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gangrelispunk · 7 days

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Let's Get Physical! feat. Marcus Pike & f!Reader

a Marcus Pike one shot | Rated: 18+ | word count: 3,883 warnings: swearing, rougher p in the v unprotected sex, fingering, talk about weight gain, belly appreciation, self esteem issues surrounding weight, reader is assumed to be shorter and lighter than Marcus, reader has long enough hair for Marcus to grip,

A/N: Okay y'all... here's the mam himself! Thank you to @rebel-held for their dedication and holding vigil for his arrival, and for @yahtiwakitakos for their love of Marcus! Thanks to @strang3lov3, @noxturnalpascal & @neverwheremoonchild for their eyes & thoughtful insight.

As soon as you’d gotten the desk next to Marcus, he knew you’d be friends. He’d transferred out of being on the field and to the home office in your state after a personal matter had him decide to transfer. Since that point, you’d worked closely together, learning almost everything you could about one another.

You’d taken to him almost immediately, but his kind and aloof manner kept you from pushing further to see if there was something more. You’d eventually fallen into a content and friendly rapport that turned into a work-based friendship.

Marcus learned about your love of reading, allowing you to collect obscure information, and you’d learned that he did not cook, opting for take out at every meal.

You’d even earned nicknames from one another. You called him Pickles after a long-forgotten joke about his last name, and he called you Dex, short for Poindexter, given you aptitude for Trivial Pursuit.

You worked side by side for four years, and in that time, you’d noted that Marcus had gained weight, but it wasn’t that noticeable – it was gradual. His clothing had always fit. He'd never had an ill-fitting suit or a too-tight dress shirt or jacket. Yes, you'd notice his weight fluctuate and increase, but he camouflaged it well with his clothing. Sure, he’d developed a bit of a softer jawline under the scruff on his face - it enhanced his pout with those big brown eyes; and yeah, his middle looked less trim, as did his thighs…

You’d told yourself that you really didn’t notice or care – Marcus was your friend.

You repeated those lies every time he’d look up at you and ask if you were ready for lunch or pat your shoulder as he said you’d done a good job. You did notice his waistline increasing and you thought it was sexy and hot, but your own internal battle with self image and weight had tarnished your ability to admit you liked heavier men and watched to help them get heavier.

You so badly wished he was more than a friend. He was kind and sweet, and never swore, even going so far as to tell you to ‘behave’ or ‘watch your mouth’ when you left an f-bomb slip. The way his big brown eyes watched you, you wished they were imagining you naked and crying out for him, and as you’d lose yourself in this fiction, he’d bring you back to earth, asking if you’d read the latest case file.

You’d told yourself that you really didn’t notice or care because Marcus was your friend.

*****

“Morning, Dex!”, he called as he meandered to his desk. He had two coffees in his hands from your favourite coffee shop… the one that was out of the way for him to get to on his way to the office… the one he only stopped at when he either needed a favour or had bad news.

You narrowed your eyes at him and motioned to the coffee with a pointed finger. “Stop. What’s that for?”

“Just wanted to get my best girl a coffee. S’that a crime?”, he smiled, trying to force as much innocence from his eyes as possible.

You didn’t move from your position and raised your brow. He sighed and put the coffees on the desk and slumped his shoulders, letting his work satchel drop to the floor.

“I need your help.”

“I knew it.”

“But you can’t laugh.”

His last statement made you freeze. Looking up at him, his face looked slightly pained as his winced, waiting for the sign to continue.

“Out with it, Pickles.”

“They want agents to be in the field. I saw the sign last night as I was leaving, so I looked into it. Don’t get me wrong – love the office but I miss field work.”

He paused, eyes searching your face for approval. You could see the worry on him, the fear of rejection to his idea. You nodded, arms gently moving from their crossed position, and you reached for the cup closest to you on his desk and took a sip. It was good coffee and you hummed in approval.

Marcus let out a breath he more than likely didn’t realize he was holding and continued. “There’s a catch thought – I have to pass a physical.”

You just about spat our coffee out and swallowed it funny, causing you to start coughing. You waved him off, sputtering an ‘I’m okay.’ as you motioned for him to keep talking.

“Yeah… uh – so the physical.”, he said slowly, watching you carefully with a bit of worry. “I have to pass the one I did when I was a rookie… the one we all had to pass. You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded again, trying to get the image of Marcus huffing and puffing on a treadmill, sweaty and just a plain mess… the same way you’d imagined he’d be on top of you… rutting and jack hammering you into your mattress…

“Yeah! Just peachy, Pickles!”, you croaked, the rasped out a laugh. “You want to go in the field and leave me behind? Be Mister Bigshot and meet some other prettier coworker to bring coffee?”

You were trying to tease him, but your words and the sharpness of your tongue sounded like they aimed to wound, and it wasn’t lost on Marcus.

“Well, why not come with me? We could be partners.”

Your heart fluttered at the thought of travelling with Marcus to different art crime scenes. You’d never been able to shake the stories he told about the weird things he’d investigated in the field. Yeah, there were the big things, but you were more intrigued by the obscure things he’d investigated, like the unnamed famous actor who’s inadvertently bought stolen vintage clown pornography, or the weird old grumpy suburban guy who cluelessly had a priceless - albeit mundane - horse painting hanging in his bedroom, or the time some government worker was caught at the airport with illegally imported erotic art from South America that reeked of cigarettes.

The idea had merit and you nodded, cautiously optimistic.

*****

"Look, I know what I said, but maybe...", Marcus called out from behind the bathroom door. "...maybe I am a little more out of shape than I thought." You stopped your advancement down the hallway and chuckled with a smile.

"What are you talking about?"

"It... it-uh... it fits... different."

You paused and as the cogs in your head turned, trying to decipher what he meant. It hit you and you felt heat bloom in your core and on your face as your smile exploded into a wide-eyed grin.

If what you were thinking was true, the gym clothing that was standard issue for all new FBI trainees - and would be the required outfit for his upcoming physical fitness test - would give you an eye full of how pudgy he'd really gotten. While sitting in your thoughts, your silence made Marcus nervous.

Deciding to just rip the band-aid off, he opened the bathroom door and stepped out.

Your jaw dropped.

You’d seen the pictures of him during training. The clean-shaven sharp jaw and trim toned body clad in a too big t-shirt and knee length shorts.

That was not who stood before you. His shorts, while tighter, still looked like they fit. But that poor t-shirt was pulled tight across his broad chest and shoulders, and the hem was unable to traverse his ample middle, exposing about an inch above his belly button down to the curve of his underbelly and giving you a full view of his love handles.

His face was flushed, and his eyes pleaded with you. You cleared your throat and smiled, trying to hide the fact that your core was clenching on nothing.

“It fits!”, you managed to squeak out and Marcus look at you stupefied and held his hands open to his sides.

“Really?”, he asked in exasperation, raising his eyebrows. “You think this – “, he motioned to his middle. “- qualifies as fitting?”

“I mean, you got it on? That means it sort of fits?” You winced as you spoke, trying to keep a pleasant smile.

“Fuck!”

You jumped as he let out one the loudest ‘fuck’s you’d ever heard, and your eyes grew wide that it was him who yelled it. He threw his hands up in the air and stood with his hands on his hips, knee popped. His jaw tensed as he looked away, stuck in thought, and you took the opportunity to gaze over his body, noting the way his stomach moved with each frustrated breath and the way his shoulders pulled the absolute life out of the shirt’s seams.

You were lost in thought ogling him and didn’t notice that he’d turned his attention back to you. When you finally looked up at him, both feeling your faces heat up slightly and an awkward silence sat heavy between you.

You decided to break the silence first, clearing your throat again. “Pickles, you… you look great.”

Marcus stated to laugh, and you couldn’t help but join him.

“I know I look like a busted overstuffed sausage – “

“Oh, stop it!”, you hushed him, stepping towards him. “Okay, sure, it doesn’t fit quite the same, but nobody stays the same size their whole life.”

He rolled his eyes with a smirk and nodded. “Fine.”

*****

So far, all the equipment in his apartment complex’s gym were now Marcus’ sworn enemies. The last three hours had been filled with Marcus angrily sweating and using every curse and swearword under the sun. He was so focused on being angry that he forwent any self consciousness about his clothes not fitting.

After another failed attempt at trying to navigate the elliptical, he yelled “PISSING SHITTING FUCKING COCK SUCKING MOTHER FUCKER!!” and stormed out of the gym. You quickly grabbed the things he left in his departure and followed him.

*****

“Fuck it! I’m not fucking doing this!”, he boomed, furiously ripping open his refrigerator and grabbing the carton of chocolate milk and chugged it.

You quietly tried to get him to water to hydrate, and contemplated asking why his swearing sounded so natural when you’d never heard him use anything harsher than ‘fiddlesticks’ prior to this. “Marcus… maybe some water would – “

He finished the chocolate milk then tossed the carton haphazardly into the sink, and his eyes aggressively looked you up and down. You closed your mouth and stood, light a deer in headlights, nervously fidgeting your hands as you felt heat bloom in your core and on your face.

“Don’t look at me like that! I know what you’re thinking!”, he barked at you, making you jump. “God dammit! You think I’m too fat and out of fucking shape to pass that physical! And you know what?”, he yelled, grabbing one of the giant pretzels he’d picked up yesterday from the kiosk in the mall. “You’re fucking right!”

He angrily bit into the pretzel and chewed, then huffed and ripped open the fridge again and grabbed a king-size can a beer. You watched, bewildered and bewitched, as he maneuvered between chomps and gulps of the pretzel and beer.

You’d never seen him this enraged and you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Sure, you’d seen him get snide or lippy when he was frustrated, but you had no idea he could turn his temper up to eleven and he had such a vast array of foul words in his vocabulary – and find it so hot. You were staring at him, seeing that once he’d finished the pretzel, his hand went to his underbelly, pitching and kneading it slightly as he downed the rest of the beer. Your eyes were then pulled to his crotch in the almost too-small shorts and the noticeable bulge that had developed there.

Your lips parted and your brows tented. Marcus kept his eyes on your face, seeing the reaction you were having to his meltdown. It egged him on, knowing that you were getting something out of this. He’d longed for the chance to get to hold you beyond the occasional side hug or shoulder bump, wanting to touch you and make you feel as beautiful as he saw you. But he’d assumed you were completely fine being friends, given the way his weight had creeped up. He didn’t want to lose you by making a move and wrecking the chance to get the pieces of you that you allowed him to have access to. He’d stayed respectful, and courteous, and friendly, all while desperately wishing he was yours. But all that went out the window the moment he felt rage course through his veins and saw you look at him like that. He wanted you to be his.

He threw the empty beer can aside, hearing its tinny landing by the sink, and stalked towards you. Taken slightly aback at how aggressive his body language was, you stepped back and were stopped by the counter behind you. Marcus crowded you, standing over you, his belly moving against you with every ragged, angry breath.

“Marc – “

His name was cut off in your mouth as his collided with yours. He roughly grabbed your waist with one huge hand while the other held your face. He dominated the kiss, his tongue pushing for entrance again your lips, and you let him in, tasting the hoppy beer and salty yeast of the pretzel. As the passion built between you, the kiss deepened, becoming more fervent and urgent. His hands roamed, pulling you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair. There was no rhythm to this kiss; it was him exploring and dominating and you submitting to him and your desperate needs.

You finally parted, panting and breathless. He looked beautiful; his eyes were dark with blown pupils and his lips were reddened. The hand that had held your waist moved down to the crux of your thighs and pressed against your Athleisure legging-clad core. Your mouth opened and a soft, breathy whine barely sounded out. The fury in his eyes had ebbed and morphed into an aggressive and possessive need, but he watched you, looking for any sign to stop. You gave nothing but green lights.

He leaned his face closer to yours, his nose nudging your cheek. You let out a small whimper and nodded, tilting your head, and he grazed his teeth along your cheek to your jaw, then bit down softly. With his mouth on you, he growled through his teeth, “Mine.”

He pulled back and turned your around, pushing your palms onto the counter, and he stood flush with his front to your back. As he grinded against you and bit and kissed your neck, he pushed your leggings down over your ass with one hand, the other pushed between your legs in the front.

“Oh fuck… you’re soaked, baby…”, he growled, biting the back of your neck. His middle finger ran along your seam, pulling a mewling whine from your mouth.

“You want me? Tell me you want me.”

When you didn’t answer beyond a frantic nod, he said your name in a low snarl and his grip on you tightened. “I asked you a question.”

“Mar-Marcus! Please!”, you cried out, feeling his finger circle then tap your throbbing nub repeatedly. You felt him smile against your neck, his other hand palming and squeezing your tit, and he started fucking into your wet heat with his pointer and index fingers.

“You’re so gorgeous… so funny… so smart… and you’re letting this fat guy finger you in his kitchen…”

His thumb caught your clit in the haste of his hand’s movement, and you let out a surprised yelp and your body jolted. The hand gripping your breast came up your sternum and secured itself around your throat gently, forcing you upright and flush against him.

“Juicy little snatch… just gripping my fingers, baby… you - you gonna cum for me, Dex baby?”

You whined and nodded. His hand moved up and he pushed two fingers into your mouth, exerting the power he had over you. He did it because he could, because you let him. You were both learning more about the other: he wanted to dominate, you wanted to be dominated.

You came as he pressed your tongue down, almost eliciting a gag from you. It felt filthy and raw and everything you’d hoped but never thought Marcus could be.

“There is it… Good girl… You’re mine… I’m gonna fuck that into you.”, he grunted and pulled both sets of fingers from your wet holes, shoving you down flush with the counter.

You’d barely finished cumming, let alone gotten through the aftershocks making your cunt flutter as he shoved his shorts down and lined up his cock with you and pushed in.

“Jesus fuck…”, you groaned. “You’re s’fucking big!”

“You like me big… say it. Say you like me being a fat desk jockey…”

“Yes… god yes…”

“Like seeing me eat, too, huh?... like watching me get fat?”

“Yes! Please… Marcus, please!”

You felt the beginnings of another orgasm as he pounded into you from behind and filled your mind with the images of him stuffing himself stupid on take out at work while you sat on his lap and helped feed him. It was a guilt-filled fantasy that you’d never allowed yourself to fully process and accept until this moment.

Marcus pulled out of you suddenly. Fearing you did something wrong, you made a frantic and breathless ‘huh?’ sound. He picked you up, tossing you over his shoulder.

“Wanna watch your pretty face while you cum, Dex.”

You couldn’t help but smile; Marcus was ever the romantic.

He tossed you on the bed and crawled up to you, pushing your legs apart. He took a moment to look at your pussy, smirking with a smug head shake, then locked eyes with you. He leaned forward, one hand landing beside your head and his other hand grabbed your hips, pulling you closer to him, guiding his cock back into your desperate, wet cunt.

“Look at you… just gorgeous… “, he marveled with smug satisfaction as he pounded into you, watching your eyes close, brows furrow, and lips part to let out a soft pant.

His thumb came down on your clit, rubbing harsh, fast circles. “Come on, Dex… gimme one so I can watch… lemme see…”

“Marcus… I’m close…”

“I know, pretty girl… give it to me… come on… gimme one I can see…”

“Yes… right there! Right there!”

His thumb hit just the right angle and you fell apart as he pistoned you on his cock. Your hand reached up, gripping the arm above your head, and you arched your back in pure bliss.

“There it is… there you go… fuck, good girl… look at you… so god dammed pretty…”

The noises you made sounded alien coming from your mouth. You’d never heard this cacophony of whines, cries, mewls and moans come from your body before, and Marcus was revelling in it. He removed his thumb form your oversensitive nub, and he brought him body down onto your as he continued to thrust into you. His weight felt amazing; it was everything and ore than what you could have hoped, and you needed more of it on you. You hooked one leg on his hip, then brought the other one up, trying to lock your ankles. Marcus was too big, his love handled waist too wide and his thrusts now to frantic to get a good latch.

You raised your head and captured his mouth in a messy kiss, and he interlocked his fingers into yours. He panted into your mouth as you made eye contact; gone was the ferocious and angry man who’d fucked you in his kitchen and back was Marcus: sweet, funny, soft Marcus.

“Come on, Pickles.”, you whispered against his lips with a wry grin.

The surrendering groan that tumbled out of him matched perfectly with his out of rhythm thrusts.

“You gonna let me cum in you? Please?”, he panted, hips stuttering.

Nodding, you desperately whined, “Yeah… yes, please… please… c-cum in me!”

Marcus dropped his forehead onto yours. With a few more snaps of his hips with corresponding grunts, he let out a string of groans and panting breaths, then stilled in you.

You were both breathing hard, and his fingers flexed and relaxed repeatedly in yours as he came down from his high. Your mouth found his again briefly, then he pulled back and looked you in the eyes. His brows furrowed and his eyes softened further, as if the weight of what had just happened suddenly dawned on him and he was worried this was it for the two of you.

“Hey… hey hey hey…”, you soothed, hand coming up to cup his cheek, a soft smile on your face. “It’s okay… I’m okay.”

He nodded, still unsure, the blurted out, “I like you so much, Dex. I wanted this for so long…and I wanted it to be special, and – “

“It was special!”, you beamed with a smile, loving how adorably flustered he looked in contrast to before. “You hulked out and railed me in your kitchen!”

He stopped and looked at you, dumbfounded. Slowly, a smile peaked out on one side of his mouth. “You liked that.”, he huffed out in a laugh. “Dex, you kinky girl!”

You laughed and playfully slapped his arm. “Knock it off, Pickles!”

He pulled his softening cock from you and kissed you, both of you giggling.

Marcus pulled away and teased, “You liked getting railed by a fat guy… in the kitchen…”

“Yeah, I did!”, you challenged with a smile. “And I hope that fat guy does it again!”

His breath hitched and he swallowed, looking away for a moment. “So, you’re okay with…?”

He couldn’t finish saying what he wanted to. Years of poor self esteem and heart-breaking moments with other women wouldn’t let him, nor did that part of him want to hear your answer in case it was rejection. Your hand guided his face back to you.

“I wouldn’t have let you if I wasn’t.

His smile softened. “How about a date first?”

You couldn’t help the heat and shy smile that bloomed on your face, and he watched as you melted into his words.

*****

Marcus walked into the office the next Monday, carrying another two coffees from your favourite place. You were preoccupied with one of your coworkers but shit him a smile before returning your attention to the file before you.

He placed the coffees down, hung his coat and bag, then noticed the collection of tupperwear containers with a sticky note on them.

Getting takeout is fine, but this is a sampling of what I can do for you. Xoxo Dex.

He opened a few of the containers and in them were homemade versions of his absolute favourite take out meals. He brought one to his nose and inhaled, just as your coworker left the room. You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his middle, patting and squeezing his belly.

Marcus deciding he wasn’t ever going to need to pass a physical again.

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