marcus wants to help turn it around. Marcus fluff. Sleep Marcus is leaving for a week for work. Cake At the end of a long week of hosting duties, it's late at night and you're unable to sleep.

Baker!Marcus Series:

Something Sweet this way Comes Something Festive this way Comes

One Shots:

[punkette1026]

Unanswered Prayers Masterlist

Summary:

The Hot Expresso coffee shop is a place that FBI agent Marcus Pike holds near to his heart. It's there that he meets new friends and gets introduced to the owners daughter Abigail Rose. Now after a text saying that they need to meet, Marcus now fears that the Hot Express is where he will experience heart ache. He sends up a silent prayer hoping that its not the case and ponders on how he and Abigail got to the point where they are at now.

Warnings: Smut

Chapter 1-The Hot Expresso

Chapter 2- My Sweet Rose

Chapter 3- I Love You

Chapter 4- Is There An Us?