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pascalpanic · 3 years

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Begin Again (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Inspo: Begin Again by Adam Melchor

Summary: Dating apps never pair you with the right people. Until you come across the profile of a handsome, pancake loving FBI agent named Marcus.

W/C: 4.8k

Warnings: lots of talk of food, language, late night deep conversations, some sadness at the end but nothing intense? reader has a pet cat, is that worth a warning? idk

A/N: HI GUYS this is my first full length Marcus Pike fic! I really hope you like it!! thank you so much to @theteddylupinexperience and @sanchosammy for being my best editors and proofreaders and idea givers!!!

note: PLS listen to the song before/after/while reading! it’s one of my favs and it really goes along with the story

Over the course of your adult years, you’ve become convinced that dating apps are complete and utter bullshit. The algorithms never work right, never pair you or any of your friends with anyone worth seeing in person. Maybe that’s just the problem; maybe it’s not the apps but the people. Whatever the answer is, whatever reason you’ve never found success in the endless swiping, you’re through with it.

That was before last week. The rainy Tuesday night left you in your apartment, alone, to succumb to the cold spring dreariness. Over a cup of hot tea, you’d downloaded the app again. Might as well try, right? You have nothing to lose. If worst comes to worst, catfishing an annoying guy is always a blast. The good news is that this app requires you as the woman to make the first move. That’s kind of a downside- you never know how to start conversations- but at least you can’t get unsolicited dick pics right off the bats. Life is full of tradeoffs, you suppose.

You begin again. The app becomes your favorite pastime. Bored at work or home? Dating app it is. Left. Left. Left. Boring man after boring man. One labeled himself super-straight: absolutely fucking not. One holding a fish: nope. A man who describes himself as a gym rat: not your type. It’s a boring way to spend your lunch break, you’re aware, but the entertainment value is fun if nothing else. There are a lot of strange men out there.

After a few days, your luck seems to turn around as the photo of a man with brown hair and warm brown eyes pops up on your screen. He has a scruffy beard and wavy hair, and the way his smile tugs at the corner of his lips makes your heart flutter. He’s really cute, you have to admit. You read the bio next.

Marcus, 35

❗️ Washington, D.C.

Got forced into making this, but optimistic. Lover of art, dogs, and time to relax. Always down for breakfast for dinner and cuddling. Looking for someone with a sense of independence, love of travel, and a sleep schedule equally fucked up as mine. Must love pancakes.

Must love pancakes. That’s absolutely adorable. You immediately think of your cat, named Pancake, and you laugh and swipe right, hoping the man already thought the same of you. Your eyes widen with excitement and you almost laugh out loud from your giddy state when you see the little logo indicating it’s a match.

The first message you send him has to be perfect. You ponder your options for a minute, frowning and furrowing your brow as you think. You don’t want to come on too strong; you’re not trying to sound like you want a hookup. A simple one-word greeting wouldn’t be enough.

You could comment on something from his bio, you realize as you read it again and again. Maybe ask him about his dog? No, that’s too awkward. You want it to be about him, something that can draw him in. Talk about traveling? No, you don’t want to sound like you’re bragging about the places you’ve gone in your life.

Pancakes. Pancakes are good. You love pancakes. You think for a second more, debating what to say, before inspiration strikes and you send off the message before you can stop yourself.

Marcus Pike has essentially felt the same as you. He’s a somewhat charming man. He’s had his fair share of relationships, but they never quite work out. His ex-wife, now long gone and blocked from his phone, was an absolute failure of a relationship. He’d gotten close to what felt like true love with Teresa, another FBI agent, but she flaked at the last second.

Maybe the constant here was that he met them in person. When Marcus falls, he falls hard and fast, down an endless spiral of emotions with no escape. Maybe if he met someone online, it would be different. His best friends had all encouraged it, and on a night out not long after Teresa left him, Pike set up his own profile. He liked that the app didn’t require him to make the first move. It’s refreshing.

Marcus had seen your profile hours ago, on a mindless phone break from his work. He’d swiped right too, stunned by your smile and the lovelines you radiated even through the phone. He crossed his fingers for a good part of the day, hoping you’d swipe right on him too.

His day is busy, leaving him no time to fiddle with his phone and distract himself. He eats in the cafeteria, checking up on his phone. After lunch, he’s walking back to his office when his heart flutters as he sees the dating app indicates he’s had a match. He looks at it and swallows hard before stopping, moving to the side of the hallway to allow others to pass. He’s breathing hard, and his heart speeds up when he sees that you are the one that matched with him.

He knows how this app works. He has to wait now, to let you make the first move. He can’t even write a message until you send one. So he pockets his phone again and continues on his walk.

He’s determined on his walk, rushing back to his desk so he can sit and be thoroughly enthralled in waiting for or receiving your response. His phone buzzes several times with notifications, one of which he prays is you. When he finally sits, he opens the app ceremoniously and has to hold back a genuine laugh when he sees your first message.

Blueberry or chocolate chip?

Marcus shoots back a text nearly immediately. Sorry, what?

Your bio. “Must love pancakes”. Blueberry or chocolate chip?

Marcus is absolutely beaming as he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. Blueberry. Always. I hope that’s the right answer :)

Unfortunately, it’s not, but you’re cute so I’ll let it slide

You called him cute. It makes Marcus’s heart flutter. Come on. There’s nothing like the warm blueberry popping in your mouth.

There is. It’s when the chocolate chips are all melty and creamy.

God, Marcus is already painfully into you. You know what… at least you love pancakes. I’ll let it slide. You got a favorite place?

Anywhere I can get ‘em. You seem like quite the connoisseur, do you have one place in mind?

Jane slams down a stack of files on Marcus’s desk. “Paperwork overflow, Pike. Can you get these done tonight?”

Marcus is the fastest in the office with paperwork, which often leads to him being the one that flies through the files in the place of the people who actually filed it. He nods. What else is there to do? “Sure.”

Jane claps him on the shoulder and wanders off. Marcus watches him in slight annoyance. The best place in D.C. is definitely Sandy’s. Hey I gotta go, text ya later?

I’d love that :)

It didn’t take long for your texting to move from the dating app to actual texting. It happened within the same day, in fact.

Marcus messaged you some hours after the initial conversation. Your phone buzzed while you were doing yoga in your apartment, your cat curled into a ball beneath your stomach as you held a downward dog. You nearly collapsed on top of Pancake as you fumbled to sit cross-legged on the end of your yoga mat.

The message from Marcus is bright on the top of your screen. Hi. Sorry that took so long. Work stuff.

Smiling, you take a swig from your water bottle and lean back against your couch. Not a problem. Understandable. What do you do for a living? It’s a loaded question in D.C.; they could range anywhere from politicians to their rich sons to artists and athletes.

I work for the FBI, actually.

Your eyes light up in excitement. That’s the coolest shit I’ve heard. What do you do? Are you an agent?

The man’s responses don’t take long at all. He must be waiting in the chat to respond. The idea makes your heart flutter. Yep, I’m an agent. I work in international art crimes.

You certainly didn’t expect that for an answer. Wow, okay, that’s even cooler than I thought. I was about to call you Agent Pancake but I think my girl would be disheartened...

Snapping a photo of the way Pancake is nuzzling into your side, meowing for snuggles, you have to laugh as you send the photo his way. Funny you love pancakes so much. This little muppet is named Pancake.

Marcus responds with a barrage of heart-eyes emojis, which makes you laugh aloud and scoop Pancake into your lap, stroking her strawberry-blonde fluff. She’s an absolute angel. Like her mother, I’m presuming.

Your cheeks flood with warmth and you can feel the tips of your ears turning hot too. You’ve never even met me, Agent…? You trail off the text, asking for his last name.

Pike.

Agent Marcus Pike. What a nice sounding name. It sounds official and strong and you really like it. Cute last name. Might steal it from ya someday ;)

You don’t normally flirt this shamelessly, but he’s so goddamn cute and funny. You cross your fingers behind your back that this isn’t just a facade, that this is Marcus himself texting like he would to anyone else. You got a phone number?

As you laugh, Pancake paws at your chest to grab your attention, nails nearly digging into the stretchy fabric of your yoga tank top. “Watch it,” you scold her softly and remove her paw from your chest, picking her up and giving her a kiss on the head. Sure do. You want it?

Yes please.

You send your number his way and moments later, your phone pings with a text from an unlabeled number.

Maybe: Pike: hey, it’s Pike :)

You: hey… dammit, I really want to call you Agent Pancakes, but I think my fluffy little heathen would be offended. I don’t know what to save you in my phone as...

Agent Pancakes: Save me as whatever, I suppose. Not my problem, right?

The texts became more frequent. Over the course of three weeks, you’d stay up late talking like teenagers, knowing you need to go to bed but unable to bring yourself to do it.

You learned that his middle name was Mauricio, that his mother wanted him to have at least something a little more Latino in his name. You told him the story of how you’d adopted Pancake as a kitten from a shelter and she woke you up one morning with her claws entwined in a snarl of your hair. He told you about his ex-wife and ex-fiancée, Teresa, and you responded that he deserved something better than that. You can already tell that he’s a good man.

At the end of three weeks, you shot Marcus a text. Things seemed to be going pretty well.

You: Hey, you want to do a video call sometime soon?

Agent Pancakes: I’d love that! I’m free tonight if you are.

You: Always free. Shouldn’t you know that?? Doesn’t the FBI spy on us through our phones and whatever?

Agent Pancakes: well, I do work in art crimes. Even if we did, it would be a totally different thing

You: Good.

An hour later, you fidget with your hands as you sit on your couch, the laptop propped up across from you and ringing for a video chat. Marcus’s profile picture bobs on the screen as you wait for him to pick up.

Marcus’s face and apartment fills your screen, and you automatically grin. “Hi,” you giggle and wave, absolutely enraptured by how cute his real smile is, not the forced one in the photos.

“Hey. Nice to kind of-finally meet you,” he tells you and waves back. The wall of his apartment is nothing exciting, but his facial expressions already have you falling. Those big brown eyes compliment natural but ridiculously pink lips, and his brown hair is neatly done. It looks like he’s wearing a tie and a dress shirt; probably his work gear, you suppose.

“You too!” You tell him, unable to stop smiling. “You shaved.”

Marcus’s heart jumps out of his chest when he sees you ringing him. He barely has time to flop on the couch and turn it on, propping up the camera across from him.

God, you’re so gorgeous. Your giggle is infectious, making Marcus laugh softly at god knows what. Your grin is equally as contagious, making him smile back. He rubs his jaw in response. “Yeah, yeah. I tend to keep it clean there. Stubble takes too much maintenance, and I have this little patch where it never quite grows,” he tells you as he juts his chin to the camera, touching the spot where his beard can’t grow.

“I like it either way,” you assure him, shrugging a little. “How was your day, Agent Pancakes?” Your voice is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard, even with the granulated audio over this shitty app. Agent Pancakes makes his heart flutter. “No, not you!” You groan as Pancake climbs onto your lap. “Hi. Your twin wants to say hi.”

Marcus’s smile widens. “Oh my god, hello cutie pie,” he chuckles, launching into baby talk. “What a pretty girl. You make a good Pancake.”

You smile and rub her fur, grinning. “She’s my baby,” you chuckle and set her aside. “Yeah. I’m busy. Leave me alone.” Pancake meows in protest. “Shut up, I’m on a date,” you whine.

Marcus’s ears perk up. “This is a date?”

Your eyes widen as you turn back to him. “I… yeah?” You ask, wincing a little.

He grins back at you. “I like it. And I’m really in love with the idea of seeing your face when you talk.”

“I like your voice,” you flirt back, but you mean it. “It’s so pretty. Do you sing?” You ask mindlessly, studying the way his brow furrows and his eyes convey exactly what he’s thinking.

He chuckles softly. “I used to. I haven’t in a long long time.”

“You’ll have to sing for me sometime.”

When he shakes his head, his neatly gelled hair tries to break free. A strand does, falling in his face. “You don’t wanna hear it, I promise.” He removes his tie, and you can’t help but watch the movement. It’s incredibly sexy.

A mischievous smile makes you bite the inside of your cheek. “No, I really do, I really think I do.”

Marcus rolls his eyes. “Only if you try the pancakes at Sandy’s sometime. I promise you, they’re the best pancakes in the District. I’ve never had the chocolate chip pancakes, but if they’re anywhere near as good as the blueberry, they’re fantastic. And they’re open 24 hours. I go there a lot for late night case work.”

You smile at that, getting cozy on your couch and hugging your blanket. “That does sound nice. I love a good all day breakfast,” you say with raised eyebrows, the teasing in your voice. “Okay, human Pancakes. How was your day?” You ask him again, intent on hearing his answer. Not only is his job fascinating, but he’s adorable when he explains things.

Marcus frowns, and that makes you instinctively frown too. “Well, it’s been good. We’re tracking a huge smuggling ring right now, but since we’ve pinpointed a stock house for them, I might have to travel for a while.”

You frown. You’d been hoping you could have a real date soon, at least. “How long is a while?” You ask him curiously, sipping from your water bottle that sits next to you.

“Couple weeks. No less than a month, probably. I’d… well, I might have to go undercover, which means we couldn’t talk for a while.” His eyes are apologetic, showing that he hates this news as much as you do. “And… I’d leave maybe tomorrow or the day after.”

Your heart sinks. “So soon,” you say with a sad smile, a desperate and lonely chuckle. “Well, if you want to come home to me, I’ll be here.”

Marcus’s smile perks up just slightly. “You would be the best thing in the world to come home to. And I’ll have the scruff back by then.”

“Yes!” You exclaim and laugh, pumping a fist in the air. “I think you’re really cute anyway, but I really love the scruff,” you shrug shyly.

“Maybe I’ll grow it out just for you.”

The adrenaline from his first technical-date with you prevents Marcus from sleeping. The call lasted hours, the two of you covering almost everything important in your lives. You talked about your favorite television programs and politics, your parents and your favorite pizza toppings. Talking with him was like nothing you’d ever experience, a connection you’d never thought a dating app could offer.

After several hours, during a lull in the conversation, Marcus suggested the two of you log off. It was around 11 P.M. now, and, even though Marcus has a sleep schedule like a raccoon, he figured you should sleep. He blew you a kiss through the camera, which you pretended to hold to your chest and grin at him.

But now it’s an hour later, just past midnight, and Marcus is antsy. He doesn’t sleep much anyway, but your face is running through his mind like it owns the place, and at this point, maybe you do. Marcus sits up in bed and sighs. He knows the proper remedy for this: Sandy’s. Throwing on a rare pair of jeans and a leather jacket over the white v-neck he wears, he slips on his shoes and makes his way to the tiny, 24-hour diner.

The adrenaline is coursing through your veins too. You text any of your friends that will listen, rambling about how beautiful Marcus’s face is and how wonderful it was to finally hear his voice. You pace your apartment, petting Pancake as you pass her perch on the arm of your couch. You try to do a little yoga to calm down but you can’t stop smiling. Marcus occupies too much room in your brain to try to think about anything else.

When it’s just after midnight, hunger strikes. You realize you never ate dinner, too preoccupied with talking to the handsome man to even consider microwaving something from your fridge. Talking with Marcus has instilled you with a love for pancakes, and you think to yourself that maybe Sandy’s would be worth a shot. It’s open late.

So you toss on a jacket and pick up your purse, slinging it over your shoulder and leaving your apartment. You toss the book you’ve been reading into your bag, planning to read it while you sit and eat. Pancake gives a sleepy meow of protest but you just smile and lock the door behind you.

The diner is just as small as Marcus described it to you: just a short line of booths along the windows and a smattering of tables in the middle. There’s a colorful, warm-toned tile floor that juxtaposes the warm green of the walls and the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes wafting through the air. Quiet classic swing music filling the atmosphere. You can see why he likes it: it automatically makes you smile.

You sit in one of the booths, facing away from the door, and the kind waitress takes your order: chocolate chip pancakes and an English breakfast tea. The air conditioning is blasting, making you chilly. You tighten your jacket around yourself and sip the tea when it arrives, adding cream and sugar.

Cracking open the book, you cross your legs and lose yourself in the book. The restaurant has a calming aura, and you can feel the tea warming you from the inside. It’s fitting that Marcus loves this place, you think to yourself.

When the pancakes come not long after, you take a bite and almost groan in happiness. It’s absolutely delicious: Marcus was most definitely right. Disappointingly, you have to go to the bathroom about three bites in.

Even the bathrooms are cute, you discover. When you return, someone else sits a booth away, another lone diner at this godforsaken hour of night, facing the door. You can see the back of what appears to be a man’s head, neatly trimmed brown hair and a brown leather jacket over their neck and shoulders. Sitting back down, your back to the other customer’s, you return to your book and continue to eat your chocolate chip pancakes.

The customer and waitress are talking, but you don’t pay much attention, too enraptured by your book. It’s quiet again after the man puts in his order, and you enjoy the soft jazz music that makes you tap your foot in time against the tile.

There’s a buzzing and the melodic sound of a phone’s ringtone; one of the defaults that a phone provides. Your heart skips a beat as you hear the man pick up. “Agent Pike.”

That can’t be your Agent Pike, can it? You turn and listen and realize it’s definitely him, from his voice and the way he holds himself and the stack of- of course, blueberry pancakes and a hot coffee set in front of him.

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Sounds good. Let me write that down.” Marcus types something into his phone. “See you then. At the office? Good. Alright, see you.” He hangs up.

Standing, you tuck your book back in your purse and put the bag over your shoulder. With one hand, you grab your plate of pancakes, and the other grabs your tea. You set them down across from him and slide into the booth, grinning. “Huh. Agent Pancakes, here, in the middle of the night. How unusual.”

Marcus’s tired face lights up in excitement. “What?” He laughs, his eyes scanning your face. “Why are you here?”

You shrug and take a bite of his pancakes, sighing. “Had to see if they were worth the hype. I couldn’t sleep, you got me so excited.” The blueberry pancakes are absolutely fantastic, just as good if not better than the chocolate chip ones on your plate. “Damn, you were right.”

“Hey,” he laughs and pulls his plate closer to his chest. “Don’t touch my pancakes.”

You make pleading pouty eyes, frowning a little. “Can’t we share?” You tease. It already feels like you’ve known him for years, even though this is your first time seeing him in person.

Marcus sighs. “I suppose,” he says and rolls his eyes in sarcasm, pushing his plate back out so you can access it.

Marcus is beyond stunned, absolutely enraptured in how beautiful you are in person. If he thought he fell on that video call earlier, he’s now reached the very bottom of that cliff, the impact of your everything stealing the air from his lungs. God, he wants nothing more than to kiss you right now, on those lips coated in blueberry juice and maple syrup.

The two of you spend quite some time so there, just talking and continuing the conversation where it left off before. The waitress refills Marcus’s coffee twice and your tea once. “So who called you when you were sitting alone?” You ask him as you bring the white porcelain mug to your lips, sipping at the creamy tea.

He sighs. “Guy I work with, his name’s Patrick. He’s a douchebag, I can’t lie,” he says with a chuckle, and his heart flutters at the way you give a soft laugh back. “Just telling me the details. I leave in about 6 hours. I’ll be in Singapore for a couple of weeks.”

“Singapore?” You exclaim, eyes wide as your fork clanks against your plate. “You better be able to contact me.”

He shakes his head. “I told you, I’m going undercover. I can’t.” He sighs, and he dares to reach out and touch you, to reassure you that he’s there and himself that you’re real, that you’re right there. “Will you wait for me?”

Your heart melts, from an already slush-covered river to a rushing rapids. “Of course, Marcus.” It makes his heart skip a beat. You’ve called him lots of nicknames, but never his real name. Something is painfully intimate about it. “I like you a lot; why wouldn’t I?” You ask, shrugging as if it’s the simplest thing. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

When you finish your meals, Marcus picks up both tabs, despite your protesting. “Can I walk you to your place?” He asks as you both stand and adjust your jackets.

You nod and take his hand. The lights of the city are seemingly extra dim tonight, leaving the street lights to illuminate your beautiful face as the two of you stroll along. You have all the time in the world, don’t you? It’s 1:30 in the morning. You’re both already evading sleep desperately. A little more time together can’t hurt.

His hand never leaves yours, his fingers lacing through your knuckles. You chat quietly, as if you could wake the sleeping city from the peaceful blue drone of a weeknight morning into its daily splendor of horns and hordes of speedy pedestrians.

Marcus bumps your shoulder with his, making you stumble a little to the side and laugh as you look up at his gorgeous face. His face reflects the love you’re both feeling, almost giving the city around you a pink glaze of warmth from the rose-colored glasses you must have placed over his eyes.

The walk draws to an end, as you stand at the entrance to your apartment building. Marcus’s body looks so soft and inviting, and you dare to wrap your arms around his neck and hug him to your chest. “I don’t want you to go, Agent Pancakes,” you murmur into the soft skin of his neck, which is starting to get a shadow of stubble.

Marcus kisses the top of your head. He doesn’t move either, prolonging this time you have together before he can’t see you. “I don’t want to go. I’ve never wanted to stay here more than I do now, but I have to.” His arms wrap around your waist, strong and safe.

Lifting your head, you look up at him, your noses practically touching from the proximity you share. The world feels like a bubble around you two, like some impenetrable one-way material that makes it so if Marcus leaves now, he can never come back. “Well, it’s gonna be a long time, a month or two,” you say with a sad smile. “We’ll have to begin again.”

Marcus shakes his head, his brown eyes almost welling with tears. “There’s no one else I’d want to begin again with.” With that, he looks in your eyes, the question hanging there. Wait for me?

Always, you respond silently by pressing your lips to his, kissing him slowly in the orange glow of your apartment building’s entrance. He kisses back, his lips tasting of coffee and maple and blueberry, yours tasting like chocolate and tea.

You squeeze your arms tighter around him, getting on your tiptoes to be as physically close as you can to him. He has one hand on either side of your rib cage, holding you there as he kisses back with all of the passion and love he has.

It can’t last too long or he’ll never leave. He won’t be able to. He breaks away after a few moments, his lips close to yours. He presses your foreheads together, arms encircling you again. “I have to go. I have to be at the office in an hour.”

You lift your head and your brow furrows in confusion. “Then why did you take so long to walk and eat with me?” You laugh quietly.

Marcus shrugs. “Didn’t want to leave you yet,” he admits, his eyes trained on yours. He gives you one last painfully gentle kiss. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you more,” you say with a sad smile. “You’ve been my distraction lately. Whenever I’m bored, I text you.”

He sighs, the confession increasing his frown. “I’ll be in an entirely new place, without you.”

“But I’ll be here, in my same old life without you in it.”

The words punch a hole through Marcus’s heart. It’s true; he’ll have new distractions, new things to do. You’ll be here with a Marcus Pike-shaped hole in your heart. He kisses your forehead, the wheels turning in his head. “If you get a call in the next few weeks from an unknown number, be sure to answer it, okay?”

You nod and smile softly. “You need to go. Go.”

He nods and his hand squeezes yours. “I can’t wait to begin again with you.” With that, Marcus Pike, Agent Pancakes, whatever you want to call him, the man you’re highly suspecting might be your soulmate, walks off into the slightly chilly D.C. night.

taglist:

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#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike headcanons #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #begin again

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pascalpanic · 3 years

Note

Ok I know cigarettes are like.. BAD ok. But I keep having this thot about riding javi on his stupid ass couch as he smokes a cigarette and you just take it from his lips and smoke as you quite literally ride him into the couch. He thinks it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Hazy Vision (Javier Peña x f!Reader)

Summary: After a long weekend together, Javier has to go back to work. You really miss him.

W/C: 3.4k

Warnings: SMUT 18+, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, babes), lots of dirty talk and innuendos, references to a lot of sex outside of what happens in the plot, creampie, language, mild overstimulation. LOTS of talk of cigarettes and smoking. brief mentions of food and alcohol. afab reader.

A/N: you broke my soul, anon. and for that I love you. p.s. HAPPY BIRTHDAY @theteddylupinexperience!!! hope u have an awesome day and that this is a sufficient gift lol

It’s hot as hell in Colombia, and your air conditioner broke.

Javier is gracious, of course. He’s your boyfriend. He cares for you. He’d do anything for you, even with nothing in it for him. It’s a bonus to him that you’ll get to spend the foreseeable future at his place, since every repairman in the country is working at full capacity.

Another bonus is you wearing his clothing. At first, it was funny to him. You didn’t grab any extra clothing when you first came over, so it was natural that you’d grab a shirt of his to sleep in. Then the morning came, and you wandered around his apartment in a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt. He had to admit, you looked stunning like that. So casual, carefree, painfully domestic. You’d pounced on him in bed after two coffees and insisted that you spend the weekend in bed entirely.

So you did. Saturday was spent mostly nude in his big bed, your head pressed to his chest or occasionally to his lips. When Javier asked if you wanted to run to your apartment for more clothing, you’d pouted. “But it’s hot outside. I don’t wanna go all the way over there.”

As much as you enjoyed your own clothing, there was such a charm to wearing Javi’s. His clothes were big on you, even as they pulled tight on his thick arms and broad chest. They were comfortable too, and smelled just like him. It was a perfect comfort when he was at work and you sat bored in his apartment.

Javi sighed and asked if you’d like him to go get some. You gave a wide grin, and he begrudgingly made his way to your apartment. He packed you a bag of enough clothes for a week, and promised you if the air conditioning wasn’t fixed by then, he’d do it himself. And when he got back, he’d absolutely wreck you.

When he returned, he made good on his second promise and the two of you spent the whole day in his bed. A few lazy rounds of sex, lots of little kisses, and murmured words of affection into the other’s ear.

It was so perfect that it was really no surprise that Sunday came and went the same. You’d showered in the early morning, and Javier joined you. Shower sex occurred. Then you made breakfast and ate it in bed with him. You dozed in and out of sleep together for a few hours too. When noon rolled around, Javier treated you to a wonderful hour of his face buried between your legs, eating you out and never stopping. More sleep. You watched some television, snuggled, talked about the week behind you and the week coming up.

You ordered and ate takeout for dinner, also in bed. You finally drifted off late at night and groaned as Javier’s loud alarm woke you.

“Don’t go to work, baby,” you whine, throwing your arms around him.

“I just spent two days in bed with you. What more do you want from me?” He murmurs sleepily, sitting up and running a hand through his messy hair.

“All of your love and affection,” you say cheerfully, as if it’s not hard to give. Javier has already found it isn’t difficult with you. You’d had it since the moment you met.

“Cute, very cute,” he chuckles and taps your ass as he gets out of bed.

Even with the air conditioner pumping chilled breezes through the apartment at full speed, it’s as if the heat outside has settled inside of you. Your skin isn’t sweating but you feel flushed, stifled by all the clothing you’re wearing. So you strip down a little, heading to Javier’s room for something light.

As you remove your top, you smile as you see your favorite of Javier’s shirts. It’s a bright magenta, and you slip it over your shoulders. It’s a light material, but you leave it unbuttoned, exposing your lacy white bra beneath it. You keep the white shorts you’re wearing on. Looking in the mirror, you wish there was a way to show Javier how good you look right now. Instead, you settle for the fact that it’s… fuck, it’s only 4.30?

You’re restless. You’ve done plenty today: cleaned Javi’s kitchen, watched some telenovelas, read from an interesting book you were making your way through, organized his bedroom, and it’s still only 4:30. If you’re lucky, Javier will get home around 5:15 at the earliest. You know his job is demanding; he could be there all night.

Desperate for anything to do, you turn to one of Javier’s vices. Grabbing the pack of cigarettes from the counter, you make your way to the couch and plop down, resting your feet on his coffee table. You take out a single cigarette and ignite it with the little flick lighter Javier keeps on the end table.

For the next ten minutes, you breathe slowly, inhaling and exhaling the nicotine. Your eyes slip shut as your head rests against the back of the couch. You’re tired and lazy and still so fucking warm for some reason.

The night passes painstakingly slowly. You watch the 5:00 news, then the 6:00 and the 6:30. Finally, around 6:45, the doorknob jingles and Javier enters.

You’re cooking dinner by then, the stovetop sizzling with something good. It smells wonderful, he notes as he drops his briefcase and keys by the door, but there’s something even more enticing in the kitchen.

His radio is playing loudly, and you dance around the kitchen to the music as you cook. There’s sunlight filtering in through the windows, the last rays of the summer sun starting to descend. The large shirt fans out as you twirl, revealing the soft bare skin of your lower back. You’re already driving him crazy and you don’t even know he’s home.

He walks into the kitchen, and you look up with a grin as you see him. “Hi, Javi,” you sing as you wrap your arms around him, on your tiptoes. “Missed you today.”

“Missed you too… is that my shirt?” He asks, and you laugh happily, looking down at your outfit.

Javier finally processes the rest of the look and it sends a chill down his spine. Your breasts look so perfect, as if they’re perched there just for him. They are, but he doesn’t know that yet. “Yeah. I know we have the A/C pumping in here, but it still feels so hot,” you shrug, turning back and stirring something in the pan.

Javier wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin perching on your shoulder. “You look good in my clothes,” he murmurs.

“I think it’s making me pick up some of your habits,” you giggle and nod to a glass of whiskey to the right of the stove. “I’ll pour you one. You keep stirring these,” you tell him and kiss his cheek, sliding out of his arms.

He gets changed eventually, out of his work clothes and into a t-shirt and a rare pair of shorts you never knew he owned. It must be hot at the Embassy, you consider, and even though it’s cool in here, the effects linger. He must feel the heat the same way you do.

The two of you sip your glasses of whiskey as dinner cooks, and Javier’s eyes rarely leave yours. When they do, they’re on your chest or your ass in those little white shorts.

“Go sit down,” you tell him as the food finishes. “It’s almost done, and it’ll need to cool before we can eat it.”

He nods in agreement and meanders to his couch, lying down lengthwise and sighing. You glance over at him and smirk a little. You’d planned this all day, been missing his body and his strong arms. His warmth was missing when you attempted taking a nap in his bed. He was right where you wanted him, lighting up a cigarette. The food is done, just needs to cool now.

“I was so restless today,” you smile as you wander similarly to the living room. He takes in your legs as they stand in front of him, rubbing a hand up the back of your thigh and admiring what he sees.

“And why was that?” He asks before blowing out a cloud of grey from between his lips.

You shrug. “Missed you. Had nothing to do, really, since this isn’t my house. But mainly I missed you.”

He grabs at your thigh, thick fingers pressing into the soft flesh, and you smirk down at him. You straddle him, stealing the cigarette from his lips. You let it dangle between yours and smile down at him.

He looks up at you, dazed. Between your hips hovering above his and the nicotine slowly buzzing its way into his brain, he’s beyond contentedness. “Missed you too, sweet thing,” he murmurs, splaying his fingers across your thigh. Your hands are similarly pressed to his chest, fingers spread wide against the cotton-covered skin, skin that you can tell is warm and turning pink from a rush of blood. “Got to take you whenever I wanted this weekend. Had to wait all day to get home and fuck you again.”

His words make you shiver, and you pass the cigarette back to him. When he takes a drag in, you grind your hips across his slowly. “How was work today?” You ask, though you really don’t care. You know the answer when it comes to Javi: stressful, annoying, frustrating, tiring.

He shudders too, and you can feel his cock hardening beneath you. “Shitty,” he sighs. “Fuckin’ Stechner. I swear to god, I’d let the narcos take him.”

You chuckle softly, starting to drag your hips across his aching crotch. “They wouldn’t want him. They’d want someone like you,” you mumble, leaning down over him. “That would really bring the gringos down.”

He’s in Heaven, he really must be. Your tits hang in front of his face, and you steal his cigarette and take another drag, your hips continuing to grind into his. There’s the smell of cooking from the kitchen and in all honesty, Javier is blissed out already. “No they wouldn’t.”

You giggle and kiss the side of his face, giving him the cigarette again. “Mm, maybe you’re right. Too stubborn. Or your girlfriend might go crazy and go after them from withholding her boyfriend’s dick from her.”

Javier chuckles lazily, taking one last drag before stubbing out the remains in the ashtray. “Wouldn’t make it 24 hours before you’d kill them all. You know how you get when you’re determined.”

You nod, lifting your face to kiss his lips slowly. It takes a few moments, passionate and deep and tasting of cigarettes and that whiskey. You pull away and his eyes dart between yours. “I’m going to get up, and you’re going to take off your clothes,” you mumble, your lips only millimeters from his.

He smirks up at you and steals one more kiss. “Then get up and let me undress,” he murmurs, and you stand to the side for him.

He chuckles and sits upright again, pulling down your shorts and admiring the panties beneath. He rubs his fingers across your folds through them, and he can already feel your wetness gathering. “Oh fuck me, honey.”

“You can if you get your own clothes off,” you tease and pull off his t-shirt yourself. He pushes off his shorts and boxers, kicking them aside as it reveals his rock-hard dick. You smile and lick your lips a little. “Lay back down.”

He does exactly that, smiling. You slip your panties off and straddle him again, your breasts bouncing in your bra with the movement. His pink shirt follows you along, and he can’t help but run his hands up your sides, admiring you in the hue. “Pink is your color.”

“Only when it’s yours,” you giggle, dragging your hips into Javier’s erection. He shudders and you guide yourself to rest with his dick pressed into your folds. “You ready for me?” You ask, fingers splayed on his chest again. This time, they lay on his caramel-colored abs, making you smile at the juxtaposition between now and just a few moments ago; blue fabric separated your hands touching him, now you can only feel bare skin.

“Go ahead, baby,” he assures you, his large hands grabbing your hips and lining you up.

It doesn’t take more than a second for you to sink down on him, moaning and tilting your head back at the feeling as you slowly take more and more. “Javi,” you whimper softly, toes curling at the sensation. “You’re so fucking big,” you whine, and it’s true. He is, his dick almost painfully long as it presses up and into your cervix already.

“Feels so fuckin’ good,” he grunts, his eyes closed as he takes in the sensation of you on top of him.

“Light another cigarette,” you order him, his cock fully sheathed inside of you. He nods, sitting up to reach the pack, and both of you make soft noises at the grind it gives, the base of his cock against your entrance.

He flicks the lighter and holds it to the little white stick. The end glows orange. “Good,” you nod and begin to lift yourself up and push yourself down as Javier takes a long drag from the cigarette.

You involuntarily tighten at how fucking good he looks beneath you, a light sheen of sweat starting to form on his forehead, smoke trailing from between his lips. “Javier,” you groan, your eyes slipping shut as you begin to bounce on him.

He knows exactly what you want, what you need to make this all that much better. His free hand no longer rests on your hips but circles your clit with two fingers. “There we go, baby girl,” he moans out at the way you sound from the motion. You sound wrecked, and he can’t get enough of it. “Mm, fuck, take what you need from me.”

Javier opens his eyes to look up at you. The sight is fucking magnificent: your tits bounce against that white lace, the pink fabric of his shirt draped against your sides. Just when he thinks you couldn’t look even hotter, you snatch his cigarette.

You cry out his name again and again as you slowly take a puff, the sensation too much to bear. Gripping the cigarette with your teeth, you press both hands to his chest and ride him faster, harder.

Your face is furrowed in concentration, sweat sliding down one temple. A bit of grey smoke obscures your face to him, but it’s still a fucking sight to behold. It’s everything he’s ever wanted and needed and more, a girl like you wearing his shirt and smoking his favorite cigarettes while you bounce on his dick, that sexy body moving along with his.

He can’t even thrust up into you. You’re grinding your hips down with every time you bottom out, his dick pressing right against your g-spot. He can’t even try. It’s fucking amazing. One of his hands reaches up to allow you to take a drag from it. It’s incredibly intimate, not just the way you’re obliterating him but the way he holds the cigarette to your lips. He takes it away for you to puff the smoke from your lungs then brings it back.

It doesn’t take long with the combination of everything. You shudder and pass the cigarette off to him fully, too occupied with what you’re doing. “Fuck, baby,” you whimper, his fingers pressing faster against your clit. “Really close.”

“Yeah?” He murmurs, taking his own puff from the cigarette before stubbing it out to his side on the coffee table. His long arms can easily reach. With a hand now free, he grips your waist and guides you up and down on him, just the way you like it.

His hand drifts higher, reaching your neck. He doesn’t squeeze or grab, just rests it there. Holds you in place, almost. It feels good, his hands roaming your body, and you cry out in pleasure.

“Come on, honey. Cum for me,” Javier urges.

Only a few more seconds pass before your peak washes over you, sending you into sheer bliss. Javi’s fingers don’t slow in the slightest, and he takes this opportunity to begin thrusting up into you as your bouncing involuntarily slows.

Your hand slides over where his rests on your neck, lacing your fingers through his. You cry his name and your head falls against his hand, eyes fluttering with pleasure.

Javier is now the one in control once more. He brings both hands to your hips and thrusts up into you, his movements sharp and harsh. His hips smack yours and the tip, buried deep inside of you, hits your g-spot, sending you into a pleasant state of overstimulation. “Fuck, Javi,” you whimper, tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

Everything feels so warm and tender, your walls oversensitive now. It doesn’t matter to you in the slightest; rather, you relish it. You bring one hand to your clit and rub it yourself, shuddering. “Come on, Javi,” you plead, regaining yourself and working your hips back against his.

It’s all so good and so much and overwhelming. He can barely use any of his senses other than touch, can barely hear you as his head spins with the feeling of teetering on the edge. “Gonna cum, baby girl,” he groans, and you work your hips harder into his, desperate for it.

He can tell, and it makes him lose control. He spills hot and deep inside of you, the heat rushing through his body expunging the warmth that’s built inside of him all day from the goddamn Colombian summer. “That’s it, fuck,” he cries out as the orgasm rolls through his body.

The feeling of his cum spilling inside you is just enough, in tandem with your fingers. You cum a second time, your walls squeezing him tight, milking him dry of anything he can produce. “Javi,” you whimper, and he only notices you’re cumming for the second time when a warm gush rushes across his hips.

“Fuck, good girl, baby,” he breathes out as he comes down from his high, you equally as overwhelmed on top of him. After a few moments of heavy breathing, you remove yourself from around him and lie there, pressed to his chest.

Javier’s legs are bent at the knee, surrounding you on either side of your thighs. They press into you, and you lay on top of him with your ear pressed over his heartbeat. It’s still frantic, but it’s coming down. Javier wraps his arms around you, a finger tracing slowly up and down your spine through that damned pink shirt of his.

“Why do you love this shirt so much, hm?” He asks, breaking the warm and tired silence between you.

You chuckle. It’s certainly not what you expected to be asked, but you like it. “Kind of think I look like you when I wear it. I think what you saw just then is what I see normally. You on top of me, fucking me hard, sometimes with a cigarette.”

“Oh, you looked just like me,” he laughs sarcastically, shaking his head. “And when I have I ever fucked you while smoking?”

“Just like you,” you repeat in a soft and happy murmur, a small smile gracing your face.

“Jesus, you really must have missed me today,” he chuckles softly.

“Withdrawal, I guess. You leave me, I have to pick up another vice. I sat here smoking for a while today.”

“First of all, I did not leave you,” Javi chuckles softly. “And really?”

You shrug. “It just came to me to do it. It wasn’t great or anything, but it was something to do. To pretend you were there with me.”

Javi sighs and kisses the side of your head. “Well, should we go eat before the food is fully cold?”

You laugh. “I think it’s already cold, Javi.”

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