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thetriumphantpanda · 6 months

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I'll Crawl Home To Her | Marcus Pike

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

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Bridesmaid F!Reader

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

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

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

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

Divider by the amazing @saradika

Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs for writing updates.

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A few weeks, probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’ll be a no then.”

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

“You look well.”

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

“So do you.” You compliment back.

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

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

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

“I asked you first, Agent Pike.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want me to show you?”

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

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

“Second.”

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

“Which room?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if I asked you not to?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Good girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been looking at you.”

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

“Because the ceremony moved you so much?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Always, Marcus.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marcus,” You moan out, “Please.”

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

“Mmmhmm.”

“What do you want?”

“Make me come?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Marcus, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m on 4th street, in Petworth.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing Wednesday night?”

“Nothing, as far as I’m aware.”

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

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

#Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike Smut #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x you #marcus pike fanfiction #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x F!reader #Marcus Pike fic #Marcus Pike fanfic #the mentalist #the mental illness is winning #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #Pedro pascal #marcus pike fluff #Marcus Pike angst #Marcus Pike Pedro Pascal #Marcus Pike The mentalist

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psychedelic-ink · 2 months

Text

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐕𝐑𝐄

ㅤㅤmarcus pike x art historian!reader

genre: mutual pining, friends to lovers, forced proximity, smut, minors dni,

word count: 6k

summary: when a famous art collector is murdered, circumstances lead you to be temporary roommates with Marcus Pike.

warnings: oral sex (marcus receiving), marcus getting spoiled, some very mild angst, idiots in love

a/n: this work was commissioned by the lovely @sevillagrenada! thank you so much for your support and thank you so much for this delicious idea, I had a blast! ❤️‍🔥

** dividers made my the talented @saradika-graphics 💜💜💜

Another day, another handsome detective at your doorstep.

It’s been a few months since you and Marcus first got acquainted. He had visited you during one of your busiest hours, asking you for information on a recently stolen painting while you were desperately trying to sort out a curated disaster by one of the interns. It didn’t end well. You ended up shouting at him to leave you alone and even though you regretted your choice in showing how distressed you were, it was what it was. What surprised you later, however, was finding him in the early morning hours with two coffees and blueberry muffins. He apologized profusely and asked for a do-over. Something that you were more than eager to oblige.

And the rest, what most art historians like you would say, was history.

Now he visits you almost every morning if he can. Thanks to his charm, you were now considered the number one go-to person of the FBI when it came to art theft. A title you didn’t mind having.

“A bit early even for you, don’t you think?” you say, handing him the folders you’d been carrying. You smile as he lets out an exaggerated “oomph” and go to open the door. “Don’t be a baby, detective.”

“I just wanted to see you, what’s the harm in that,” he answers, following you inside. “I have the day off tomorrow so I won’t be visiting.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“Good to see that someone appreciates it.”

He takes a seat as you head for the coffee machine. You’d got it a month ago, saving Marcus the trouble of waiting in line every morning before work. You appreciate having this as an excuse for him to stop by every morning. Luckily, the museum was on his way to work, meaning he was more than happy to visit you. Sometimes it’s hard to forget that this relationship between you two is meant to be nothing other than friendship, a platonic thing. But every day you find your heart swelling more and more at the sight of him. It’s been too long since you felt close to someone. It’s been even longer since you ached for a person you know you shouldn’t ache for.

“Are you working on something with Remedios Valo?” When you turn you see him hunched over your desk, his eye meet yours, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Sorry, all these books were just sprawled here. I couldn’t help but look.”

The coffee machine comes to life, the aroma mixing in with the scent of books.

“That’s alright,” you answer, lips feeling numb. “And yeah, Olivier is adding one of her works to his collection so he wanted me to take a look.”

“Which one is he buying?”

You know he absolutely despises the idea of art being bought, hidden from the rest of the world to be a decoration. You hear it in the drop of his voice.

“Les Feuilles Mortes.” His gaze falls back to the table. “Dead leaves. The one with the woman with orange hair and green dress.”

He hums when he finally sees it on the page, “It’s a nice one.”

“It is. It’s one of my favorites.”

You bring the two cups of steaming coffee. His eyes find yours as you place them down, taking a seat. “You must be excited then,” he states. “To be seeing it in person.”

“I’m just happy it’s going to someone I know will take care of it.”

“I did meet him once. Seemed like a decent enough guy.”

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, “You really hate art collectors don’t you?”

“With a passion,” a soft smile touches his lips. “But I’ll make an exception for you.”

You shake your head, smiling into your cup as you bring the steaming liquid to your lips. He’s always like this. Making sure just how much you matter, making you feel cherished, it’s a contrast to how you feel most of the time. Your eyes fall on the painting printed onto the glossy paper. Everyone interprets art differently. In this particular piece, you see loneliness but also a peaceful serenity. The shadow bowing to the woman, them being connected with a piece of blue yarn that she’s holding. The fact that it’s blue and not read also piques your interest. It makes you think it’s not something that is forced, it’s not the fates that brought them together but something else. Something more intimate and free.

“So, when are you seeing this stunning artwork in person?”

“Tonight.”

Marcus already knows that today is going to be a long day.

He knew it as soon as he entered his office, all fellow agents gathered in one place, murmuring. They parted like the Red Sea when he came through. That’s when the captain told him that extinguished art collector Olivier Balmaceda was found dead. Murdered.

All he could think of was you. How excited you were to see him, and the painting, tonight. How Olivier was your friend and what would this mean for the investigation? Everyone here knew you, adored you. You being close to the murder victim certainly wasn’t good. He didn’t want you to be involved in any way, not even as a consultant.

He steps out of the unmarked FBI sedan, his leather shoes echoing against the pavement as he approaches the crime scene. His partner, Tim, follows suit, both agents taking in the scene that awaits them.

The art collector's mansion looms before them, an opulent testament to a life steeped in appreciation for creativity. The air carries a faint scent of antique wood and the unmistakable aura of the art world. As they enter the expansive gallery, it becomes clear that Olivier Balmaceda's passion for art extends far beyond mere aesthetics.

The crime scene, bathed in the soft glow of gallery lights, is surreal. Olivier lies in the heart of his sanctuary, surrounded by the very beauty that defined his existence. The juxtaposition of life and death against the backdrop of artistic brilliance is haunting.

Tim glances at Marcus, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation. Together, they navigate the intricate dance of art and tragedy. The paintings, sculptures, and tapestries bear witness to the final act of a man whose life was intricately interwoven with the world he cherished.

As Marcus approaches Olivier's lifeless form, he can't help but feel the weight of the art that envelops them.

The art collector's mansion is cloaked in an air of somber anticipation as Marcus's focused gaze is drawn back to Olivier's lifeless form, nestled among the artworks that had once been a source of joy. The forensic team, adorned in pristine white suits, moves with meticulous precision, weaving through the crime scene like careful curators preserving a delicate masterpiece.

"Bullet entry at the back of the head. Looks like a single gunshot," Marcus hears one of them say, his voice a measured cadence amid the artistic silence.

Marcus nods, absorbing the gravity of the information. The team proceeds, each member contributing to the careful orchestration of documentation. His path takes him to the abstract painting, now surrounded by the scrutinizing eyes of forensic experts.

"We're scanning for any hidden messages or anomalies. This painting could hold clues.”

"Keep me posted," Marcus replies.

His attention turns to the delicate sculpture, now cocooned in an evidence bag. Tim approaches, his words a whisper against the backdrop of the gallery.

"Looks like they're treating the whole gallery as a crime scene. Anything stand out to you?" Tim inquires, his voice a muted harmony in the investigative symphony.

"Not yet. We need to dig deeper, find the connections between Olivier and whoever did this," Marcus responds, his words a subtle melody of determination.

The investigation shifts towards Olivier's desk, adorned with sketches and notes – a tableau of potential motives. They meticulously examines the papers, unveiling a narrative hidden within the inked strokes.

"Possible motive here. Let's see if Olivier was working on something that could've angered someone," suggests the expert, their words punctuating the air with a promise of revelation.

Acknowledging their findings, Marcus's thoughts churn with possibilities. Just as the investigation prepares to move to another sector of the mansion, his discerning eyes catch sight of a sketchbook nestled on a nearby shelf. A flicker of curiosity sparks within him, prompting the donning of gloves.

"Hold on a moment," Marcus interjects, a pause that reverberates through the dance of forensic activity.

The team halts, their collective gaze directed towards Marcus as he delicately retrieves the sketchbook. Its presence is unassuming, a silent witness to the unfolding drama. As Marcus flips through its pages, the sketches reveal a familiar artistic style, each stroke a brush with recognition.

"Wait... these look like—" Marcus begins, his words a murmur to the sketches that come to life beneath his fingertips.

Tim glances over, an inkling of recognition in his eyes.

"Isn't that—"

"Yeah. It's hers," Marcus confirms, closing the notebook.

So much for not getting you involved.

“Captain, you can’t be serious.”

Your eyes are drawn to Marcus, his voice holding the tone of nothing other but disbelief. Your eyes turn to the floor. Olivier is dead. Murdered. And the only proper evidence to connect the dots of what happened is your sketchbook. The sketchbook you could’ve sworn you left in your office. The sketchbook that you only kept to yourself other than Marcus and a couple of more trustworthy people. One of them being Olivier.

You close your eyes. It’s exhausting to breathe. You focus on how your nostrils flare and let it all out through a small gap between your lips. Marcus inches closer, hand firm against the small of your back.

“I’m dead serious, Agent Pike,” Captain Lana answers, her voice calm yet cold as ice. “Until this entire case is solved, she’s on house arrest and under your care.”

“Just because we found her sketchbook does not mean she’s a suspect—”

“Agent Pike,” her voice cuts through the tension in the room. A sharp shudder crawls up your spine, your skin prickling with attention as you open your eyes. Despite her tone, she doesn’t look mad. “You will do what is best for our consultant. As of right now, she is linked to the case of one of the biggest art collectors for reasons we do not know. The best thing we can do is keep an eye on her and protect her.”

His mouth slams shut, his jaw clenched. His hand deserts your back and in that moment, all you can feel is guilt. Guilt of him being forced to do something he clearly doesn’t want to do.

To share his home.

“I understand,” he answers curtly, turning on his heel. “Let’s go get your things.”

It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you, shooting Captain Lana a glance, you follow him out of the office.

Marcus hasn’t said a single word during the entire drive. Even when you finally parked, he just took your bags and led you up the stairs to his apartment. Your heart felt as if it was shattering into a million tiny pieces. The poor organ was already weighted down by your friend's death, and now one of the closest people to you couldn’t even look at you.

He drops your bags to the floor and you slowly shut the door. You don’t even have it in you to look around, not that it would matter, you’ve already been here before. You doubt anything changed.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out before he can say anything else. “God, Marcus, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

His hands are on you in an instant, lifting your downturned gaze. You blink away the tears, breath catching in your throat as you meet his eyes. It’s so easy to get lost in them. You could live an eternity there. “For . . for having to stay here. I know it’s inconvenient.”

“Oh, sweetheart no, no. You could never be an inconvenience. I’m. . . I’m sorry I made you feel like that. I should’ve checked in on you. None of this is your fault understand. None of it,” his thumbs draw slow circles around your cheeks, the knot in your throat growing by the second. “And for all it’s worth, I’m happy that you’re here. I would be worried sick knowing that you’re alone.”

Suddenly you’re being pulled into his chest, your senses completely enveloped by his scent. He gingerly cups your head from behind, holding you there, allowing you to disappear from the world for a while.

The first tear escapes unexpectedly. It’s immediately absorbed into his shirt and the rest follows. He doesn’t try to hush you, doesn’t try to get you to stop. He allows you to break down completely. You cry and cry, until there’s nothing left anymore. Only then does he pull back, lifting your gaze to him once more.

“Feeling better?”

“Y-Yeah. Thank you, Marcus.”

He shakes his head, “I’m not doing anything you should be thankful for. This…this is what friends do.”

That’s right. Friends.

Your eyes sting when you blink, a forced smile tugging at your lips, “Yeah, friends.”

You’re almost certain that you’re imagining it, but you swear the crease between his brows deepens with your answer.

The soft glow of the TV screen bathes the room as Marcus settles onto the couch beside you. “Really? That’s what you want to watch?”

Marcus raises a brow as he looks down at you. You’re wrapped in a blanket, looking as if the two of you have been living together for years. He loves how you’re already comfortable with the living situation. He wished he could have this in better circumstances without an ongoing murder investigation, but he’ll take what he gets.

“I haven’t started the new season yet, it’ll be fun.”

“It’s a murder mystery. Are you sure?”

You snort, “I know the plot of Only Murders In The Building, Marcus. No need to remind me.”

As the first episode begins, the room is filled with the intriguing soundtrack of the show. Marcus watches the characters unfold on the screen, but his attention keeps drifting back to you. The play of emotions on your face, the way you get caught up in the plot – it's more captivating to him than any murder mystery.

Gradually, you lean into him, seeking comfort in the shared moment. The warmth of your presence seeps into Marcus's consciousness, and he finds himself entranced by the way you become absorbed in the show. Unconsciously, his arm drapes around your shoulder, the gesture protective yet tender.

In the semi-darkness of the room, Marcus grapples with his own emotions. The line between friend and something more blurs as he navigates the uncharted territory of his feelings. As you snuggle closer, he can feel the gentle rhythm of your breath, the subtle rise and fall of your chest.

A flicker of uncertainty crosses Marcus's mind. Does this closeness mean the same to you as it does to him? He wonders if you sense the subtle shift in the dynamics between you. The arm around your shoulder, a silent invitation, speaks volumes, but Marcus Pike remains in that delicate space between uncertainty and the unspoken desire for something more. The murder mystery on the screen becomes a mere backdrop to the complex enigma of emotions unfolding between two souls entangled in the intricacies of life and love.

Marcus's heart races as he lets his hand linger on your waist. He can feel the warmth radiating through the fabric of your shirt, and he wonders if you can feel the heat of his touch as well.

He watches your face, searching for any sign of discomfort or hesitation, but all he sees is the same intensity and focus on the TV. It both thrills and confuses him – is it possible that you can be so oblivious to the way he feels?

But as he watches you, he notices the faint hitch in your breath when his hand moves slightly, as if you're aware of his touch but trying to hide it. It only fuels the growing attraction between them, and Marcus can feel himself getting more and more drawn in.

His mind is filled with images of how he wants to touch you, and he can barely contain the urge to lean in and brush his lips against your neck. He wants to feel your skin against his, to explore every inch of your body.

The tension in the room becomes palpable, and Marcus can feel his heart racing. He looks over at you, and for a moment, he thinks he sees a flicker of desire in your eyes. But just as quickly, it disappears, and you go back to watching the movie without a second glance.

His hand moves even closer to yours, brushing against your fingers lightly. He can feel the heat emanating from your body, and he knows that you're just as affected by the electric chemistry between them.

His mind is clouded with desire, and all he can think about is kissing you, touching you. But he knows he needs to be patient. He can’t just make a move and potentially ruin the friendship you have.

But as the episode goes on, Marcus can barely pay attention anymore. All he can focus on is you, and the way your body moves slightly with each scene. He can feel himself getting harder with each passing moment, and he knows he needs to do something to release the tension.

Without thinking, his hand moves to your thigh, tracing small circles on your skin. He can see your breath hitch and your eyes flutter closed for a split second before you regain your composure.

He leans in closer to you, his lips just inches away from your ear. "Is this okay?" he whispers.

Marcus relaxes when you nod, eyes still glued to the screen. He knows you want to turn to him, to witness his feelings lingering in his eyes but he also knows that you can’t for the same reason why he can’t tell you how he feels. Fear. Fear of rejection. Of loss of a friendship.

So, his hand on your thigh is as far as he’ll go. Soothing you with the simplest of touches.

The credits roll and the episode ends, Marcus can't help but feel a lingering sense of longing. He knows he needs to push these feelings aside and focus on the case, but he also can't deny the strong connection he feels with you.

As you stand up to turn off the TV, Marcus suddenly reaches out and takes your hand in his, surprising both of you. The air between them is heavy with unspoken words and tension, but they both know this isn’t the time or the place.

For now, they'll focus on solving the murder and catching the killer. But Marcus can't shake the feeling that this shared moment was the beginning of something more – something that could change everything.

It’s been almost two weeks now since you moved in with Marcus. And other than Olivier’s murder, things have been. . . peaceful. He’s been doing everything for you. You’ve never been taken care of to this extent before. It made you feel bad in a way, as if you were a burden to him and now he felt inclined to take care of you just because of the circumstances.

However, you couldn’t ignore the tension either, the chemistry. Almost every night you thought of when the two of you watched TV. How close the two of you were. You often find yourself thinking about how differently that night could’ve ended. Only if you were brave enough, then maybe the friendship could’ve escalated into something more.

While heating leftovers for the both of you from last night, the door clicks open. You expect to see his smile, the same question on his lips asking how your day was—but all you can see in his eyes is exhaustion. He forces a smile when he sees you, then silently heads to his room. Your lungs cave in on itself. Your body buzzing with worry, you look down at the barely heated leftovers. He deserves something more. Something fresh.

So, as you quickly head down the hall to check on him, you order his favorites. You come to a halt at the door, heart beating in your throat, you knock.

“I’ll be right there,” he says, almost apologetically, which makes you feel even worse.

“I just wanted to check if you’re alright. Can I. . . Can I come in?”

You’re about to head back to the living room when the door slowly opens. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, the first three buttons of his shirt wide open, exposing skin. You barely manage to tear your gaze away. He looks vulnerable, defeated.

“I’m okay,” he clears his throat. “I promise.”

You ignore what he says and take a step forward, forcing the both of you inside the bedroom. It smells of cinnamon. “I ordered us some food from that place you like. We have some time to relax.”

“Relax?”

You let out the breath you’ve been holding and trap his face between your hands. You want to make him feel good. You want to pamper him. At least this one time, you want to do something for him instead. You know what his answer is going to be if you ask him about his day—he’ll brush you off, because it’s the case you’re involved in. The murder of your friend.

“Let me make you feel good, Marcus.”

His eyes widen, lashes fluttering, his lips part, “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to but I want to.” You quickly add when you see the hesitation growing in his eyes. “Please.”

You notice the hollow in his cheek, the way his jaw moves as he chews on the inside. Your heart beats wildly in your chest. After what feels like hours, his head jerks in a small nod, “Okay.”

Marcus gently falls onto the bed and you drop to your knees, taking a place between his spread legs. You can feel his eyes on you. His gaze intense as you fumble with his belt. You tug down his pants along with his underwear, his hips slightly lifting to make it easier for you. His cock is still soft. It makes a certain type of hunger grow inside you. Placing both hands on his thighs, you dip down, taking him into his mouth. He sharply inhales, cock twitching over your tongue. It doesn’t take him long to grow in your mouth, and suddenly swallowing him down proves to be harder than you thought.

Your nostrils flare as you attempt to swallow him down, your nose brushing against the soft curls. His hand gently cradles the back of your head, and when you look up you see his head falling back, his brows furrowed as he breathes heavily through his nose.

Parting away, you suck the base of his cock, your tongue swirling. His hips jerk and a moan rips from his throat. “That—that feels good,” he swallows.

“You like it slow?” you say, lips moving against sensitive skin. “Tell me how you like it. Show me.”

“You’re doing great sweetheart, just do it how it’s best for you,” he lets out a breathy chuckle. “I’m not picky.”

Brows knitting together, you pull away and fix him a half-hearted glare. You wrap your fingers around and begin to stroke him, witnessing the flex of his thighs. “I want to do it how you like it,” you state. “Show me or I’ll stop.”

Your lips curl as you hear him whine. It’s such a beautiful sound.

“Fine.”

He drags you back down to his cock, your hand falling away. You open your mouth to take him once more, thinking that he wants to fuck your mouth, but instead, he presses your lips to the side of his cock. You feel the heat of him, the bulging of his veins.

“Wrap your lips,” he rasps and when you do, he starts to move your head up and down.

You let out a muffled moan, the vibrations sending shivers down Marcus’ spine. His movements are slow, almost as if he’s fucking himself deep into you—almost as if he’s been thinking about this for months. Your head bobs up and down, your lips pursed around him tightly. You hear him grunt above you, and you can tell that he’s struggling to keep himself in control.

“Put your hands back on my thighs,” Marcus commands, and you do so without hesitation. “I want to feel the bite of your nails.” His thighs are shaking beneath your touch, and you can feel the coiled tension inside him, just waiting to snap. You do as he asks, digging your nails slightly into the flesh. Another whimper falls for him, a sounds desperate and needy at the same time. He pulls up and finally slips himself into your warm mouth, your eyes water as he pushes you down, taking him whole.

“You’re gonna make me come,” Marcus grunts, his voice punctuated by the wet sounds of your mouth on his cock.

You keep up the pace, eager to please him. You can feel his cock growing harder and harder inside your mouth, and you can tell that he’s close. You swirl your tongue around him, pressing your lips even tighter around him.

“Fuck,” Marcus mutters, his hand gripping your hair tightly. “I’m gonna—”

Before he can finish his sentence, he releases into your mouth with a deep groan, his hips bucking up into your face. You eagerly take him in, swallowing around him as he spills, hot come trailing down your throat. He lets out a heavy sigh, his body going limp as he comes down from his orgasm.

You sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Marcus looks at you with admiration and slight embarrassment, his cheeks peppered with a faint shade of red.

“Sorry, that was quick,” he murmurs, tugging you up and pulling you to his lap. “Now it’s your turn.”

He leans towards your lips but you stop him by pressing two fingers, they’re soft. “We can think about me later,” you say, despite the inside of your panties being an absolute wet mess. “I just wanted to make you feel good.”

“I want to make you feel good too,” he objects, nipping at your fingers. “Don’t you. . . I thought you wanted me.”

The guilt in his eyes is back and your hand drops away from his lips. He’s holding you tight as if you might disappear.

“I do,” you answer tentatively. “But I don’t want you to jump into this thinking you have to. I don't want you to do anything you might regret.”

“Regret?” he shakes his head. “What does that even mean? I’m not jumping into anything. I’m not confused if that’s what you’re worried about,” his arms around you tighten, and with that, you know you’ve said the wrong thing. “You just sucked my cock—are you telling me that was out of pity? Gratitude?”

You cut him off, “N–No. . .”

“Then what was it?” his voice drops dangerously low, eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and hurt. “I’m one hundred percent here. It has nothing to do with the case. And for you to do something just because you felt bad for me. . . I thought we were finally getting somewhere after all of this.”

“Marcus—”

“I think I want to be alone right now,” he turns his head away from you but doesn’t do anything to push you off of him. Your apology dies in your throat, your mouth suddenly dry. You slowly move away, the taste of his come still in your mouth as you contemplate what to do. What to say.

But whatever you were planning evaporates with the ring of the doorbell.

You’re sitting on the couch when Marcus comes home and sits on the armchair right across from you. You’re eyes slowly shift from your phone to meet his gaze, he continues to stare down, his thumbs thrumming over his thighs.

It’s been an awkward couple of days after the argument you two had. Neither of you were brave enough to broach the subject, However, that didn’t mean what happened didn’t haunt you in the dead of night, both in a bad and a good way.

“It’s done.”

His words send a chill down your spine, your muscles tightening, “What’s done?”

“The case. We found who murdered Olivier. . . and how your notebook got there.” Marcus takes a deep breath, his eyes finally meeting yours as he begins to unravel the mystery that has been hanging over your heads like a storm cloud.

"Olivier's murder... it was someone close to him. Both rival and friend," Marcus starts, his voice heavy with the weight of the revelation. "Turns out, his friend had been eyeing the same collection for years. When Olivier outbid him for that prized painting, it pushed him over the edge."

You feel a knot form in your stomach, a mixture of shock and sorrow swirling within you. Olivier, with his vibrant personality and passion for art, didn't deserve such a fate.

"And my notebook...?" you prompt, needing to understand how your own belongings ended up tangled in this tragedy.

Marcus sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Olivier... he wanted to show your sketches to one of his friends. He thought you had real talent and he was planning on gifting you that painting."

Your heart sinks at the realization. Olivier, you’re going to miss him. Marcus wraps his arms around you, offering comfort and support as the weight of the emotions you've been suppressing finally spills over. You lean into him, the warmth of his embrace a soothing balm for the wounds of the past few days. His touch is both reassuring and grounding, reminding you that you're not alone in this tumultuous journey.

"I'm here," he murmurs softly, his fingers gently tracing comforting patterns on your back. "It’s over now. You can return to your life and begin to heal."

“Heal?” you blin at him, lips parting. “Return to my life? What does that even mean? We can’t go back to normal Marcus. Not after everything. . . I—” You swallow, the knot thick in your throat. “I care about you, Marcus. I care about you deeply and I just want you to know that. I don’t want you to think it was a one-time thing. Ot that I did it because of the circumstances. I did it because I wanted to. And I wanted to long before any of this happened.”

As your heartfelt confession hangs in the air, Marcus's eyes soften, his expression reflecting a mixture of relief and affection. Without hesitation, he leans in, closing the gap between you, his lips meeting yours in a tender kiss. It's a moment of shared vulnerability, a silent exchange of emotions that speaks volumes more than words ever could.

The warmth of his touch ignites a spark within you, a reassurance that despite the challenges you've faced, your connection remains unbroken. In this intimate embrace, you find solace and hope for the future, knowing that whatever trials may come, you'll face them together.

As the kiss deepens, the weight of the past few days begins to lift, replaced by a sense of renewal and possibility.

Marcus's hands move to your waist, pulling you onto his lap as he deepens the kiss. You feel his body pressing against yours, igniting a fire within you. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, pulling him closer as your fingers tangle in his hair.

His lips move fervently against yours, conveying the unspoken emotions that have been building between you for weeks. You can feel his heart beating against your chest and it's a comforting reminder that you're not alone in this moment.

He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, leaving a tingle in their wake. You let out a soft gasp, arching your neck to give him better access. His hands roam over your body, his touch setting every nerve alight. “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long.”

Your fingers move to his shirt, desperate to rid him of the barriers separating your skin. His lips trail down your neck again, moving to your shoulder, his hands roaming freely over your body. You let out a soft moan, arching your back as his hands reach your waist, pulling your shirt off. The cool air hits your skin but it's nothing compared to the heat radiating between you two.

Marcus and you remove each other's clothes. Your hands roam hungrily over his bare chest, feeling the muscles ripple beneath your touch. He moans softly, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

His hands move to your back, unhooking your bra and gently sliding it off. Your bare chest presses against his, skin against skin, and the sensation sends sparks of pleasure through your body. Your lips meet again, his tongue moving alongside yours, his hands roaming lower to your waist and down to your hips, pulling you closer.

You push him down to the couch, your hands reaching for his jeans. With ease, you undo the button and slide them off, revealing his toned legs and the bulge in his boxers. Your fingers trail down his stomach, feeling his muscles contract under your touch.

He flips you over, his lips moving down your neck and to your chest. With a flick of his tongue, he takes one of your hardened nipples into his mouth, causing you to arch your back and let out a soft moan of pleasure. His hands reach down, unbuttoning your jeans and sliding them off your legs.

As his lips continue to travel down your body, his fingers slide into your underwear, eliciting a gasp from you. You can feel the heat and wetness building between your legs, the tingling sensation increasing with every touch.

In one swift movement, he removes your underwear, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable to his touch. But with Marcus, you feel anything but vulnerable. In his embrace, you feel safe, loved, and desired.

And you know that is something that will never change.

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x fem!reader #marcus pike x f!reader #writing commission #the mentalist fanfic #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic

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pedroscurls · 2 months

Text

second chances | pt. 1

Character(s): Marcus Pike x fem!Reader Summary: After a stressful past couple of days at work, Marcus is ready to spend his day off relaxing. Until he gets a new neighbor asking for his help. Word count: 1.3k A/N: I've become a Marcus Pike girlie and I can't go back now. Don't even get me started on Lisbon... So, I decided that Marcus Pike deserves a happy ending. Stay tuned and enjoy! Warning: None. SERIES MASTERLIST - ultimate masterlist

Since moving to Washington DC – alone – Marcus has busied himself with work. Long hours in the office. Late nights. Barely any sleep. It was his way of distracting himself from the fact that Lisbon had chosen Jane over him. Marcus wasn’t a jealous man, but he was filled with frustration at himself for seeing a future with someone who was so obviously in love with someone else.

Marcus was never going to be the one Lisbon chose.

And he should have known better.

Now, after six months of being in DC, Marcus’s colleagues finally convinced him to take the next couple of days off. Each day was getting better and better, but the pain still lingered.

He wakes that morning to the sound of a knock at his door. Marcus looks at the time; he’s usually awake and out of the door by six, but with today being his first day off, he had decided to sleep in a little bit. It’s only eight in the morning and Marcus wonders if he just stays in bed that maybe the person knocking on his door would just leave and after a few minutes, the knocking stops.

With a relieved sigh, Marcus sits up from bed and decides to get ready for the day. He isn’t yet sure what he has planned, but he does know that he wants to keep to himself, to minimize the amount of people he would need to talk to as much as possible. He stands from his bed and stretches his arms above his head, dressed in a white v-neck and plaid boxers.

“Coffee,” he mumbles to himself. “First thing’s first, need coffee.” Marcus runs a hand over his hair and walks out of his bedroom to the kitchen, beginning to make a pot of coffee for himself.

He looks around and lets out a sigh. He had imagined that his life in DC would be different, that he’d be with Lisbon, that she’d give more life into this home, but instead, he’s standing alone in a very bland and basic apartment. It has a nice view, but how nice could it be if you can’t share it with anyone else?

He walks to his patio and opens the sliding door. Marcus can hear the sounds of cars – honking and speeding – as it passes below him. He glances over to his right and Marcus can hear the chatter from his neighbor. He doesn’t remember someone living next to him, so he just assumes that it’s someone new moving in. Marcus just hopes that this new neighbor of his won’t keep him up at night.

His mind drifts to Lisbon and Marcus wonders what she’s doing. Her green eyes and smile had captured his attention from the moment he laid eyes on her. Marcus was sure that what he had with her was real, that it would be his second chance at love after his failed marriage, and for a while, Marcus believed that his life would be different when Lisbon agreed to move in with him to DC, then agreed to marry him.

Marcus never wanted to let her go.

His thoughts are interrupted when the coffee pot goes off and the knocking on his door begins again. Marcus figures that the person wouldn’t leave until he answers, so he walks towards his door and opens it. His eyes soften instantly at the sight of you and he’s now become so aware of what he’s wearing.

“Um–”

“Hi, I’m so sorry. I know it’s early and you’re probably getting ready for work, but I’m having trouble with moving my bed through the door and I just–” you take a deep breath, realizing that you must be rambling and that you’re asking a complete stranger to help you move.

“Let me start over,” you say. “Hi. Good morning. I’m your new next door neighbor,” you laugh nervously and then tell him your name.

The corner of Marcus’s lips lifts upwards and he nods, looking over your shoulder at the large bed that’s leaning against the wall. “Nice to meet you. I’m Marcus.” Then, he points to your bed. “You sure that’s gonna fit?”

“A bit too late for that, I think.” You blush. “I should have just hired movers, but I thought I could do this myself.”

“You’re in luck,” he chuckles. “It’s my day off and I have no plans whatsoever, so I’m happy to give you a hand. Let me just get dressed and I’ll be right out.”

Then, you look down at his frame and realize what he’s wearing. Your eyes slightly widen and the blush on your cheeks redden even further. “Oh right! I’m so sorry. I’ll just–” you clear your throat and point over your shoulder, turning on your heel and tripping over your feet. “See you in a bit.”

Marcus quietly chuckles to himself. He finds your clumsiness cute and he gives you one more glance before he shuts his door. He walks back into his bedroom and slips into a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Marcus walks back into his kitchen and grabs two mugs, pouring the coffee he made into each cup before he walks out of his apartment. When he looks up at you, he smiles when he sees you trying to make the bed fit into the door all by yourself.

Eager, he thinks to himself. And independent.

“Hey,” Marcus calls out softly. “Here, take a break.” He hands you a mug of coffee.

You look up at him and smile, taking the mug from his hand and leaning against the wall with a sigh. “You’re amazing, thank you.”

“So, it’s just you moving in?” Marcus asks, sipping his cup of coffee.

“Yeah. I got a new job teaching kindergarten at a nearby private school, so…” You take a careful sip of the coffee and look down at your feet.

“Well, welcome to the club. I just moved here about six months ago.”

“From where?”

“Texas, you?”

“California.” Then, you raise your mug and gently tap it with his, smiling up at him. “Cheers to us newbies here in DC.”

Marcus chuckles. “Cheers to that.”

You drink about half of the coffee before you set it down. You then clasp your hands together and look up at him with a hopeful look in your eyes. “You ready?”

He smiles to himself. “That was barely a break.”

“It was five minutes, that was enough.”

Marcus chuckles. He finds that it’s easy to talk to you and he’s beginning to enjoy being around you, even if he just met you ten minutes ago. “Alright, you’re the boss.”

It takes you and Marcus the next half hour to bring your king-sized bed into your apartment and then into your bedroom. Your apartment is a bit smaller than his, but it might also be because of the amount of boxes scattered around. Once you and Marcus set your bed the way you want it to in your bedroom, you lead him back outside to your living room and plops down onto the couch.

“So, uh, I should get going and–”

“Wanna grab breakfast?” you interrupt him. “Sorry. If you have something to do, that’s okay. I appreciate all your help, Marcus.”

Marcus wants so badly to say yes, to get to know more about you, but he has to remind himself that this is what happened last time with Lisbon. He’s sure that love and being in a relationship is no longer something he’s interested in.

“I actually have to go into the office,” Marcus lies. “But rain check?”

You nod and stand from the couch to walk him out of your apartment. You smile up at him and then reach down to grab the two mugs that were left in the hallway. You hand it over to him and stare into his eyes. “Next time, I’ll bring coffee to you.”

Marcus smiles and takes the two mugs. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Thank you again, Marcus.”

Marcus nods and then begins walking towards his apartment before he turns around and faces you. He’s a few feet away from you and you’re about to walk into your apartment before he stops you and says, “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

—

next.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #marcus pike #the mentalist #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #the mentalist fanfic #marcus pike x fem!reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x reader #story: second chances

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undercoverpena · 4 months

Text

make me like the holidays

marcus pike x f!reader | marcus masterlist

written for 12 Days of Pedro

summary: you're not the biggest fan of the holidays, so marcus makes it his mission to change that with a christmas market and a gift you have to wear.

wordcount: 3.6k warnings: smutty-themes, a teeny bit of orgasm denial, you consent to wear a vibrator controlled by marcus, vibrator worn in public, outdoor orgasm, christmas themes, marcus being a tease, his dimples, his smile, him.

an: huge thank you to @hellishjoel for asking me to be a part of this, and to @thetriumphantpanda for holding my hand, answering questions about warnings, and reading this as i shoved it at her face.

“So, what? You just don’t like the holidays?”

Snorting, you slide your fork around your bowl, licking your lips.

Because you knew eventually this would come up.

"I didn't... say that," you reply, averting your eyes. Mouth opening, closing again, unsure where to begin.

How to start.

How to begin to explain the odd feeling you get around this festive time of year. How your eyes don’t light up at tall Christmas trees, and instead your heart sinks whenever you see one of those adverts where the family all meet excitedly for the holidays.

It doesn’t matter how you dress it up—whether you hang tinsel or baubles—it always seems like an odd time of year. And because of that, It makes people pity you, aww at you, feel compelled to leave candy canes on your desk and purposefully add you to their Christmas card list, as though it's going to fix the decades of memories.

Placing your fork down, and you sigh. “I guess. I-I just don’t get super excited for it.”

Marcus is already thinking—you can tell.

The faintest line begins to appear between his brows, deepening the more he stares, drowning you in a brown you’re forever grateful to get the chance to wake up to every, single, day.

Leaning across the breakfast bar, he smirks—all devil, no angel. “I think I could change that.”

“Oh. Is that so?”

Nodding, his breath dances over your skin—all tantalising—before he softly slants his lips over yours, biting carefully on the bottom of your lip.

“That how you’re going to convince me, Pike—using underhand tactics such as your mouth?”

Snorting, he leaves his fingers lingering under your chin. “That’s a last resort. I think I can convince you in other ways to see how magical it can be with me.”

“You sound very confident.”

He smiles, and it makes something twist inside of you—a worry growing there, planting itself, all ready to grow into something ugly that he’ll eventually see. Be the thing at the top of the list when he inevitably realises he can do better than you.

Stroking your skin, he sighs. Not heavy, nor soft. Something in the middle. “I’m still going to love you if you hate the holidays, baby.”

Smiling, you look down at the counter—the one the two of you eat at whenever you can now, taking what hours you can have together.

“I promise,” he whispers. “But, you think you can let me try and make it special for you? Show you that there’s nothing quite like a Pike Christmas?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you let out a heavy sigh, meeting his eyes—somehow feeling yourself fall even deeper in love with him when you do.

“How can I say no to such an offer.”

Bundled up, wrapped in layers—including his scarf—your gloved hand slides into his, fingers awkwardly trying to find the home between his, almost wanting to pout at the fact you couldn’t feel his palm against yours.

“Comfortable?”

There’s a sparkle to his eye, made worse by the smirk that accompanies it. The one you imagine he’s been wearing since he’d handed you the bag stuffed with tissue, arms folding as he leans in the doorway.

It’s a little bit of fun, he had said.

Your fingers unfold it, unwrapping it free as your eyes immediately land on the box containing the little purple device and its remote.

“I know the season isn’t your favourite thing, but I thought this might make it more enjoyable.”

Narrowing your eyes, you stare at the box.

“Thought it could give you something to be excited about,” he adds, tone shifting—more silky than normal. “Now, whether you’re on the nice or naughty list today, is down to you.”

"Oh, Santa Pike. Please put me on the good girls list."

Grinning, his fingers slid over your jaw as he kissed you, "I think you'd prefer to be on my naughty list, baby."

Now, that same purple, unboxed gift is resting against you, flush. Stuffed and held in position by the underwear he helped you choose—the lace of it keeping it very much in place. And while it isn’t currently switched on, but you know he could change that at any moment—the remote buried in his pocket, all within his grasp.

A thought which makes heat lick up your spine and an ember of worry knot in your stomach—

At any point you change your mind, you tell me, baby. You hear me? Just say the word.

Clearing your throat, you curl into his arm, staring up at him—watching him take in the run of wooden huts, fairy lights and overt cheer.

“Let me guess, you have a to-do list for today?”

Smirking, his arm comes around you keeping you close, before he pinches your side. “No. We’re gonna see what we get up to.”

Squinting playfully, you brush the edge of his stubbly chin. “I’m not buying it. You have a plan.”

Shaking his head, his teeth tease his lip, nose almost flush with yours. “No plan—just want a lovely day with my girl…”

Hovering your lips over his. “But?”

His eyes slowly close, nose scrunching—lips spreading into the biggest, most foolish smile. “We have to start with a festive drink—”

“I fucking knew it, Pike. Fine, come on.”

But, he doesn’t let you budge, not even as you grumble, grasping your hips, yanking you close.

He gives you a look, a pointed one—all accompanied by a grin. It’s all shit-eating, spreading delightfully up into his cheeks. One you’d usually brush over with the pads of your index fingers.

"You don't sound like you're having a good time, baby."

"Marcus..."

You don’t move them this time—leave them on his waist. Feeling his hand slide into his pocket. And you brace.

It’s the only way you’re able to stifle the soft moan which attempts to slide through your teeth and burn the air as it buzzes. Light, but good. Your breath was suddenly a challenge to find, made worse by his watchful stare.

Lashes fluttering, gloved fingers gripping into the side of his jacket as you let your breath paint against his neck. It’s all building—layering itself on thickly atop the earlier ‘testing’ he had done earlier. When you had whined his name, been tempted to shed the many layers and keep warm in an entirely different way with him.

“That feel good?” he asks, low, breathy—only able to formulate a nod.

Then, it stops.

Blinking, your thoughts suddenly cleaner, more appropriate—things beginning to speckle back into your mind.

“Kiss?” he asks, the request falling from his tongue like silk.

“Depends how good the drink is.”

It turns out, it’s delicious.

Marcus had practically whispered the name of the drink he recommended into your ear—having likely noticed the overwhelmed expression slowly etching into your face.

Trust me his expression reads, as if you’d ever trust anyone else.

As soon as the taste of his recommendation met your tongue, your body almost welcomed the season with open arms. Your groan wasn't even buried as your eyes widened at the taste, at him for suggesting it—watching him smirk before he looped his arm around your waist.

“Thoughts?”

Smiling, you almost reply that you like being close to him, preferably forever choosing to be pressed close to him. You find it calming, suddenly no problems ever seem that big when he’s next to you.

Swallowing that, you glance at him, knowing it would be easy to fight the smirk. To act placid, add a shrug, sell it. But, his eyes have widened a fraction, pupils a mere dot in a sky of brown, with the reflection of the lights acting like stars.

The hope etched into his expression is what puts the final nail in your attempt at nonchalance.

“It’s good.”

Brows rising, he grins. “Yeah?”

Nodding, you take another sip. The flavours of the hot chocolate coating your mouth as you slide your arm around his waist. The feel of his lips against your forehead spreading an additional warmth through you, that the drink would never have available.

You’re almost sad when it ends.

Not that he lets you sit in that. Quickly, he takes your cup from you, placing both in a nearby trash can, before he’s pulling you back to him. For the briefest of moments, you just stare, admiring the way you see the outline of yourself in the pool of his eyes, the way you get to witness the way his adoration spreads across his face—all lit up by swinging fairy lights in the gentle, winter breeze.

“Got cream on your lip, baby,” he whispers, tongue swiping across your bottom lip—nowhere close to the site he pointed out.

And then you feel it again.

The thrum which spreads through you, is pressed against your bundle of nerves, making your thighs quake on fixed and solid ground. With the addition of his mouth on yours, the waves lap more feverishly, it all building, all desperate to crash.

Your fingers grasp onto him, teeth piercing into his bottom lip as he kisses you, letting you bury a moan into his mouth—and Marcus is happy to swallow it. Gleefully getting to feel and taste the way he makes you feel as your walls flutter, tightening—wishing for more. Needing more. Almost begging for it when you catch his gaze.

“You know how good you look right now?”

And then it stops. Your breath hitching. Skin prickling with warmth as you let a gasp escape—it weaving into the air, encased in vapour as you blink.

“W-what’s next?”

He grins, it rising up until his dimple appears. His palm flattening to the back of your coat, fingers sliding in pulses.

“Thought we could pick decorations for our tree.”

Brows raising, you turn your head, looking at him, finding him already watching you. Something is spreading in you, a symbolic bandage extending out from his touch to around the places warped and scarred from years of bad memories.

“Our?”

Kissing your head again, you hear him repeat that one word: our.

Just like he had done when he’d moved the last box of yours, you asking whether his place would get your favourite burgers delivered—ours, baby. Ours. It felt it, too. He’d made sure of that. Created space on shelves, and moved ornaments from their homes to allow yours to have a place.

So, it wasn’t out of reach he’d do the same with his holiday, his tradition.

“What if you hate my taste?”

Snorting, he brushes your cheek. “You know I love the way you taste.”

Rolling your eyes, he laughs.

“I could never hate your taste, baby. I love everything about you.” His hand drops, and he takes a sip of his drink as you do the same. “Plus, you chose me. Can’t be all bad.”

He’s kind to you when you’re handling the baubles, even more, when the two of you wander hand-in-hand through tightly packed huts.

Your hands point out things, not just for the two of you, but for others—his parents, a friend. It allows your guard to drop, and your brain to temporarily forget the device resting snugly against the swollen nerves desperate for him—even if you’re aware of how soaked your underwear is. How it clings, how it brushes nicely against you when the two of you walk from place to place.

Marcus becomes less kind when you’re in the queue for a sugary snack, your mouth busy explaining to him where you best think the tree can go in his place—a thing he corrects to ours at every chance he can.

“You almost sound like you’re getting into all of this.”

Smiling, you rest your head against his shoulder in the line. “Maybe it’s the company.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice low, the corner of your eye-catching his other hand sliding into his pocket. “Could be that.”

“Marcus.”

He just raises his brow, a sly smirk passing over him, before you feel him flick it on. “How else are you going to remember that it’s our place, baby?”

Every nerve, the ones previously all frayed, now lit up—just like the tree in the centre of the market. Your mind empties with a press of a button, fingers sliding inside his open coat, grasping for him—for grip.

“You excited about the holidays now?”

Fuck, you hate him, because yes—if it’s like this you’ll forever adore Pike holidays. You’ll wish for them, count down to them on your calendar. Ticking off in red pen, making a point to excitedly cross each one of them off.

Because the two of you haven’t even put the tree up yet.

There’s still so much prep, so much you suspect he wants to replace with good, better—more excitable—memories.

“Bet you’re wet,” he whispers.

And you glare at him, unsure if it’s with adoration or anger. Both merging, swirling—concocting into something you can’t stifle as your cheeks warm and your ears burn. Because there are people around—families, small children.

“Take me home,” you plead. “Please?”

Pressing your thighs together you find only makes it worse. The pulses are far more forceful, and better aimed directly at the already needy parts of you.

The ones which he’s usually so attentive with, barely keeping you like this, all wanting and not satisfied. Marcus barely lets the knot in your stomach tighten usually, but now, you think he’s having fun with it. Likely admiring the way your pupils are swallowing colour and a sheen is crossing over the skin on show. Because you’re warm, too hot— there are too many fucking layers and not enough of him pressed against you—

“Need you, Marcus.”

His fingers brush against your chin, aiding you to take a step forward as the queue moves. “I know, but be good for me.” His mouth close to your ear, hand impossibly tight on your hip—keeping you pressed against him, able to lean, let him take your weight as your legs shake. “You deserve this—”

Your lips part, and all attempts at levelling your breathing fail, falling away from your grip. Feeling the focus on the surroundings fading, black spots appearing—this game of taunt and tease having made you so impossibly shaky on your legs.

And he turns it up.

Moves it to the next one up, an up-and-down kind of vibration. It feels good, but then it lessens—a momentary break, a chance to mumble his name less in a whine—before it returns like a second wave.

It pulsing. Something akin to a rollercoaster, a high and a low—it comes around in slow circles that makes it hard to know whether you’re close to coming or growing more frustrated.

“You want something with chocolate or prefer just sugar?”

You try to speak, mouth moving close to his ear, but only a moan escapes. Low, coming from somewhere deep in your soul as his grip tightens on your hip. The speed slowed for a moment, likely settling itself up to do another build-up.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

Your legs are unstable, more jelly than muscle and bone. It’s all too much, but not quite enough either—just needing that fraction more to stop teetering on the edge and fall over, filling with bliss, and pleasure.

Each time he slides his hand over your hip or back, you have to swallow a whimper of his name. Dangling against the edge, dangerously so—only one little push and you’d be falling, freely, willingly, likely moaning and making an embarrassment of yourself so close to Santa’s fucking grotto.

“If,” you begin, hand to his chest, fingers trying to find skin, something, anything, his still around your waist, practically bruisingly, clutching the many paper bags against you, “we go home now, we might have time to put the tree up.”

You watch him smirk, how it hits his eyes—making the twinkling lights pale under the brightness of his expression.

“Then,” you continue, lips sliding close to his ear, “you can—shit—do something no one has ever done.”

He swallows, loudly—not even swallowed by the choir. “What’s that?”

Smiling, licking your lips. “Fuck me under it.”

Pinching your side, you swear you hear him grunt.

You barely register that you’re being dragged, hip to his, being led—the little device working its magic against your drenched cunt as you pass by choir singers and a person dressed like an elf until it’s suddenly quieter.

Bags dropped to the side of you, back pressed against the side of a hut—the roof casts a shadow over his face, but his eyes still shine. They’re bright and alert. Drinking you in like you’re the only thing that he can see, ever wants to see.

"No one can see us, I promise."

You believe him. It's the only reason you allow yourself to release a pathetic moan before your fingers dig into his pocket. Searching through receipts and his phone, finding it. The thing which weighs more than gold to you, the remote that has the chance to make or break you right now.

It clicks with such ease.

Every muscle in your tightens, your eyes clench shut, all but vanishing winter wonderland from sight and painting a new picture on the back of your lids. Him—naked. Stood all soft muscles and his signature smirk. His room—ours, you hear it in your head, ours baby, ours—surrounding you.

You’re on fire.

Cracking an eye open, finding him watching—in awe, captivated like you’re a sight to behold. And maybe, clutching the remote in your hand, you were. Maybe you were illuminated in a heavenly glow and looking as though you could melt the fake snow around the two of you—you feel you could, anyway, just from the look he wears.

The fact the two of you are just focused, lost in only the other as he keeps you against the side of the empty hut—thankful, happy, that at least one of the stalls hadn’t opened so you couldn’t be heard being held against it, mind being lost to the buzzing in your underwear.

“Who knew you were so dirty?”

“You love it,” you moan, ghosting your lips over his.

Needing a little more, craving a little more.

Please, please, please you think over and over.

He takes it from your shaking fingers, sliding his knee between your thighs—pressing it more defiantly against you, flush, likely feeling the vibrations through his bones as you moan his name. Sketch it into the air, write it there, never wishing it would fade—

More, Marcus. Please, baby. Please.

You’re aching. Your ears flood with buzzing as liquid heat spreads through you when he clicks once, twice—thrice. Landing on a setting he must have seen in the instructions.

And it’s bliss.

It’s mind-melting, muscle surrendering. Your hand cupping the side of his neck, nails digging in, needing to feel him, know he’s there—wishing it was his fingers, wishing he was heavy against you. That weight you crave, that sensation of just him.

Close, so close—

You say it like he wouldn’t know. Like you can’t feel the way he’s looking for signs across your face, likely knowing more about how close you are than you even do. He spends enough time making you feel good. Too good to you, always has been, ever since the moment the two of you met, and you’re grateful, happy, content, fucking over the moon, sun and stars—

“What do you need, baby?”

“You,” you whine.

Just you, only you. Only ever you.

The coil in your stomach tightens, the knot having formed something which can shatter with far too much ease, and it does shatter.

You snap. Break. Fall apart.

He drags your face against his neck, letting you curse, and moan. His name crying out from your lips, until it falls in softer waves from your tongue, splaying across his skin, tattooing him. Squirming close to him, suddenly at ease, shoulders sliding from your ears.

“Marcus,” you whine, differently.

And you’re grateful it stops, him switching it off—a grin breaking out in its wake. Your breath slowly comes back to you, your chest unloosening from trying to bury all your pants.

That’s when you’re finally able to take him in and see the way he’s still staring, so lost in you. His mouth parted, the softest smile trying to stitch into his cheeks, eyes moving around the features of your face.

You just let him stare, and he lets you gaze. Only blinking, letting the rest of the world in when you hear a bunch of kids walk past the end of the hut, loudly laughing.

“I think I could like a Christmas with you.”

Grinning, he pockets the remote, his hand coming to your cheek. “Yeah? I told you I’d make it special for you.”

Nodding, you kiss him. Soft at first, before it deepens, nipping at his bottom lip—finding yourself meeting the hut again, his palm beside your head, able to taste the sweetness of his drink from earlier, the cream, chocolate and ginger—

“I was serious…” you mumble, “earlier.”

Pausing, he lifts his head.

“About the tree, what we could do under it.” Sliding your hand down his front, you cup him, feeling how hard he is, fingers sliding either side of him. “Think you deserve a special day too.”

“Really?”

Biting your lip, you nod, slowly at first—then more purposefully.

“Fuck, I love you, baby.”

an: merry pike christmas ;)

#Marcus pike x reader #Marcus pike x female reader #Marcus pike smut #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fluff #Marcus pike Fic #Marcus pike fanfic #Marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #the mentalist fic #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #Pedro Pascal #Marcus Pike Pedro Pascal #Marcus Pike the mentalist

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oonajaeadira · 13 days

Text

FLUFFBRUARY 15: cord | bakery | honey (Marcus Pike)

ADIRA'S SELF-IMPOSED FLUFFBRUARY RULES:

Six sentences.

Must be fluffy.

All 29 ficlets must feature a different Pedro.

All three words must be used (Fluffbruary prompt list here).

Use the words in order.

I reserve the right to break rules and/or cheat.

“What you’re about to experience,” Marcus says, still in his pajamas as he makes a show of removing the cord from the bakery box, “are the lightest, the flakiest, the butteriest croissants you’ve ever put in your beautiful mouth.”

He’s not joking around and as the box opens upon six perfect pastries you gasp, “Oh my god, what’s the occasion?”

“Thought they might go well with this,” he winks, pulling a few jars from under the kitchen counter, ranging in pale citrine to a deep, golden amber and you laugh, remembering how proud he’d been to help the local high school save the pollinators and eagerly joined their honey CSA.

With another flourish, he uncaps them, offering them before you like fine wines before a queen, naming each in turn, “Clover…dandelion…and my favorite, wildflower.”

When you ask what the difference is, that little crinkle pricks at the corner of his eye and he smiles.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” he says, before lightly dabbing a be-honeyed finger on your tongue, three times, three distinct tastes, three golden surprises, knowing even with your eyes shut that his smile is as sweet and soft as that wildflower blend.

___

@fluffbruary

FLUFFBRUARY MASTERLIST

#fluffbruary #six sentence ficlet #the mentalist fanfic #marcus pike

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prolix-yuy · 10 months

Note

Okay fuck it, I spun the wheel and got "kneeling reach-around" and you KNOW who I'm gonna pick, dahling💅💅

The feminine urge to lie and give you "the octopus" because LITERALLY what in the actual hell is that 😂

Oh don't you worry Penny, the Octopus is coming ;) And I would never dream of denying you your favorite boy! AND since you are the queen of healthy BDSM, let me add some spicy fun as a tribute to your excellent stories...

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Position: Kneeling Reach-Around

Word Count: 1094

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, handjob, collaring, sub!marcus, dom!Reader, dirty talk, praise kink, aftercare, I would call this 'light bdsm' comparatively.

Notes: Please enjoy my little foray into writing my absolute favorite kind of BDSM kink for one of my favorite writers (whose book you should totally go buy now if you're into this topic!)

“Kneel,” you say just into Marcus’ shoulder, and he’s on his knees before the sound has left your lips. The soft cotton of the bedspread cushions his descent as your hands smooth across his broad shoulders. The touch makes him preen; he loves how you appreciate his build, wide shoulders and narrow hips. The light scrape of your fingernails in the divots of his back make his thighs shake, cool air caressing every inch of his naked form.

“Good boy,” you hum, the praise lighting up every hair along his forearms and neck. A soft kiss on his shoulder blade, another at the base of his neck. He closes his eyes to savor it, enjoying the long minutes of you turning the tables so fully on him. It’s something he never knew to ask for until you offered, attentive eyes taking him apart day by day until you found the tiny ache he hid so well from the world.

“You have two choices tonight,” you purr, settling your hands on his hips with comforting weight. “You can show me how good you are, or you can take what I give you.” Another shudder ripples up Marcus’ spine. Show me how good you are meant you would direct him and reward him. Take what I give you meant you would take him apart however you pleased. Some days that’s exactly what he wants, to fall apart until he can’t remember anything but your name. Today, he’s thrumming from the praise, from the desire to perform.

“I want to show you,” he says, fingers clenching briefly on his thighs to steady himself. He still wants to touch you, gives you hours of pleasure at his hands like he does so many other nights. But when he walked in, bone tired and grimacing at every minor annoyance, you took the lead.

You always seem to know what he needs.

“Do you want me to focus you first?” you ask, and his eager nod pulls your touch away. He braces for it, worrying a fingernail into his skin. You return quickly, your soft nudity warming his back as the jingle of his collar heightens his senses. He lengthens his neck, the soft fur lining the heavy leather caressing the delicate skin. You wrap it around, placing a soft kiss once more before buckling it closed. One finger slipping under to test the tightness, Marcus’ whole body relaxes at the comfort it brings.

“There we are, baby boy, is that okay?”

“Yes, it’s perfect,” Marcus rasps, rewarded for using his words with your hands on his stomach. You trace the lines of his abs, dip into the swirl of his bellybutton, before lightly caressing through his pubic hair.

“I’m going to wrap my hand around your cock, and I want you to fuck it,” you say, your firm grip following as you swipe your thumb over the head. Marcus’ mouth drops open. It’s far from the filthiest thing you’ve ever asked him, but the image of you splayed beneath him, warm and wet, fills his cock to straining hardness.

“What if…I fucked you instead?” he tests, hips stuttering just a fraction in your grip. His tiny transgression is rebuked with your finger looped through the D-ring in his collar, tugging back ever so slightly. The pressure against his throat empties his brain blissfully.

“I asked if you wanted to show me how good you can be. I want to watch how good you fuck, how these pretty little hips roll and how wet your cock can get just from thinking about my pussy. Do you think you can do that, sweetheart?”

Marcus thrusts forward once, the curl of your fingers traveling from the ridge of his head to the curls at the base of his cock in one fluid motion. You hum in his ear.

“Good boy,” you reward as he begins fucking your hand as thoroughly as he would your perfect cunt. Every thrust drives him wild, the cool kiss of air traveling along his cock only reminding him that he’s simulating how good and long and hard he can pleasure you. His hands clench on his thighs, and before he can cut his skin with his blunt nails you press him forward, coming down on his hands and knees. Your hips press flush to his ass, rocking against his continued pumping into your palm. Blearily he wishes to be fuller, stretched on your strap so he knows the vibrator in the base is coaxing an orgasm out of you, but he can only fuck and fuck and fuck as you stroke along his skin.

“My perfect boy, look at how good you are. I love it when you fuck me like this, so attentive, all-encompassing, everything I could ever want,” you say into Marcus’ ear, beginning to move your hand against his motions to drive him even higher. He’s dangerously close to cumming, toes curling and fingers gripping the bedspread to stave himself off.

“I’m not gonna keep it from you today, sweet boy, you cum for me.” Marcus’ mouth dries out at the permission, the scrape of your teeth on his shoulder. He wants to, wants to be so good for you, but he’s teetering on the edge and can’t bring himself to fall.

“Please…” he begs, not even sure what he wants in the mess of arousal and need, but you know him. Another gentle pull of the collar, restricting his airflow just a fraction, makes a shuddering gasp rip from his ribs.

“Don’t worry, good boy, I’ve got you,” you murmur, and he bucks over the edge, spilling into the palm of your hand as you wrap him against your chest. Every aftershock drives him forward, legs and arms trembling as you guide him through it. He thinks he’s saying something, maybe thank you, but it’s lost to your constant praise and reassurances of how good he was, how much you liked it, how much you love him.

God, does he love you.

Laying him down, you uncollar him and clean up his spend, foregoing a longer cleanup for the tissues next to the bed. You stretch out beside him and let him roll into your chest, head nestled in the softness of your breasts. Fingernails scraping his scalp, you cuddle in silence before talking about your day, what you were planning for dinner tomorrow, little nothings that soothe him into sleep.

END

LJ’s Bangathon 2023

#marcus pike x you #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x female reader #the mentalist fanfiction #the mentalist fanfic #prolix fics

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morallyinept · 6 months

Text

A list of all my favourite MARCUS PIKE Fic Recs, with the writers tagged. Includes fics I am currently reading/want to read.

Please show some love to the writers by re-blogging and commenting on their work. 🖤

PART 2

⚠️ Please ensure you check the triggers/warnings etc... on the stories themselves as some of them may not be suitable to your own particular tastes.

I'll Crawl Home To Her - @thetriumphantpanda

Choices - @say-al0e

Used By You - @foli-vora

Mother Knows Best - @wardenparker & @absurdthirst

To Hold You Tonight - @iamasaddie Dark

Things He'd Say To You - @beabliss

Forgive These Bones I'm Hiding Part 1 & Part 2 - @whataperfectwasteoftime SerialKiller!Marcus

Broken Branches - @iamsherlocked-1998

The Ghost Of You - @write-down-your-dreams Ghost!Reader

The Wolf In The Woods - @absurdthirst Werewolf!Marcus

Re-encounter - @creedslove

Like Two Lonely People - @idolatrybarbie

I've Got A Crush On You - @5oh5

Personal Day - @sin-djarin

Duality Series - @imtryingmybeskar

Masterpiece - @thetriumphantpanda

Rumour Has It Series - @senorabond Featuring Javier Pena

The Days I Spend With You - @chronically-ghosted

Cellblock Tango - @absurdthirst

Everytime - @sinpathyforthedevilish

Misunderstood - @magpiepills

Hot Chocolate - @ladamedusoif GN!Reader

I'm Here & Affirmations - @davnittbraes

Unanswered Prayers Series - @punkette1026

Caught Red Lipped - @5oh5 JewelThief!Marcus

Lover Be Sweet - @idolatrybarbie

Our Last Christmas Series - @supernaturalgirl20

Hot Chocolate & The Mean Reds - @connectioneverywhere

Closure - @javier-pena Featuring Din Djarin

The Gift - @morallyinept

Naughty or Spice? - @morallyinept

The Pike Christmas - @creedslove

Procedures To Reach A Common Agreement - @thirtysevenodddogs

Text Me Merry Christmas - @quinnnfabrgay-writes

The Gift That Keeps Giving - @thetriumphantpanda

First Christmas - @wardenparker & @absurdthirst

Whatta Man & Part 2 - @atinylittlepain

Christmas Market - @ladamedusoif

Make Me Like The Holidays - @undercoverpena

#marcus pike #marcus pike the mentalist #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #marcus pike smut #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x gn!reader #marcus pike x m!reader #the mentalist fanfic #marcus piske fanfic #jett's fic recs #fic recs

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flightlessangelwings · 2 years

Text

Kinktober Day 29- Body Worship

Marcus Pike x fem!reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count- 1.1k

Warnings- smut (18+ only), praise kink, fingering, oral (f receiving), teasing, nipple play

Notes- I miss writing for the perfect boyfriend Marcus! List provided by the lovely @the-purity-pen!

To say up to date on when I post, follow my update blog too and turn on post notifications @flightlessangelwings-updates. Reblogs highly appreciated!

“Shit baby… You’re so damn beautiful,” Marcus purred against your skin.

“Marcus…” All you could do was moan his name whenever he got into moods like this.

Marcus kissed his way down the side of your face and along your jaw. His hands roamed all over your body until they landed on your breasts and squeezed them hard. He hadn’t even removed a single piece of clothing off his own body, and whenever you tried, he pushed you away, insisting on focusing only on you and your pleasure.

You arched your back into his touch as you turned your head to the side and allowed him access to your neck. Marcus eagerly took the opportunity and attacked his lips to the sensitive spot there and sucked hard. You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders and held him tightly while he licked and nibbled along your neck while his hands still worked your breasts.

“I’m gonna kiss every inch of you, baby,” he groaned as he worked his way up the muscle in your neck and gently bit the lobe of your ear, “Kiss every inch of your beautiful body.”

You moaned as you felt his breath tickle your ear and it made you giggle softly. Even without the words needed, you felt the love and affection in every single one of Marcus’ touches and kisses. He always excelled in making you feel good, and wanted, and tonight was no exception.

He made his way down to your collarbone and sucked at the skin there, murmuring incoherent praises along the way. You whimpered as you buried your hand in his hair while he kissed his way down to your breast. When he reached the soft mound, Marcus wrapped his lips around your nipple and sucked hard.

You cried out in pleasure as he flicked his tongue against your nipple and bit down playfully. You arched your back, giving him even more access to your body, and Marcus responded by sucking on the sensitive bud harder.

“Fuck… Marcus…” you tugged at his hair hard when he hit a spot that sent a jolt throughout your entire body.

“You like that, baby?” he asked with a cocky smirk after he popped off your nipple.

You blinked your eyes open and met his gaze, and your heart fluttered in your chest when you saw the look of pure adoration there, “Yes,” you couldn’t even quip back with a smart comment when Marcus looked at you like that and made you feel this good. And he hadn’t even touched your pussy yet.

“Good,” he replied with a tease before he launched himself onto your other breast.

The scream you let out echoed in the room as Marcus sucked hard on your other nipple. You bucked your hips against his body, desperate for some friction to your aching cunt. Marcus groaned into your skin as he felt the desperation in your action and without breaking away, he snaked a hand down the front of your body.

When he reached your pussy, he let out an even lower groan when he felt how wet you were, “Shit, baby,” he moaned, “You’re soaking,” Marcus’ hair fell into his eyes as he looked you over with a glazed expression.

“All for you, Marcus,” you breathed as you felt your skin burn from the passions.

Marcus growled your name as he pushed a finger inside you without warning. His cock throbbed at the scream you let out, but he continued to kiss his way across every inch of your skin while his finger stayed buried inside you.

“Marcus… Please…”

“I wanna take my time with you tonight, baby,” Marcus soothed you as he hooked the finger inside you and gently massaged your sweet spot as he kissed along your body.

You whimpered as he made his way closer to your cunt, but purposefully avoided it in favor of your inner thighs. You let out a huff when Marcus skipped over your pussy and trailed a line of kisses along your right thigh. Just when you thought he would finally kiss the one place you wanted him to, he smirked and repeated the action on your left.

“Marcus…” you begged as you clenched your inner muscles around his finger in hopes that he would give in to your pleas.

“Fuck baby,” he groaned through gritted teeth, “You know I’m weak when you do that.”

This time it was your turn to smirk, “That’s the idea,” your voice was low as you squeezed your muscles again and rocked your hips against his hand.

“Alright… is this what you want?”

Marcus dove into your pussy before you had a chance to answer and devoured you like a man starved. You cried out in pleasure as you finally got what you wanted and your mind swam in ecstasy as he swirled his tongue around your clit. Marcus pumped his finger in and out of you a few times while his tongue worked your clit before he added a second one.

“Fuck… fuck… Marcus…”

“You taste so good baby,” he groaned into you, “So delicious… So beautiful…”

You moaned loudly as the hum of his praise went right to your core. Marcus slurped loudly at your pussy, now determined to send you over the edge. His fingers thrust in and out of you faster, and every time they were fully buried inside you, he hooked them to hit your sweet spot with precision. And it didn’t take much longer after that for him to get what he wanted.

With a loud scream, you came hard. Your body trembled as you clutched the sheets and threw your head back as you surrendered to your climax. Tears filled your eyes as wave after wave of pleasure crashed into you. And still, Marcus didn’t stop. He kept going until he was sure he had pulled every ounce of your orgasm from you, and even then he licked at your clit a few more times for good measure.

Marcus finally broke away when you let out a whimper and your hands clung to his shoulders. Slowly and carefully, he pulled his fingers out of you before he kissed his way back up your body. This time, however, he was faster with his kisses; Marcus was too desperate to kiss you to be slow.

When he took your lips with his, you moaned into Marcus’ mouth and instantly wrapped your arms and legs round him to keep him close, “Marcus… That was… Wow…”

Marcus kissed the tip of your nose with a short laugh, “That was just the beginning, baby,” his voice was low as he rocked his hips against you, “I’m gonna spend all night making you feel good… And I have more of you to kiss too,” he winked and flashed that charming smile that made you weak in the knees.

You couldn’t help the moan you let out, “Fuuuuuck…”

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leslie-lyman · 1 year

Text

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.”

#marcus pike fanfic #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #Marcus pike x ofc #Pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #the mentalist fanfic

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 2 years

Text

The Crucible

Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!reader

Rating: E (SMUT, 18+ only)

Word Count: 9.6k

Warnings: BDSM, BDSM/fetish clubs, ROUGH spanking (with a belt), mentions of collars and collaring, mentions of a cage, restraints, guys this is a BDSM club lots of kinky stuff is going to be mentioned here, unprotected PIV sex (this is fantasy! Don’t do this in real life!) Let me know if I missed anything, this whole fic is a blur.

Summary: Marcus Pike’s latest case takes him undercover to a BDSM club. When he’s called to participate as a dom in a scene with an unattached sub, will he be able to keep his focus on the task at hand?

A/N: “I will prioritize finishing HTKAI” is a little lie I like to tell myself, apparently. I was on track and then I got THIS ASK which derailed me for a WEEK, but it was one of those GLORIOUS weeks where I could simply not stop writing. This is dedicated to the anon (I know who you are, but IDK if you wanted to be uhhhh exposed like that) and also to @katareyoudrilling and @just-here-for-the-moment who have listened to me scream about this idea all week and gave me some DELICIOUS ideas.

Main Masterlist

Marcus Pike takes a sip from his latte as his eyes scan the newest case file to cross his desk for what seems like the hundredth time that week.

Fifteen paintings had been stolen from the Takoma Art Gallery–which had seemed like an unusually high number until they were informed that the canvases are all miniatures, each depicting a different hyper-realistic koi painting.

The works are so stunning, that after visiting the gallery earlier that week, Marcus had purchased one for himself. He likes to do that–purchase one work from each gallery the team has to visit in the line of work. It seems like the least he can do, since every gallery he visits has just gone through an expensive and intrusive ordeal–police tape, countless interviews, security camera footage seizures, contractors to fix broken glass, unplanned closings, revenue loss, et cetera.

Not to mention the pain of having something the artist put hours of time and effort into, a little piece of themselves that they’ve pulled out and translated onto a canvas, vanished into thin air. If Marcus can recoup just a fraction of that mental loss by showing his appreciation for their art, he’s happy to do so.

Plus, it fills his home with color.

The little fish painting is now displayed proudly in Marcus’s kitchen, on a little scrap of wall between the cabinets and the countertop right next to the coffee maker.

After days of painstaking work reviewing security footage and interviewing suspects, the team finally has the perpetrator’s identity nailed down. Matt Shepard, a day trader who’d apparently invested in the wrong stocks recently, and had lost everything after something called EggCoin had crashed.

Apparently, Shepard was a better art thief than he was a cryptocurrency guru, because after some surveillance this week, trailing the man in a series of unmarked cars, it appeared that all fifteen paintings had been sold, each to a different buyer–some local, some scattered across the states, even a few international sales.

And that means Shepard is going away for a long time once they arrest him. Crossing international borders? Well, now you’re smuggling. Shepard should have stuck with local buyers.

It would be easy for Marcus’s team to rush into Shepard’s overpriced apartment and arrest the man, but solving an art theft crime isn’t just about putting perpetrators behind bars.

Marcus’s goal is always to recover the stolen artwork. In order to do that, the team is gathered in a conference room, discussing the best method to go undercover and get the names of Shepard’s buyers before making the arrest.

Marcus taps his pen against his notebook absentmindedly. "Does he have any known associates?" he asks.

"Nada. But we do have one thing. A club he frequents called The Crucible."

"Great, that's perfect," Marcus says. "One of us can sneak in undercover and at worst, gather some intel. Best case scenario, we get a list of his buyers and he’s in handcuffs by the last call."

Marcus's teammates all share a look, and he frowns.

"...What?" he asks.

"The club, it's… it's a BDSM club."

"Oh." Marcus's mouth makes an exaggerated 'O' shape as he takes in the information. "Got it."

"Matthew Shepard is a regular there, a, uh, dominant," Agent Wallace says, squinting down at his notes and looking very awkward as his mouth forms the shape of the word. "We would, ah, pose as another… dominant… and try to get close to him."

Marcus fights down a chuckle. He's never seen Agent Wallace look so uncomfortable reading a case file. He's an older man; Marcus wouldn't be surprised if he'd never heard the terminology before.

"You volunteering?" he jokes.

"I–I don't– I don't know if I–" the other Agent starts to stammer out.

"Kidding. I'm kidding. We'll only send someone who's comfortable playing the role," Marcus interrupts. "Agent Cassidy, what are your thoughts?"

"My thoughts on what, dressing in a leather catsuit and posing as a dominatrix? I don't have any qualms, if that's what you're asking, but from what I hear, he's not all that chummy with the women. I think a man would be far more effective infiltrating his circle."

"That makes sense," Agent Bowman says thoughtfully. "What would I need to do, like, wear leather pants?"

"Please don't," Agent Cassidy mutters under her breath.

Marcus grimaces. Bowman is a large guy with an intimidating build. Sure, of the four of them, he’d probably be the one who’d best look the part, but Bowman’s demeanor? Not very convincing. He’s a pretty religious guy–he’d take one look at his surroundings and telegraph his disfomfort, giving himself away immediately. Whoever does this will need to be comfortable in that environment.

"I'll do it."

All heads whip around to look at Marcus simultaneously.

"You?" Agent Bowman asks skeptically.

Marcus laughs. "Why not me?"

"I mean, no offense, but you'd look like the softest, most vanilla guy in that club," Agent Bowman laughs. "You don't have a mean bone in your body."

"It's not about being mean," Marcus says automatically.

"What's it about, then?" asks Agent Cassidy.

Multiple possible answers spring to mind. Presence. Intuition. Discipline. Empathy. Listening. Literally anything other than 'being mean.' Instead, Marcus says, "Confidence."

"I'm confident they'll see right through you," Agent Bowman jokes.

"You wound me," Marcus pouts. "Have I ever fucked up an undercover op?"

The team all shakes their heads at the same time.

"Exactly," Marcus says. "Just trust me on this, all right?"

After the meeting is over, Marcus walks back into his office and shuts the door. He can't hide his amusement any longer about his coworkers' opinions of him.

"You'd look like the softest, most vanilla guy in that club."

They're not… wrong, exactly. He does look like that. He knows this. It's what made him so popular when he attended a very similar club back when he was in graduate school.

There had always been some sort of fascination surrounding him back then–the guy with the soft eyes and quiet demeanor with an uncanny ability to break any sub who did a scene with him. They'd seek him out again and again, not just for his reputation for expertly dancing between gentle and brutal, but for his dedication to caring for them afterwards.

He'd been known for taking them to a private room afterwards and talking to them softly while they came down, holding them if they wanted it, stroking their hair. Aftercare–or, at least, the amount of it that Marcus preferred–was something that tended to be overlooked at clubs.

Or at least, it had been, at that particular club, what–fifteen, almost twenty years ago now?? Jesus, that made Marcus feel old. Things were probably a lot different now, and it had been years since he’d been in a club setting. Hell, it had been years since his last sub, even–his last girlfriend hadn’t been into it. Marcus rolls his eyes at the thought of Teresa. It had been a year since she’d broken up with him over the phone, just three hours after agreeing to marry him, and the memory still stings.

It’s a different sort of hurt, now–mostly just embarrassment at himself that he had gotten it so wrong. He had been looking at their relationship with rose-colored glasses, and all the red flags, well, they just looked like flags.

Marcus had worked on himself a lot, since then. New city, new him, he had decided, once the shock of the breakup had worn off. He started working out again, got a therapist, and had avoided getting into another relationship until he felt confident enough to stand on his own for a while.

After a year, though, he feels as if he’s ready again. A little thrill runs down his spine at the thought of going to the club Shepard frequented, after their little undercover mission. He hadn’t thought of finding a club like that again, but now that the idea has wormed its way into his brain, he can’t stop thinking about it. Memories of his own experiences flash through his mind. It had been so much fun, back then. Maybe it was time to go back to that.

Hell, he could even meet someone there.

Two days later, on a Saturday night, Marcus and his team get ready for the op at headquarters before driving to The Crucible.

"Check, check one-two," Marcus mumbles as he inserts the tiny earpiece into his ear. Once in, it'll be nearly invisible, especially in the darkness of the club.

"Loud and clear," Agent Wallace responds, and Marcus can hear his voice duplicated quietly in his ear.

"Fantastic. Does anyone have any questions? Agents Wallace and Cassidy, you'll be in the surveillance van two blocks away with the audio equipment. Agent Bowman, one block away in an unmarked car as backup. I'll be on the inside looking for Shepard."

"You got it, Sir."

Marcus hikes up his pant leg and straps a small, concealed holster to his ankle and slides a small nine millimeter into place. When he rolls the cuff back down, the piece is undetectable.

He shrugs off his suit jacket and undoes his tie before rolling up the sleeves on his white dress shirt.

"You're sure you'll fit in, dressed like that?" Agent Wallace asks.

"Oh yeah, he'll fit in," Agent Cassidy responds with a little chuckle.

Marcus smirks and undoes a few of his shirt buttons, exposing the line of his throat and making the look a bit more casual.

"Okay," he exhales. "Let's do this, then."

The Crucible is a large fetish club with a main stage, where volunteers can participate in scenes varying from spanking, shibari and other bondage play, temperature play, or any number of other kinks, in front of an audience. There’s a bar, dance floor, and a number of private rooms for more intimate activities.

When Marcus arrives at the club, his eyes are immediately drawn to the small stage, where a man in an ornate leather harness and a ball gag is kneeling down in front of another man who’s holding a leather crop. He feels his cock twitch, but he tears his gaze away from the sight and scans the crowd for Shepard.

Marcus sees him at the bar, with a few other men who, for reasons Marcus can’t explain, scream ‘day trader’ in their dress and demeanor. They all look to be doms, and they’re all similarly dressed in crisp white dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up.

Marcus orders a drink and parks himself nearby, close enough to hear their conversation but not so close that it looks as if he’s eavesdropping. This is always the hardest part–breaking the ice and infiltrating a group of strangers in order to gain their trust. He listens to the men discuss fantasy football for a while before Shepard mentions something about his “side business,” which Marcus takes to mean his recent ventures into illegal art sales.

Both he and Shepard’s group watch the scene on the stage play out with nonchalance–the two men from before have left, replaced with a domme who’s currently demonstrating proper shibari techniques on her partner.

Desperate to get an ‘in’ with Shepard’s group, Marcus leans over and asks, “Where do you sign up to be on the stage?” he asks one of the men.

“Oh, you can talk to Melissa,” the man answers. “Melissa!”

He beckons one of the bartenders over. “This dude wants to play.”

Marcus holds his hands up. “I’m just planning to watch tonight, I was just curious how it works for the next time.”

Shepard looks over with interest. “First time here?” he asks.

“I’m new to the area,” Marcus says. “First time in this particular club, though.”

“Well, welcome,” Shepard says amiably, and extends his hand. “Matt, nice to meet you.”

Marcus takes the other man’s hand. “I’m Mike,” he says, giving him his usual undercover name.

“What brings you to DC, Mike?” Shepard asks.

“I moved here for a job, but the pay is shit,” Marcus tells him. “Was looking for something a bit more… lucrative, if you know what I mean.”

Shepard laughs. “Yeah, man, this city’s getting more and more unaffordable.”

Marcus takes the leap. “Heard you say something about a side business. I’m looking for something myself, is there something I can get in on?”

Shepard purses his lips. “You know anything about art?”

“Art? I dunno,” Marcus shrugs. “Didn’t think there was much money in being an artist.”

“There’s money in selling the art, if you have the right buyers,” Shepard offers.

“Oh yeah? I’ve got some old shit from a relative that’s just gathering dust,” Marcus says. “Who do you know that’ll buy it?

Before Shepard can answer, Melissa comes back, looking down at a folded piece of paper. “I know you said you just wanted to watch, but the next sub just had their scene partner cancel. Are you sure you don’t want to participate?

Marcus shakes his head, pushing down the temptation. Not why you’re here, idiot. “Next time, maybe.”

Shepard looks over at the small stage, where a woman waits on her hands and knees in a little cage, and rolls his eyes. "Oh, it's her."

"Her?" Marcus raises his eyebrows.

One of Shepard's companions laughs. "He's just sore because she refuses to do any scenes with him any more," the man tells Marcus.

Marcus forces a congenial laugh. "Oh yeah? What's the problem?"

"She always says she wants a dom who'll make her cry," Shepard scoffs. "But she's fucking impossible to work with, she never breaks. I don't know why the fuck she participates."

"What, so you couldn't do it?" Marcus asks, amused.

Shepard narrows his eyes, sizing the other man up. "You think you could?"

Marcus shrugs noncommittally. This isn't what he's here for. He's here to get Shepard's contacts and get the fuck out.

"Tell you what," Shepard says. "Go up there and do the scene, and I'll give you the name of my buyers."

"Deal," Marcus says quickly, before Shepard can change his mind.

"Holy shit," comes the quiet response from Agent Wallace in his ear. "That was easy. Wait, what did he mean, 'scene.' What’s a scene?"

Oh. Right. Marcus cannot do this with voices in his head. For a multitude of reasons.

"Going dark for a bit," he mumbles as he turns away from Shepard's group and heads toward the stage.

"What?! Pike, what are you going to do if things go south and we aren't able to hear it?"

"Just trust me on this," he mutters.

"You can't–"

Marcus surreptitiously switches off the device and whatever protest Cassidy was about to offer dies mid-sentence and is replaced with silence.

He gives Melissa his name (“Mike”) and heads toward the stage with his heart in his throat.

A little thrill runs up his spine, a rush of power as he steps onto the stage and the subs eyes flick upward to meet his.

She's kneeling, crouched over in the too-small cage, but her gaze is bright and defiant. Marcus smiles. He likes that–a sub who'll make him work for it, make him earn her obedience.

She's beautiful, too. Not dressed in anything overly fetish-y–no slick latex, no uncomfortably tight corset–just a little black shift dress that exposes the underside of a very cute butt. He eyes her collar–it has the initials of the club emblazoned on the side. One of the club’s generic play collars, then, indicating she’s not attached. A little frisson of possessiveness runs through him. His. If only for tonight.

Marcus approaches the cage and crouches down. "Hey there, little one," he says softly, and the woman inside looks up at him.

"You're new," she remarks.

Marcus nods in assent. "I am," he confirms with a smile. "That okay?"

"No offense, puppy-dog eyes, but you don't really look like you could handle me," the woman states matter-of-factly.

Marcus chuckles. "Handle you?" He reaches through the cage and runs his index finger down her jawline. "Are you difficult, sweet thing?" he teases.

"I want a dom who can make me cry," she tells him. "And you really don't look like you can."

"Why don't we find out," he suggests. "I think you'd be surprised."

"It's not easy to make me cry," she says, her features still schooled in a defiant pout.

"Oh, I'm sure," Marcus murmurs to her. "I'm sure that's what you say to all the second-rate doms who think all they need to do is rough you up and call you a slut, hmm? But you know what I think?"

He gently grips her chin and forces all of her attention on him. "I think you need something different."

"Don't sit there and tell me you know what I need," she spits.

Marcus’s grip tightens. "Oh, but I do," he says lowly. "That's how this is supposed to work, right? I give you what you need. I decide how much is too much. And sweetheart?" He pulls her forward until her face is nearly touching the bars of the cage.

"You don't give the orders here. I'll give you one freebie, since I'm new and we don't know each other, but if you try it again, I'm going to punish you. What's your safeword?"

"Monet."

Marcus's eyebrows briefly raise in surprise before he schools his face into an easy smile again. "Perfect. Here's what's gonna happen, little one. When I let you out of the cage, I'm not going to stop until I see tears unless I hear that word. Understood?"

She nods.

"My name is Marcus," he says, giving her his real name. "But while we're in the scene, you can call me 'Sir.' Got it?"

"Yes, Sir," she murmurs, and Marcus opens the cage.

You hate him.

You hate his soulful brown eyes and his quiet overconfidence that somehow manages to be worse than the way other doms have loudly strutted around the stage, showing off.

Instead, this man just sits down next to you, completely ignoring the noise of the crowd, treating you as if you're the only person in the room and making presumptions about what it is you need?

You hate it.

Except, the longer you speak to him, the more you begin to suspect that his egoism can be backed up. There's something about him, something about how softly he speaks to you combined with the confidence with which he handles you, that makes you want to listen, no matter how irritating you find him.

He opens the cage door and you shuffle forward.

Most doms, when you goad them about making you cry, will grab you by the collar and drag you out, but Marcus merely ghosts his hand on the back of your head, gently guiding you to the little table in the middle of the stage.

There's a few jeers from the crowd, some quiet titters, but Marcus only seems to have eyes for you. He watches you with a small smile as you crawl forward until you reach the table. He extends his hand, and against your better judgment, you take it, letting him pull you up to standing.

He guides your front down onto the table and attaches one ankle, then the other, to the spreader bar at the bottom of the table. He picks up one of your hands–cradling your wrist so gently–and drags it up to the restraints at the other end of the table before repeating the action on the other side. All the while, his eyes are on you and his hands are so careful and you find yourself wondering how the fuck this man could be a dom.

You realize you're trembling, and you inwardly chastise yourself. Are you really nervous? You're being ridiculous. There's nothing remarkable about this man, nothing that he can do that no one before him has done before.

He won't break you.

Even so, your muscles tense slightly as his fingers trail up the backs of your thighs. They catch on the hem of your dress, pulling it the rest of the way up until the material pools at your lower back. Baring you to him, to the rest of the club. Your spine tingles at the vulnerability–you’ve always liked that moment, the moment you’re exposed.

"You look beautiful," Marcus says quietly. "I like your outfit."

It surprises you so much that you murmur "Thank you," forgetting to call him 'Sir.' If he notices, he doesn't say anything. He continues handling you with gentle, barely-there touches until you're wondering when the fuck he's going to start.

"You have goosebumps, little one," he whispers, as his fingertips ghost along the back of your neck.

You do. It feels like your entire body is erupting in shivers as his hands wander along your skin. A large part of it is anticipation. What is Marcus going to do? When is he going to do it? It's nerve-wracking, so much so that when his palm comes down on your ass just once, you jump and make a little "Oh!" sound in surprise.

It makes him chuckle, and you remember that you hate him. You force down your submissiveness and purse your lips, not reacting as he gives your ass a few more gentle swats, just warming up the skin.

His fingers never seem to leave you as he walks around you again, letting his hand trail up to your shoulder as he inspects all the implements sitting out on a little side table to use in the scene. You watch as his hands run over them–a leather crop, a paddle, whips, several different types of flogger, one of those little pinwheels. You have to admit, his hands are sexy. You can’t keep your eyes off of them, of the purposeful way they touch the various tools.

“Which one is your favorite?” he asks, looking over at you with a little smirk.

“I don’t think you know how to use any of those… Sir,” you say, in the haughtiest, most condescending tone you can manage while restrained to the table.

Marcus tsks quietly. “Oh, you are difficult, aren’t you, little one?” he teases, matching your condescension beat for beat.

He abandons the array of toys and stands directly in front of you. “Very well then,” he says in a low voice, and reaches for his belt buckle.

It’s incredibly suggestive–his bulge right at eye level as you watch him slowly unbuckle his belt and slide it out of the loops.

“So defiant,” he coos. “Such a petulant little thing you are, trying to get a reaction out of me. Is this how it always is? Provoking your dom into being extra rough with you?” His fingertips trail down your spine, making you shiver again. He leans down to whisper in your ear, his breaths disturbing the little hairs on the back of your neck and making the tingle at the back of your spine worse.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that’s not the way to get what you want?” Marcus teases, the words barely audible despite the fact that his lips are damn near touching the shell of your ear.

Suddenly, pain erupts on the backs of your cheeks as the belt comes down for the first time. You gasp in surprise, in pain. You hadn’t expected it, you didn’t realize that while Marcus was whispering in your ear, his arm had been pulling back to deliver a far more intense hit than you had expected from him.

“Surprise,” he teases, his lips still hovering just above your head. You take a few breaths to try and calm yourself. You can feel your adrenaline start to spike, and there’s a corresponding dampness gathering in your underwear. Marcus straightens, standing back up, and the hand not holding the belt lightly caresses your jaw. “So pretty,” he murmurs. “I’ll bet you’ll be even prettier when you’re crying for me, little one.”

Marcus brings the belt down again, even harder. You can feel him pull back this time, so you can at least anticipate it, but it still stings. You get the feeling that he let you anticipate it–that he choreographed his movements on purpose, to allow you to prepare just slightly, tensing your thighs just before the leather smarts across your skin. His other hand is still cradling your face with a tenderness that so glaringly contrasts with the actions of his other hand and somehow that contrast is making you wetter than you’ve ever been on this stage.

On the third hit, you finally let out a little whimper, you can’t help it. The noise makes Marcus smile. “Such a pretty little sound,” he tells you as his fingers rub up and down the back of your neck. “Good girl. Be good and give me more of them, hmm?”

He’s still speaking so quietly that you’re certain the audience can’t hear a damn thing he’s saying to you. Is that on purpose? Why?

You don’t have long to ponder, because the belt comes down again, harder, and in the same fucking spot, and you cry out into the room. Marcus bends down again and brushes his lips over your temple and that makes you whimper even more. “Look at how well you’re doing,” he whispers into your ear. “Look at how good you’re being for me.”

Another hit that you don’t anticipate because his lips are still soft on your skin and how, how does he manage to keep half of his movements so soft and tender and the other half so deliciously brutal? You’ve done scenes on this stage where the dom has just stood behind you and gone as hard as they could, and somehow Marcus is managing to blow those other times out of the water with just half of his body, all the while whispering praises about how good you’re being for him.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, stroking your cheek again. “I’m gonna have so much fun ruining you.”

Two hard smacks–one right after the other–and you’re shaking, gritting your teeth with the effort of keeping tears from springing to your eyes. Already. It’s too soon, you can’t cry yet–when did the question of whether or not he’ll make you cry become a matter of when, and not if? You were wrong, Marcus is clearly more than capable of being viciously rough. It’s the combination, though, that’s making it hard for you to hold yourself together.

Marcus pulls back to look at you–to look at his handiwork. “You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice saturated with sheer reverence. “I can see it through your underwear,” he says. “You’re soaking.”

Another merciless hit, and you’re letting out a pitiful whine. The crowd has disappeared, everything outside of this stage simply gone. When Marcus leans back down and asks, “May I feel how wet you are, little one?” you don’t think twice about nodding and choking out a “Yes, Sir.” Not caring that you’re in front of everyone, that Marcus is a stranger, that you’re supposed to be focused on the non-sexual elements of BDSM during scenes on the stage.

You feel Marcus’s fingers dip underneath your underwear and collect your arousal and you moan, wishing he would sink them as far as they’ll go into your cunt instead. Hell, you’d let this man literally fuck you on this stage in this moment, you’re so far gone. “Oh, sweetheart,” you hear him murmur. “Oh, baby, that’s a lot.”

All too soon, his fingers are gone and the belt bites at your skin again and oh, no–it’s too much, it’s too overwhelming, and you feel a single tear leak from one eye and drip down onto the table as you cry out again. Your eyes flick up to Marcus in time to see him sucking his fingers into his mouth and tasting you. The knowing glint in his eye lets you know that he absolutely saw the tear.

“I was going to make you clean yourself off of my fingers,” Marcus teases quietly, “but I wanted to taste you so badly, I couldn’t do it.”

He leans down and brushes his lips over your forehead again while his hand continues stroking your neck and the back of your head. “Can you come from being spanked, sweet thing?” he asks quietly.

“Yes, Sir,” you whisper, your face heating.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me, little one,” Marcus says in your ear. “Absolutely perfect. I wanna give you a little reward for that and make you come. And,” he whispers, “I think we can do better than one little tear, can’t we?”

“Yes, Sir,” you whimper, even quieter than before.

“I’m gonna go a little faster,” Marcus tells you. “You just keep being a good girl and make all those pretty sounds for me until I make you come apart.”

True to his word, the belt starts coming down again and again, the steady rhythm sending vibrations through your core and building heat inside of you. The strikes aren’t any less hard, and you can’t hold back your tears any longer, sobbing in a mixture of relief and pain even as you feel your core start to tighten.

All the while, Marcus’s other hand strokes your face and neck so gently, so softly, so… lovingly, and he talks so quietly and calmly in your ear, his voice steady and even as he calls you his good girl, tells you how perfect you are, how much he likes seeing you like this–

Your cries get louder and louder until the tension finally snaps and your pussy clenches around nothing over and over and over as you fall apart.

You’re a void. The nothing in your head is so loud that your ears are ringing. You’re dimly aware that the belt has stopped, that there’s quite a bit of noise from the crowd around the stage, that your ass and thighs are throbbing angrily and your tears are still falling, but you can’t focus on any of it. Everything is blurry in your brain.

Marcus is the only thing that remains in focus. The hand he was just using to bring you exquisite pain has dropped the belt and is now rubbing up and down your back as you continue to cry. His other hand hasn’t moved from your head, caressing you as he whispers, “That’s right, let it out. I’ve got you.”

If you had any awareness at all, you’d be embarrassed at how much you're crying right now. You’d hate the fact that you’re trembling violently and you’d loathe the intense vulnerability you’re feeling–the fact that all you want is for this man to hold you, kiss you, touch you, to just keep talking to you in that soft, sweet voice. You’ve never let yourself get attached to a random dom before, what the fuck—?

“Hey, little one,” Marcus murmurs, gently getting your attention. “I’m going to take you out of the restraints, and then I’m gonna put a little cooling lotion on you, so don’t get up, okay?”

You nod numbly. You feel his hands gently undoing the cuffs on your wrists, then trailing down your body as he walks behind you and crouches down and releases your ankles from the spreader bar.

He’s purposeful in the way he keeps touching you, as if he wants to assure you that he’s always there. Even when he turns to grab the little bottle of lotion, one hand stays resting at the back of your head, providing a comforting, steady pressure.

“Gonna touch it now,” he murmurs, right before the sensation of cold lotion hits your skin. You hiss–now that the moment is over and you’re coming down from your high, it hurts even more.

“I know, I know,” Marcus soothes. “I know it’s hard. You’re doing so well for me.”

He applies the cream gingerly to your burning skin, continuing to talk to you as he does.

“Look at me for a moment so I know you’re paying attention,” Marcus directs quietly after he’s finished with his task.

Your eyes automatically find his face, and he smiles at your instinctual obedience to him.

“You’re bleeding a little bit,” he tells you. “I know they’re gonna want us off the stage in a minute, but I’d like it if we could go somewhere private and quiet, so I can keep taking care of you. Will you let me do that?”

When you nod again, Marcus smiles and guides you up from the table and takes you into his arms. You allow him to carry you off the stage–still too pliant and submissive to do anything but bury your head in his chest as he walks. You hear a few whoops from the crowd, but you can’t find it in you to care. All you can do is breathe in his scent and wonder what the fuck just happened.

Marcus finds an unoccupied private room and ushers her gently inside. He reclines back on one of the couches and guides her to lie beside him, turned on her side so as not to put any pressure on the angry skin of her thighs and butt. She comes willingly–letting him pull her to his chest, her limbs pliant and soft where they’re draped over him.

“There we go,” he murmurs encouragingly. “Just like that.”

At his words, she lets out a shuddering breath and relaxes fully against his chest. His smile widens. All of that defiance from before, completely erased. She’s putty in his arms, moldable and docile.

Marcus sighs too. All the tension has left his body as well, leaving him with a bone-deep sense of satisfaction and pride. He’d forgotten how much he likes this, how good it feels to take care of someone like this.

And with her, it’s especially sweet–taking someone so incredibly strong-willed and defiant and systematically tearing through every defense they have. Taking someone who isn’t used to being broken so gently and showing them a different side of dominance. And oh, she’s so lovely when she breaks.

Marcus looks down at her with a small smile. She’s still panting just a little, still catching her breath. Her eyes are still a little glazed over as she comes out of subspace, but she has this beautiful, serene smile on her face that he doubts she’s even aware of. He can’t keep his eyes off of her. He wonders if it’s just because he hasn’t indulged this side of him in a while that he’s feeling so attached to her–because she’s simply the first sub he’s had in years–or if it’s her, specifically, that he’s drawn to.

She cranes her face up to meet his gaze, her eyes so wide and vulnerable and bright, and Marcus finds himself smiling at her as he brings his hand to her face and swipes his thumb gently across her cheek, smearing the still-drying tear tracks.

“Hey,” he says softly, still looking into her eyes. “Feeling okay?”

She nods. “Yes… Sir.”

He chuckles. “You can just call me Marcus,” he tells her. “It’s okay.”

She smiles at that, and his heart soars. “Okay… Marcus.”

The moment his name falls from her lips, he wants to hear it again. And again, and again, and again, in a million different contexts. Marcus, as she greets him at a restaurant when he asks her on a date. Marcus, just before his lips meet hers in a gentle kiss. Marcus, as he thrusts inside her tight cunt for the first time. Marcus, Marcus, Marcus, as he makes her fall apart for him again and again.

“Can I ask for your name, little one?” he asks quietly, tentatively.

She tells him, and he repeats it back to her, watching her pupils dilate slightly when he says it.

“That was, um…” she begins. “I’ve never experienced anything quite like that in a club, before.”

Marcus laughs quietly. “Is that a good thing?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I liked it."

"It's funny," she continues, "the last dom I told to make me cry went straight to like, heavy degradation, slapping me around and shit."

Marcus frowns down at her. "Is someone here doing something you’re not okay with?"

"No, not exactly. I mean… I'll admit I'm a bit of an adrenaline junkie, so I like the roughness. I hate the dumb shit he wanted me do in between, licking his boots and whatever," she scoffs. "I didn't really realize what I was craving until…"

She trails off, but the meaning is clear. Until him.

"Anyways, I refuse to do scenes with him anymore, because honestly, he's kind of a dick," she says, and Marcus realizes she's talking about his mark. Shepard. An art thief and apparently a shitty dom, as well.

Shit. The case. How long has he been out of communication with the team? Probably quite a while. He needs to wrap this up, but he also needs to make sure his sub is properly taken care of.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks quietly.

"Sure."

Can I have your number? Will you go out to dinner, can we do this again, can I kiss you, can I take you home and make you mine–

He shakes himself.

"Your safeword–Monet–any particular reason why?"

"Oh!" she says in surprise, her face lighting up at the question. "I was an art history major in school."

"Really," he laughs. "What do you do for a living?"

She laughs too and drops her gaze. "Human resources," she says sheepishly. "What do you do?"

"It's, ah… I work for the… government," he finishes lamely.

"Oh." She wrinkles her nose. "Oh God, you're not a politician, are you?"

Marcus laughs again. "No, I'm not a politician," he tells her.

"Oh, thank goodness," she says with a smile. "Hey, um, can I–"

"Are you feeling a little better?" Marcus interrupts. He's overstayed his welcome, should get back to the case. He's risking the chance of Shepard leaving, and he has a chance to get the man's buyers and confirm he's behind the thefts if he can get his fucking head back into the game.

"Oh yeah, I feel fantastic," she says emphatically.

He smiles at her sincerity. "I mean here," he says quietly, his fingers ghosting across the underside of her cheeks.

"That's fine too," she murmurs. "Barely hurts anymore."

"Still," he tells her, "take it easy, okay?:

"Aw, I was planning on doing this again tomorrow."

Marcus chuckles. "I'm sorry to do this, but I have to go do something. I–I'd really like to see you again, are you sticking around any longer?" he asks.

She nods. "Probably."

"I'll find you," he promises. "Wait for me."

It's the hardest thing he's had to do all night, walking out and leaving her relaxing on the couch, his handiwork from before still visible where her dress has ridden up. She waggles her fingers at him in a shy little wave as he opens the door, and his heart clenches with some unnamed emotion.

When the door shuts, he switches the mic and earpiece back on.

"Christ, Pike, where the fuck have you been?" Wallace's voice rings in Marcus's ear.

"Doing something to get Shepard’s buyers and hopefully the locations of the stolen artwork," he replies. It's not exactly a lie. "Heading to get Shepard now."

"It's been an hour," Cassidy hisses.

"Copy," is all Marcus says in response, a wry smile teasing his lips.

He schools his face back into bored nonchalance as he approaches Shepard's group.

Shepard turns around and regards him with surprise. "Holy shit, Mike. You take her back to a room and fuck her?"

"Mmhmm," Marcus lies.

"She's never let anyone do that after a scene," Shepard remarks. "What the hell were you saying to her up there?"

Marcus grins, showing his teeth. "A gentleman never tells," he says dryly.

Shepard snorts. "There's no gentlemen in this club."

Marcus shrugs. "The two don't need to be mutually exclusive. So," he steps forward. "You mentioned something about buyers."

Marcus listens to Shepard spill all of his contacts, even mentioning the names of some of the stolen pieces of art by name, and of course, all of it is recorded by Wallace and Cassidy.

"Wow, that's–thanks, man, I'll definitely be paying then a visit soon. In the meantime," Marcus begins, reaching for the badge in his pocket and lowering his voice to a more threatening timbre, "Matthew Shepard, I'm placing you under arrest for art theft and smuggling."

"What the–" Shepard begins, but Marcus is already restraining the man's wrists and pulling them roughly behind his back before reaching back in his pocket for his handcuffs.

“You have the right to remain silent," Marcus begins in a monotone. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney–" as he recites the familiar words, he feels the weight of someone's gaze on him, and he turns.

It’s her, of course it is. Marcus winces.She couldn’t have just… stayed in the private room for ten more minutes to rest? He could have made the arrest, snuck out, and come back to find her without her realizing what he was actually doing here if she had only stayed in that room until the arrest was made. But no, she's there, watching the scene play out with a look of shock and utter betrayal written all over her features.

"–If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you," Marcus finishes, keeping his eyes on her, his expression full of regret. "Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?"

"Fuck you!" Shepard spits.

"Charming. Let's go."

Marcus reluctantly tears his gaze away from her as he pushes Shepard toward the door, but he feels her furious eyes on him the entire way out of the club.

He doesn't look back.

Marcus can't stop thinking of her. Not as he and his team processes Shepard, not as he sits in his office afterwards finishing paperwork, not as he lies in bed that night, unable to sleep, thinking of her. He sees her eyes every time he closes his.

Her defiant gaze as he'd approached her on the stage. Filled with tears as he gave her the release she'd been looking for. Wide and vulnerable, looking up at him with trust and attraction and hope—

Full of betrayal as she found out he wasn't who he said he was.

Well, to be fair, he hadn't said he was anything, but he's sure it looks like he was just playing that role to get the arrest.

Marcus presses the heels of his hands hard into his eyes until little white spots appear behind his eyelids. Fuck.

He should have asked for her number. There's no guarantee he'll ever see her again.

Except… now that she feels that he'd lied to her, that it was all an act, he doubts she'd pick up the phone, anyway.

Marcus can't let it go.

He knows that it's not just because he let himself get attached to the first sub he's had in a while–it's her. It's her dry wit and her bright eyes and her gorgeous body and her smile…

Every time he thinks about their scene they did, his cock gets half-hard in his pants. Those sounds she made, how fucking wet she got for him, oh, fuck, the way she tasted…

He has to find her. He has to see her again.

Marcus finds himself back at the club next Saturday night, praying that she's there again. He nurses a drink, mostly just for something to with his hands, as he scans the crowd, the stage, the bar–

She isn't here.

Marcus's heart sinks.

Wait…

A little group of subs in collars laughing uproariously at something on someone's phone moves out of the way and–

There she is. Just as pretty as he remembers from last week. The only thing that's different is that her neck is bare. No collar–so she's not playing tonight.

Marcus shoves down the prideful, possessive voice that rejoices at the possibility that it's because of him. He has an overwhelming desire to ruin her for anybody else.

He abandons his drink at the bar, his focus on her and her alone. Would she speak to him again? Will she give him a chance to explain? Most terrifying of all, will she allow him to see her again?

Heart in his throat, he approaches her. Her back is still to him, so she doesn't see him coming.

He steels himself, forcing more confidence into his voice than he has right now.

"Hey there, little one."

You whirl around at the familiar voice. Oh, no he didn’t–

"You," you snarl accusingly. "You have some nerve showing up here after last week."

"I know," Marcus says, holding his hands up placatingly. "I came here to explain."

"What is there to explain? You're a fucking Fed doing some sort of undercover bust, and I'm just a casualty of your little pretend act."

"Little one," he murmurs, and your fury grows.

"You don't get to call me that," you snap. "I bet it was so much fun for you, wasn’t it? Mister Undercover Cop gets to roleplay for an evening and goes on a little power trip. I can't believe I–" you trail off, shaking your head.

You've had a week to stew over this, and time has only made your fury stronger. You put your fucking life in this man's hands, and for all you know, he's just some policeman who jumped at the excuse to slap around a woman for the night.

So what if Marcus handled you like a fine piece of china afterwards? So what if he expertly took you apart piece by piece? So fucking what if he was the best dom you'd ever had?

He's not even a real dom.

You wince at the gentle sound of your name falling from Marcus's lips.

"I know it looks bad," he begins. "I am sorry I didn't tell you why I was here. But I promise, I'm not just some guy who knows nothing about BDSM pretending for a night. I have done this before. Many times. My… my personal life just happened to intersect with my career for this one night, and I'm truly sorry you got caught in the crossfire," Marcus says earnestly.

"I want you to know that none of that was an act. Hell, I almost forgot I was on a case," he confesses. "I left my teammates in the dark for an hour because I–I wanted to do it right. I wanted to do the scene right. I wanted to take care of you the way you deserve and I wasn't lying afterwards when I said I wanted to see you again.

"I know I probably have no chance after what I did, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't come back here and say my piece," Marcus says sadly.

"What do you want?" you whisper.

Marcus smiles sadly. "I want to get your number. I want to take you out on a date, maybe kiss you after, if you let me?"

You feel hope start to take root in your belly.

"Is that all you want?" you ask.

Marcus's smile widens. "Not at all. But it's a start."

"Okay," you whisper.

"Okay?"

"You can do all of those things," you tell him. "Starting with a kiss."

Marcus doesn’t move for a minute; he just stands there looking at you, his eyes brimming with emotion. Suddenly, he strides forward and captures your lips with his.

Like everything else about this man, he somehow manages to kiss roughly and softly at the same time. His lips are achingly gentle on yours, as are his hands when they come up to cup your cheeks, but the way he presses against you is insistent and wanting.

Marcus kisses with his entire body in a way that sends flames of desire licking up and down your own. What starts out as a somewhat chaste kiss quickly turns anything but. Soon, Marcus is crowding you up against the wall and you’re tilting your head to deepen the kiss and you moan when his tongue slips inside your mouth.

His hands, which had started out cupping your jaw tenderly have moved down your body and are now gripping your hips, hard.

This is going to turn indecent very quickly if the two of you can’t get a grip and rein this in. You have two choices here–break away and agree to go out with him before continuing to have a night out by yourself, or take this man home right now and continue.

As you debate your choices internally, Marcus starts kissing a path down your jaw before sinking his teeth into your neck. You whimper with pleasure, and your gaze falls on one of the private rooms lining this hallway.

Technically, there is a third option. One that’s looking more and more appealing the longer Marcus’s lips are attached to your skin.

“C-can we–” you begin, “can we go… t-to one of those rooms, maybe?” you manage to gasp out as his teeth scrape along your ear. “I want–”

“What do you want,” Marcus whispers with a smile, teasing you.

“I want–fuck, I want you. Just you. I want you right now,” you pant in his ear. “I’ve been fucking pissed at you for a week and part of the reason I was so fucking mad was because I wanted you so much and you–”

“Shhhh,” he quiets you. “I know. I want you, too.”

Marcus presses one last, chaste kiss on your lips. “And I’m sorry,” he says again. “I really am. I never wanted you to think it wasn’t real.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I forgive you, it’s okay.”

He takes your hand and pulls you into the nearest unoccupied room.

“Plus,” you admit, “it was kind of hot.”

Marcus laughs. He guides you past all the various accouterments of a private BDSM dungeon–spanking benches, sex swing, spreader bars, and sits down on the couch instead, pulling you onto his lap. You straddle him and continue where you had left off in the hallway–trying to devour each other.

“I–fuck–I wanted to do this the right way,” Marcus murmurs between frenzied kisses. “I wanted to take you out, treat you the way you deserve–shit,” he curses breathlessly as you grind on his lap.

“Who says this isn’t the right way?” you counter. “Technically, we had our first date last week, so…”

Marcus laughs joyfully and, in one smooth motion, grabs the bottom of your dress and pulls it over your head. “Good,” he murmurs. “Good, because if I’m not inside you in thirty seconds, I’m gonna go insane.”

Both of you are giggling now as you hastily undo your bra and awkwardly slide off your underwear while maintaining your spot on his lap, and Marcus frantically undoes his shirt and pants. He barely gets them off before you’re taking his cock in hand and groaning at the feel of his velvety skin against your palm.

“How do you want me?” you ask seductively.

“Right here,” Marcus answers immediately, pulling you down against him again. “I need to see you, I need to be able to kiss you, touch you, I–hnng–”

You cut him off as you line him up and start sinking down on his thick cock. Your lips part as you feel the stretch of him breaking you open, but oh, it’s perfect. Marcus’s mouth is hanging open, too, staring up at you in awe and disbelief as you take him until he’s seated fully inside you.

Compared to your first encounter with this man, your second is relatively… vanilla. You ride him just like this, on this couch, surrounded by fetish gear, grinding down on his cock and whining every time he hits deep inside you.

True to his word, Marcus seems to need kissing you like he needs air. His lips and hands are everywhere, kissing you, touching you, tasting you, biting and nipping and licking and grabbing as if he could never be satisfied until he’s explored every inch of you. One of his hands comes to your hips and starts pulling you down roughly as he thrusts up to meet you. His lips slide, open-mouthed, along the skin of your cheek as he whispers to you.

“Fuck, so perfect, such a good girl for me, holy shit you feel amazing, I want you so fucking much, I thought about you all the time, I–I just want to be with you,” he murmurs. “See where this–mmfhm–goes, I–” he moans loudly in your ear as you start to tighten around him.

“I want you to be mine,” he confesses in a barely-audible whisper as your orgasm starts to build. “I want you to be my sub, wear my fucking collar,” he growls as his thumb finds your clit and you sob–both at his words and at the sensations he’s pulling from you.

“Come on, baby, come for me,” Marcus urges in a hoarse voice. “You look so fucking pretty when you come.”

A few more thrusts is all it takes before you’re falling apart around him, shaking and crying out into the room with how good it feels. Your legs are starting to burn with effort as your pace falters, and Marcus tips you over onto the couch and takes over, fucking into you with sharp snaps of his hips until he reaches his own release with a deep groan.

Both of you are panting as you come down from your highs. You can feel your legs still shaking slightly–with effort or adrenaline, you aren’t sure. Marcus smiles softly as he pulls back to look at you, and you can’t help but smile back. The air feels like it’s sparking with possibility–the start of something new and wonderful.

His statements from earlier–likely a result of being in the heat of passion–are still ringing in your head.I want you to be my sub, wear my fucking collar.

I want you to be mine.

Obviously, there’s a lot that would come in between this moment and the hypothetical moment where you’d wear his collar–akin to a wedding ring, in the kink community–but as Marcus pulls you into his lap again for another gentle kiss, you can feel yourself starting to wish for it already.

One Year Later

You’re sitting in a cluster of armchairs near the bar at The Crucible on a Friday night, talking to a few friends you’ve made at the club over the years–a couple–Brian, who’s holding one end of a leash, and Jessica, who’s sitting at his feet with the lead attached to her collar. She’s talking animatedly about a new iguana they’d just adopted, showing pictures to anyone who’ll listen. You smile. These two foster the oddest pets–a box turtle, a raccoon, a dog with its hind legs missing, even a fucking tarantula have made their home in the couple’s house. (You didn’t come over much when the tarantula was in residence.)

Another one of your friends, a sub named Anthony, sits to your left, sipping his drink and chatting aimlessly with you about work. Every so often, you crane your head to look around the room, searching.

Where the hell is he?

Brian is describing the hiding place he’d made for their new foster iguana using some old tree branches from the park, when you finally feel a warm hand on your shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Marcus is saying in a rush. “The casework ran late–we ended up in the archives of the Smithsonian for three hours trying to cross reference certificates of authenticity between the forgeries and the actual paintings,” he rattles off in one breath before greeting the rest of the group.

You stand up, letting Marcus sit down in the seat you’d been occupying before settling happily on his lap.

“Hey, little one,” Marcus says, giving you a sweet kiss. “I didn’t miss it, did I?”

You shake your head. “No, but we’re next,” you tell him.

“Good,” he rumbles, playfully rubbing his nose against yours. “Didn’t want to miss our first time with you wearing this.”

You beam as Marcus thumbs your brand new collar–a real one, not just a generic play one–with a lock and key and everything, marking you as his sub.

Forever, you hope.

You shiver as you recall the night he’d given it to you last week, part of celebrating one year together. Marcus had whispered promises into your skin as he’d clasped it around your neck, telling you he’ll care for you always, that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you. One look into his gorgeous eyes and you know that it’s true.

A smattering of applause rings out as the scene before yours ends.

Marcus gives you a crooked grin. “We’re up, little one.”

You wiggle excitedly in his lap. “Let’s go then, Sir.”

Brian and Jessica whoop loudly as the two of you approach the stage. Someone yells “Congratulations!” and it makes you giggle.

You watch as Marcus trails his fingers across the various implements on a small table at the corner of the stage.

“Which one should I use tonight?” he asks with a devious smile.

You stick your chin out, looking down your nose at him with a haughty expression, and he narrows his eyes in confusion. You can barely keep a straight face as you say your next words.

“I don’t think you know how to use any of those… Sir.”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike fanfiction #pedro pascal #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfic

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thetriumphantpanda · 7 months

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i work from nine to five; hey hell, i pay the price | Marcus Pike

Summary | You use the office halloween party as a way to prove you can push yourself out of your comfort zone. You didn't expect that to mean that the apple of your eye, Marcus Pike, would take an interest in you.

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Plus Size F!Reader

Word Count | 4.4K

Warnings | Explicit smut, workplace 'romance', negative talk about bodies, body issues, plus size reader, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected PiV sex, dirty talk, mention of food and alcohol, halloween vibes, costumes, pet names, but nothing else.

Authors Note | I told myself I wasn't going to do halloween writing, and then I had a very vivid image of Marcus Pike bending me over his desk at a work party.... So I did some halloween writing. As a woman who lives life in a bigger body, this one goes out to everyone else who has felt the way reader has felt. These are MY OWN experiences, attitudes I've had given to me, and given to myself, they aren't universal, we all feel differently about ourselves, but if you've ever been made to feel less than because of the way you look, just know I see you and that Marcus Pike would absolutely take you apart regardless of how thick your thighs are. If you liked this, please consider supporting me through my Ko-Fi.

Divider by @saradika

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

You tug at your skirt a little, trying to pull it down over your thighs. It seemed like a good idea at the time, to choose something skimpy for the office Halloween party. A way to challenge yourself, finally start to work through the years of bullying at school, and the off-hand comments from your almond-mom who had always told you things like, ‘you could stand to lose a few pounds’, or ‘surely a salad would be a better idea?’.

It had been such a relief when you’d gotten this job two years ago, finally earning enough on an FBI salary to move out of your family home and into your own space. A space where you weren’t judged for how many fries you had on your plate, or how the pair of trousers you’d chosen to wear made your belly look. It had been good for you, and ever since, you’d been trying your best to challenge yourself to do things you never thought you’d ever have the confidence to do.

Things like standing in the office, in a pair of fishnet tights, with a skirt so short that if you bent over, Dave from Finance would get a complete eyeful. Looking around though, you couldn’t help feel like it had been a terrible idea. Amy from HR looked absolutely phenomenal in her devil outfit – a red bodycon dress that looked like it had been painted on, showing not a single imperfection on her body – and Jessica, who worked reception, in a Catwoman jumpsuit that hugged her figure perfectly. You don’t think it would ever go away, the comparing yourself to everyone else, even though you knew that Amy and Jessica would totally have their own insecurities about things.

You were trying to make yourself at small as possible, crowding yourself into the corner of the room, hand clutched around a plastic cup full of ‘spooky punch’, that Hannah, the office manager had put together, which comprised of mostly vodka, some orange juice and what looked like a whole bottle of green food coloring, with some eyeball candy floating around in it. She’d put together a Halloween playlist, which was currently blasting The Monster Mash at a decibel you think should be illegal, and everyone had contributed to her spooky buffet, which was just normal food cut into shapes – like your addition of frozen pizza that you’d cut out with a ghost-shaped cookie cutter. You know you should go and mingle. Adam, on your team has already tried twice to get you to join their little group, so you relent, and walk over, giving everyone a warm smile. It’s all going well, until Alison, nods her head in your direction and stats speaking.

“Did you work late?” She asks, to which you shake your head.

“No, why?”

“Oh,” She grimaces, “I just didn’t think you’d dressed up, is all.”

And you know it’s mainly because she’s oblivious to mostly everything, but it smarts. Sure, the orange turtleneck is something you’d worn to work before, as are the black platform heels, but the skirt that ghosts the bottom of your ass and the fishnet tights that are still probably one size too small are not something you usually wear, nor are the fake glasses, with thick black frames, or the fucking magnifying glass you’re clutching. You sigh, make your excuses and walk over to the buffet table, picking up one of the slices of pizza you’d brought. Once you’ve eaten that, you reach for one of the cupcakes at the back of the table. It’s iced like a pumpkin and the cake looks to be chocolate, which is your favourite. You’re peeling off the wrapper and about to take a bite when someone interrupts you.

“They’re delicious.”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. Marcus Pike. Head of Department. Not your boss, but your boss’ boss, and the most beautiful man you think you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d sat in on meetings that he chaired, supposed to be taking notes but instead focused entirely on him and how he commanded the room. The way he talked with his hands, and how much you wish you could have him run those over your thighs. Or the way he would chew on his bottom lip when he was concentrating, wondering whether he’d like it if you did that if he were to ever kiss you.

“Oh.” You exhale softly, suddenly uber aware of the fact he’s probably just watched you eat the ghost-shaped pizza, and now, not a minute later, getting ready to bite into the cupcake, you go to set it down on the table, but he stops you, hand gently holding onto your wrist.

“Please,” He says softly, “I made them, so I need the ego boost.”

You smile a little, finally meeting his eyes, “You just said they were delicious, what do you need my opinion for?”

“I remember the raspberry muffins you made last week,” He smirks a little, “And the apple turnovers the week before those, and everything else you bring in, I need to know what the office star baker thinks about my effort.”

You’re going to refuse, say you’re already full, despite the pizza being the first thing you’d eaten that evening, that you’ll take it home with you and report back on Monday, but his beautiful brown eyes are soft, almost pleading, so you sigh, peel the rest of the wrapper off and take a bite. It’s actually delicious. He’s put some kind of orange flavouring in the icing, and the cake itself is really good.

“You were right,” You smile, “It is delicious.”

He smiles, like he’s won a prize and it makes you feel a bit fuzzy inside, that this man next to you has been affected by your praise.

“Great costume, by the way.” He compliments, and you don’t miss the way his eyes trail over your body.

“You mean you don’t think I ran out of time and came in my office clothes?” You tease.

“You’d wear that skirt to the office?” He’s smirking at you, and also offers you a wink, which has your hand dropping to the table, holding yourself up, why on earth was Marcus Pike flirting with you? “It’s good, Velma, right?” He motions to the magnifying glass abandoned on the table.

You chuckle a little, “First prize, got it first time,” You then take a moment to take in his costume, he’s wearing a brown jacket over one of his usual shirts, a brown satchel is draped across his body and he’s got a hat on, but it’s the whip that really gives him away, “Indiana Jones?” You say quietly.

“The one and only.” He smiles, opening his arms a little.

You think it must be the amount of vodka that Hannah put in the punch, but even so, your next question shocks you, “Do I ask where you got the whip from?”

He looks around dramatically, “Just checking Amy from HR is out of earshot,” Then he leans in a little closer, “It’s from my own personal collection.”

You reach your hand out, letting your fingers run over the material where the handle is holstered in his pocket. It feels expensive, although it’s not like you have much experience with them to pass judgement on what’s expensive and what isn’t.

“Feels expensive,” You hum, “Guess that head of department salary has to get spent on something.”

He reaches down and takes your hand in his gently, running soft circles over the skin on the back of your hand, “You really do look lovely tonight,” He speaks softly, “Enjoy the rest of the evening.”

And then as quickly as he was stood in front of you, he’s gone. You let out a breath that you didn’t realise you’d been holding in, focusing on the way your chest is heaving and you can feel your pulse in your head. You pick up your plastic cup and down the liquid that’s left in the bottom, wincing at the strength of the vodka, then deciding you need a top up.

You mill about for a little bit longer, but still feel like a bit of a spare part. You’ve shown your face, spoken to everyone you should have, and now there’s a glass of wine and a bubble bath with your name on it back home. You pick up your coat from the back of a random office chair, grab your bag from your own desk, and sneak out as quietly as you can. You’re halfway down the hall, almost to the elevator, when you hear a voice from behind you.

“Running away?”

You turn around, Marcus Pike is leaning against the doorframe to his office. He’s taken the satchel off, and the whip is no longer in his pocket. He’s crossed one ankle over the other, arms crossed over his chest.

“Feeling a little like a spare part,” You shrug, “And there’s a glass of wine calling my name at home.”

He nods in understanding, “You drink whiskey?” He asks.

“If I have to.” You answer back.

“Well, how about you stay and have one with me,” He offers, “Leave that wine for another day.”

You shift awkwardly from foot to foot, because why on earth would Marcus Pike want to have a drink with you? It feels like someone somewhere is having a good old laugh at your expense, but you feel your feet leading you towards him, brushing past him and into his office.

You’ve been in here a handful of times before, mainly to drop of reports and papers, and only once whilst he’s been there. It’s been a very professional relationship up until now, no flirting, nothing inappropriate. You drape your coat over the arm of the small couch he’s got there – you imagine he sleeps on it when he hasn’t got time to go home during crunch time of investigations. Your bag sits on the floor next to it.

He leaves the door open, giving you an out if you want it. He points to the couch, tells you to sit down, which you do, pulling once again at the tiny skirt, trying to cover the way the skin of your thighs bulge through the holes of the fishnet tights, ultimately failing, as Marcus reaches into one of the drawers of his desk, pulling out two crystal tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He fills them both equally, handing one to you, but he doesn’t sit next to you, he just leans against the edge of his desk.

“I always thought it was a myth,” You muse, “Agents with whiskey in their desks.”

He smiles at you, “It’s in there for big wins,” He explains, “Cracking cases and that kind of stuff.”

You nod your head, taking a small sip of your drink, wincing as it drags down your throat, “What’s tonight’s big win?” You ask, fluttering your eyelashes and then cringing a little at yourself.

“You looking that sinful.”

You’re taking a sip when he says it, so you end up spluttering quite unattractively at his words. Is he serious? You dab at the corners on your mouth, setting your glass down on the floor, “Sorry,” You mutter, “But are you for real?”

He smirks, “As real as you and I.”

He pushes himself off the desk, puts his drink down on it as he moves. He takes three wide strides until he’s stood in front of you. You look up from where you’re sat, hands folded in your lap. He reaches out, drags the fake glasses from your face, throws them absentmindedly onto the couch next to you. You’re breathing heavily as reaches out with one of his hands. The flat of his palm cupping your jaw, whilst his thumb traces along your bottom lip.

“Do you want me to close the door?” He asks, voice lower than you’ve ever known it.

You have no words, your tongue refusing to work, so you nod instead, because as much as you’re still thinking someone is going to come in and tell you you’re being pranked, you also want to know what he’s going to do next. He’s back to you in moments once he’s closed the door and turned the lock. The light above is harsh, but it’s needed, because the blinds are closed.

He's standing in front of you again, this time both his palms are cupping your cheeks, and he’s leaning down, ever so slowly, until his lips are a hairs breath from yours. God, you want him to push the last few millimeters and kiss you, but he’s stopped. Waiting. And you don’t want to break first. You’ve done it before, gone to kiss someone, and then felt them laugh just before you can, because why would they want to?

“You gonna kiss me, pretty lady?”

“I want you to kiss me first.” You admit on a shaky breath.

You’ve got your eyes closed, so you can’t read his eyes, look for the sense of regret in them, so it’s a shock when you feel his lips on yours. It’s so soft, barely there, before he’s pulling away, still close enough to feel his hot breath over your skin though.

“There,” His thumbs are moving across the skin of your cheeks, “Now you.”

So, you do. You reach your hand around to the back of his neck, pull him into you and really press your lips to his. His bottom lip slots between yours and you suck it gently into your mouth. You smile a little at the sound that comes from his throat, then he’s opening his mouth against yours and you’re following, doing exactly the same, letting his tongue behind your teeth as it melds with your own. His hands are dropping from your face, trailing down your shoulders. He leans forward into you a little, his hands under your arms to tug you up.

You drag your mouth from him to stand up, his hands dropping to your hips to guide you behind his desk. There are nerves bubbling under your skin because you know what he wants as he pressed your ass into the wood. He wants you to sit on it. To be fair to the department, it’s a sturdy looking desk, but the thought of the way it’s going to creak under your weight makes you want to crawl into a hole. Marcus doesn’t push though, just brings his mouth back to yours, letting his hands wander a little, dragging them back up your body to palm your tits through the layers you’re wearing.

“I think you did this on purpose,” He speaks against your mouth, “Like you knew this woman had always driven me wild.”

You don’t mean to, but it makes you laugh, “Don’t tell me Velma from Scooby-Doo was your sexual awakening?”

He laughs back, doesn’t confirm it, but doesn’t deny it either. He’s looking down your body, having pulled back a bit, “Fuck,” He mutters, “Every time I look at you, it gets better.”

“The magic of a slutty Halloween costume.” You shrug.

He nods his head, but speaks again, “It’s not just that though,” He’s speaking softly now, “I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, wandering around the office all the time, driving me mad.”

This would normally be the time that you’d try and fight against the compliments being thrown your way. Tell them they must be lying, or joke that they need to get their eyes tested. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like you should do that here. There’s something about Marcus that makes you think he wouldn’t lie, wouldn’t string you along this far just to have a laugh at your expense, so you don’t do it, for the first time in your life.

You reach up to his shirt, undo two of the buttons, “You know,” You hum, “I think exactly the same as you, with your whip or not.”

He breathes out, taking hold of your wrists to stop your movements, “Let me make you feel good?” He asks.

You meet his eyes, feeling heat rise across your face, but you nod anyway, because you’ve come this far, and you can already feel wetness pooling in your panties. He drags his hands down your body, grips your hips and forces you to sit on the edge of the desk, dropping to his knees in front of you. He’s looking you straight in the eyes, as he pushes the material of your skirt to gather at your waist. Your legs open further, and Marcus groans when your movement reveals the see-through black lace of your panties. It hadn’t felt right to dress as a sexy Velma and wear your normal underwear, is how you justify it.

You’re expecting him to tell you to lift up so he can drag your tights off you, but instead, he hooks a finger through the material at your groin and fucking rips them apart. It makes you gasp. You’d chide him for ruining them, but at this point you don’t care. They were cheap, and if it means you’re going to have his mouth on you quicker, then you’re not going to complain.

Marcus leans forwards, you can feel the heat of his breath splaying across the lace material, and then he drags his tongue across the length of your folds over the lace of your panties. Even with the material barrier between your skin and his mouth, you’re tipping your head back in pleasure, letting out a breath as he repeats his movements, dragging his fingers just behind his tongue on his last pass of movements. It’s not enough.

“Please, Marcus.” You beg quietly.

“What do you want, pretty lady?” He asks, looking up at you with angelic eyes, as if he couldn’t possibly think what it is you want from him.

“Your mouth.”

“You already have it.” He points out, proving his point by licking another stripe up your panties.

“Marcus,” You sigh, “Move the… fuck… move the damn material out of the way.”

He lets out a huff of amusement, “See,” He says, doing exactly as you ask, hooking his fingers under the material and moving it to the side, “All you had to do was ask.”

He doesn’t waste any more time now. Letting his tongue dip between your slick folds, dragging the wetness that’s pooled at your entrance up to your clit, where he flicks softly with the tip of his tongue. You feel his thumbs spreading the lips of your cunt, baring you to him so he can really start to work you up. He presses the flat of his tongue to your clit, working it gently as your hand settles into the curls on his head, anchoring him there. He’s doing all the things you love, moving between wide stripes of the flat of his tongue, and quick flicks with the tip, until your hips are grinding against his face and you’re biting down onto your bottom lip to keep quiet.

“You taste so fucking sweet, pretty lady,” He speaks against your skin, surprising you a little as he pushes not one, but two of his fingers into your soaked cunt, “Feel good?”

“Oh God,” You breathe out as he hooks his fingers inside you, pressing against a spot you had no idea even existed inside of you, “Don’t stop… don’t fucking stop.”

He doesn’t, the obedient man that he is. He starts dragging his fingers in and out of you, whilst his lips wrap around your clit, pulling it into his mouth, laving it with attention from his tongue, which sends you over the edge.

Your thighs are clenching around his head as your body convulses. All you want is to cry out, call his name into the room, but even though you can hear the music from the party down here, anyone could be walking past, and it would be just your luck that it would be Amy from HR. His mouth is working you through those aftershocks as your thighs ease the pressure around his head.

He's breathing as heavy as you are when he stands, slotting himself between your open legs. You can feel the hard length of him pressing against your silken center, as he dips his head to kiss you again, your taste intoxicating on his tongue.

“Can I fuck you?” He asks, almost desperately, “You gonna let me?”

“Please.” Is all you can get out, as he drags you off the desk, flipping you around so your front is pressed against the wood of the desk.

He’s got his hand on the nape of your neck, pressing you down. You can hear him undoing his belt, dragging the zipper of his jeans down. You shuffle a little, widening your stance as he takes his place behind you. You can feel him dragging his cock through your folds, gathering the slick he’s pulled from you, before he’s plunging into you in one go. It takes everything you have not to scream. He’s big. Stretching you like no-one has before and it feels so fucking good.

Marcus is still gripping the back of your neck as he starts moving, his other hand gripping the plush cheek of your ass, spreading you open even more as he slowly drags himself in and out of you. He’s going slowly, and you think that the way his breath is hitching in his throat means he’s struggling to keep his composure, so you decide to have a little fun.

When he’s pulled almost all the way out of you, you turn your head as much as you can with his hand resting there, looking over your shoulder at him as you wiggle your ass, slowly backing into him, letting your cunt suck him right back into you again.

“Baby, you can’t do that,” He pleads, his fingers digging into the skin of your ass, “Carry on like that and this will be over before it’s begun.”

“Don’t care,” You mutter, “Harder, please.”

He starts pounding into you now, the sound of his skin slapping against yours is obscene. You’re both trying as hard as possible to keep the moans and groans as quiet as possible, and you can’t help but wish he wants more, that he’ll take you home sometime, unwrap you and let you scream for him, but you decide to focus on the here and now.

“Touch yourself.” You hear demanded from behind you, “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

You snake your hand underneath you, pushing the discomfort of how your arm is trapped between your body and the desk, and start tracing quick circles over your clit. You’re already sensitive, hanging on the edge from his mouth, so you press harder, move your wrist faster.

“Feel so fucking good, baby,” Marcus groans behind you, “Close, ain’tcha?” He asks, “Go on baby, let go for me, let me feel you.”

And it’s his voice that does it, that finally tips you over the edge, has your cunt clenching around him, walls fluttering and teeth biting into your bottom lip as your knees give way. Thankfully, Marcus is gripping at your hips, which helps to keep you upright.

“Where, baby?” He asks, voice strained, and you don’t catch what he means, “Quick baby, where do you want me?”

“Anywhere.” You groan out, “I don’t care Marcus, just come for me.”

You think for a moment he might stay inside you, which would be fine, you thank the implant under the skin of your arm, but at the last minute he’s pulling out of you, feeling the hot slick of his cum on the skin of your ass as he lets out a low groan out of his mouth. He’s breathing heavily behind you, pulling his jeans back up. You try and move, to push yourself up, but you’re worried if you move further you might collapse.

“Stay there.” He says gently, leaning over you to pluck a few tissues from the box on his desk, gently wiping away the mess he’s caused, pulling your panties back into place and letting your skirt cover as much of your ass as it can in your position.

“You okay?” He asks softly, helping you to stand, tucking a bit of your hair behind your ear.

You nod, because you are, you’ve never been fucked so thoroughly, never been made to come so hard in your life, but there’s an anxiety settling in your stomach. What always happens now is they’ll tell you they had a great time, but don’t think they want to see you again, which is going to be even more embarrassing because you have to work with this man.

It's almost as if he can sense your anxiety, because he’s cupping your cheek again, leaning to give you a soft kiss on the lips, “Would you maybe want to go out sometime?” He asks, “I know we’ve done things out of order, but I’ve wanted to ask for a while.”

You smile, because it does make you happy, that the man you’ve fancied for the best part of a year actually wants to take you out, “As long as you promise to take me back to yours after and let me see you naked?”

He blows out air from his mouth, but his eyes are twinkling, “You drive a hard bargain,” He muses, “But you’ve got yourself a deal.”

He’s moving from you now, over to the couch, picking up your coat and your back, motioning you over so he can help you into your jacket, hooking your bag onto your elbow, then moving to gather his own things, “Wait, right now?” You ask, sounding surprised, as he shrugs his jacket on.

“I know a great diner just down the road.” He shrugs, picking up his satchel.

He’s walking back to you, but you put a hand on his chest, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” You ask, watching a confused look fall over his face, you dart your eyes to his desk, where the whip from earlier is lying abandoned, “I’m only coming back to yours if you bring that.”

You watch as a smirk splays across his lips. He snatches the whip from his desk, shoving it into the satchel, “Well, pretty lady, lead the way.”

#Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike fic #Marcus Pike fanfic #Marcus Pike fanfiction #Marcus Pike fluff #Marcus Pike smut #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x female reader #Marcus Pike x f!reader #Pedro Pascal #The mentalist #the mentalist fic #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #plus size reader

436 notes · View notes

psychedelic-ink · 7 months

Text

𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐓.

DAY TEN OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: inspired by your favorite lana del rey song + artist au + “don't you know how sick with love i am for you?”

pairing: artist!marcus pike x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni

summary: marcus is in desperate need for a muse.

word count: 3.7k

warnings: body painting, artist/muse, obsessed artist marcus pike, mutual oral s.ex/69 but marcus is on top, cum play, spit play, dirty talk, affectionate whore calling, in a very Marcus fashion things escalate very quickly

In the dim living room, the scent of oil paints hung heavy in the air, mingling with the undertones of desperation and need. An artist needs a muse, Marcus thinks, the crease between his brows deep. He placed his hands beneath his chin, fingers meeting, in a contemplative pose. He sat on the couch; right across from a blank canvas. In front of it his paints were angrily scattered, his want to paint clouding his judgment and angering him. It’s been months since he last painted. Nothing inspired him to paint. Not the books he read, not his perfectly decorated studio speaking to his particular tastes, not his friends—

Nothing.

And now he has to leave and he has to leave right now. He has no time to shower and scrub the scent of paint off his skin, no time to tidy his living room. Slowly, he lifts himself off the couch and walks up to the canvas. He places his palm flat in the middle. The grease of his hand seeps into the woven white fabric. Bits of paint adding shards of color and tainting the pure.

He sighs, pulling his hand away, he stares at the faint shine of grease. Still nothing.

Maybe going out will help him think of something to paint.

He has his doubts but he’s willing to try.

Going out tonight you weren’t expecting much. Maybe some laughter—a lot of drinking, but that was pretty much it. You certainly weren’t expecting to meet a charming artist with brown eyes and dark brown hair who had a smile that turned your insides into absolute mush.

He opens the door for you and you go in. It’s a clean apartment, which you appreciate. The scent of paint and hints of soft vanilla tickles your nose, you step instead with a smile and Marcus follows, closing the door with a soft click.

“Sorry for the mess,” he says a bit bashfully. You turn with a raised eyebrow, prompting him to explain. He points towards the canvas, then down to the ground, your gaze follows. “The paints.”

You shrug, “You’re an artist. I’d figured there’d be some paint.” you add shortly after. “In fact, I expected more.”

Marcus leads you to the couch, hand gentle as it presses against the small of your back. A shudder crawls up your spine, a flame awakening between your legs. You swallow thickly.

“I’ve been having a bit of a dry spell,” his grin widens as you give him a look. “I was talking about my art but honestly haven’t been the most fortunate in that apartment either.”

“Tortured artist,” you murmur, eyes flitting across his face. “Classic.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purrs. His other hand slides to your waist, the other moving up from the middle of your stomach and gliding up between your breasts until he tucks his fingers under your chin, holding you with a thumb and a forefinger. The chocolate of his eyes is gone, leaving you to stare into complete darkness. He smiles hungrily—stares at you as if he’s been waiting for you since the end of times and not that he’s found you, he’s never letting you go. “I’m everything but classic.”

His thumb pulls at your bottom lip, exposing hard teeth. Your heart flutters and you smile. It should frighten you. The obsession in his eyes. Your stomach jumps, the skin over bone growing taut. Your breathing goes heavy, your gaze dropping to his lips multiple times within the silence. He knows. He knows how badly you want him and that only turns you on. You’ve never been anyone’s first choice before, never caught the eye of a stranger at a bar. People felt relaxed around you but that didn’t entice them enough to actually want you or be with you. Obsession was like kryptonite for a lonely person. A drug.

And man did you want your fill of it.

Your pulse raises, “Why haven’t you been able to paint?” you ask.

His plush lips part with a soft, slow sight. A rumble follows his breath as it ghosts your cheeks. Marcus slides his fingers around your throat, the thin cheap chain of your necklace burning your skin as he presses forward.

“I haven’t been feeling inspired,” he says. “Lost my muse.”

Your breath hitches and he cocks his head to the side, his smile softening around the edges. “I’m feeling quite inspired now, though.”

“You don’t say,” You’re surprised at how sultry your voice is, how hoarse it became in mere seconds. “You think you found your muse?”

He tightens his grip and arousal gathers at the seam of your underwear, you feel the brush of his lips against yours.

“I believe I have.”

You’ve always had an obsession with the color blue. It soothes you. And you often associate it with life itself. Water, the sky. All the most important things in human life are blue, but the color of the water isn’t real, it comes from the sky. A mirage. After learning about it, you only grew fonder of the color, relating to it.

Marcus’s lips taste like that. Something that you see but surely couldn’t be real, a mirage of your darkest desires perhaps? He tastes like heaven and hell and you want more and more and more—

He slips his tongue between your lips, licking himself deep into your mouth. You mimic him, flattening your tongue over his and allowing him to suck the tender muscle into his mouth. You feel his hands everywhere; on your ass, hip, breasts. He squeezes them, rubs his thumb enough so peeks form despite your bra and dress. You moan into his mouth, eyes nearly rolling back from how hot it suddenly is.

Then suddenly you’re being pulled back, all you ever wanted taken from you.

“Let me paint you,” he suddenly gasps. He rubs himself against yours, the length of him hard against your stomach. You let out a shuddering breath.

“Wouldn’t that take long?” you whine. His eyes lit up with amusement. “I mean. . .I would love that but I’d rather. . . be with you.”

“Is my sweet muse suddenly shy?” he teases, nudging your nose together. “When I say paint you I don’t mean paint a portrait of you—I mean I. Want. To. Paint. You.”

“Oh,” you hear the blood rushing to your ears, your cheeks starting to warm under his gaze. “No one’s ever done that before.”

“Good,” he says and fully pulls away, turning his gaze to the blank canvas. Your eyes follow. He seems to be staring directly into the middle of it, you don’t know why, you wish you could see what he sees.

Then his head suddenly snaps back to you, almost making you jump, “I’m thinking blue.”

You hope to disguise your surprise, but from the way he smiles, you know he sees something on your face to prompt the expression. “Yes,” he says nonchalantly. “Blue.”

It seems that not much preparation is needed for him to paint you. To turn you into his personalized canvas to use. After laying down a rather large white fabric on the floor, he places various colored paints and brushes. Marcus gets behind you, fingers playing with the fabrics of your dress. You shiver at the brush of his fingers. He kisses your neck, the wet of his tongue tasting your skin.

“Will you strip for me?” he asks.

Your answer is ready on your lips, “Yes.”

And he pushes down the straps, lowers your zipper. The dress pools at your ankles and you step out of the waves of fabric. You want to give him a show.

Turning to him, you unclasp your bra. His eyes follow the curves of them immediately, taking in the sight of your peeked nipples, the way they sag in their natural beauty when the bra is removed. You would normally be embarrassed but the feeling escapes you entirely, no matter how longingly he observes your details.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, eyes meeting yours. “Show me the rest of you.”

Slowly leaning forward you hook your thumbs under the pretty lace and pull it down, it drops to your ankles. A chill settles at the base of your spine when the cool air hits your wet, warm pussy. Marcus licks his lips, eyes eating you hungrily before meeting your gaze once more. He takes a step forward and cups your mound with the entirety of his palm. A soft moan trembles within the confinements of your throat as he begins to stroke between your folds with two thick fingers.

“So wet already,” he murmurs, breath tickling your heated cheeks. “You must feel it too, this pull between us. The crimson ropes of faith telling you that you’re mine.”

You don’t miss the way his soft cadence shifts into something of a silent growl, he presses the heel of his palm against your clit and you gasp, the tender nub throbs. “Lay down,” he orders, hand slipping to your waist, you feel the wet streaks he leaves on your skin.

“Tell me why you wanted to go out tonight,” Marcus says while you’re lying down, from the corner of your eyes you see him reaching for brushes and blue paint. “I want to know how your mind works.”

“Well, it’s not that interesting really,” a nervous laughter escapes you. You stare at the ceiling, it makes you feel oddly relaxed even though you’re stark naked. “I’m just tired of being alone. I wanted to have fun, and see if I could. . . find someone that’d wanna spend time with me.”

“I guess you hit the jackpot then,” he answers, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Because I certainly want to spend time with you.”

Your breath hitches. You want to argue, tell him that he barely knows you yet and that he should give it time before he tucks his tail between his legs and runs. But you have an inkling that he does, in fact, know you. You feel that invisible thread holding you together and even though your feelings had let you astray before, you want to believe the bond this time.

The cool, wet end of the brush hovers an inch above your body, a subtle chill bursting across your skin, “I’m telling you the truth you know,” he murmurs as if reading your mind. “I’ll never get sick of this feeling. Never.”

Then you feel it. The cold paint swirling around your breast, tickling your skin, shortening your breath. Marcus smiles at the way your back curves, pushing yourself further into the brush despite the way it makes you shiver. Arousal blossoms between your legs, forcing your legs together, Marcus tuts with the click of his tongue and pushes himself between them so they stay spread for him to witness your glimmering core.

He moves the brush over your nipple, you feel the paint slowly drying around your breast, the swirl of the bristles makes your nipples harden and skin grow taut.

“You look good in blue,” he mutters, rolling his hips. The outline of his cock brushes over your throbbing clit and with your lips parting, you push yourself down, following him. “When was the last time you’ve been with someone?” Marcus asks suddenly, taking you by surprise.

“It’s been a while,” you answer, averting your gaze. “Have I made it that obvious?”

His brows furrow with regret, “Sweetheart no, I was just curious. And I have to admit, I also asked due to some selfishness on my part. Would have to fuck you hard if you’d told me you’ve been with someone else yesterday.”

The words go straight to your cunt, the tender flesh bottoming out as a wanton moan escapes your lips. The brush moves down to your navel, dipping to your belly button. “So possessive already,” you tease, pressing your legs against his hips.

Marcus leans low enough that your lips nearly touch, you hold your breath, your pulse loud in your ears. His smile is dangerous and dark when he whispers.

“So you’re telling me you’d be completely fine if I told you I fucked someone raw over the same floor you’re sprawled out for me now?” Your eyes go wide, anger and jealousy burrowing itself deep in your stomach. His smile grows but he’s not done, he licks the curve of your bottom lip. “Would you be okay if I said I came inside some random woman only yesterday because I was lonely, telling her how good her pussy made me feel? What about if I told you how I bit into her neck? How I ruined her for anyone else that’s gonna come after me—”

You cut his words by pushing a hand over his mouth. You watch wide-eyed as you smear blue paint over his lips and cheeks that you’d gathered by brushing your palm over your stomach. You feel his smile on your skin branding you. “Did you?” you ask, your voice gone hoarse.

His eyes become soft, the cruel teasing from earlier melting away, he shakes his head. You let out a breath, lungs caving in. “Okay,” you whisper, dropping your hand. “S-Sorry.”

Marcus holds your wrist and presses his lips into the curve of your palm, a blue lip mark forming on your skin, “Don’t be,” he says. “This wouldn’t be as fun if we didn’t behave the same way.”

Marcus leaves the brush somewhere near your head and dips his fingers into a shade of red that reminds you of blood. The marks he leaves on you look like claws. As if you’ve been ripped apart by some vicious creature. He doesn’t stop and continues to pain. He draws various shapes with wet fingers, murmuring praise, kissing you where he wishes, leaving blue lips across your bare skin.

You’re quivering by the time he finally slides down and pushes your thighs up his broad shoulders. The sheet underneath you is damp with arousal, your clit aching with the need to be touched.

Marcus blows a teasing puff of hair and your entire body clenches, your toes curling into the thin fabric. “Please,” you beg. “Give me your mouth, fingers, anything—”

Something dark crosses his face but he seems to decide against it and gives you what you want. His lips are soft as he kisses your pussy, slow and sensual. He dips the tip of his tongue between the tender folds and moans at the taste of you. Your brain short circuits when he wraps his devilish lips around your clit, sucking hard on the bundle of nerves, your hips stutter up, meeting the fat strokes of his tongue.

He grips your hips and pins them down, pushing his tongue deeper inside of you. Your breath catches in your throat. When you look down you see red hand prints all over the outside of your thighs, the sight alone forcing a fresh gush of wetness to coat his tongue. Marcus ground and swirls his tongue around your clit as he looks up.

“You taste amazing,” he mumbles, pupils blown wide. “I can spend every hour between these gorgeous thighs.”

Before you can answer he purses his lips, your eyes go wide and your body burns, you watch intently as a drop of saliva stretches from between his lips and lands on your cunt. You shudder.

“You like that?” he rasps, rubbing two fingers over your clit, smearing the spit all around. Your insides clench. “You want me to make a mess of you, sweetheart? Answer me.”

“Yes,” you whimper. “I want it all—I want to be your dirty little whore that you make a mess of.”

“Fuck—” he hisses, this time when he purses his lips, he spits more violently and presses his mouth immediately after. He flattens his tongue and moves his jaw as he sucks, licks and bites. “My dirty whore?” he repeats your words, his tone unbelieving. “God, you’re so fucking perfect. My perfect little whore, all you want to do is come on my face and let me pull you apart with my cock, isn’t it?”

You nod helplessly, the coil in your stomach tightening, you cradle his head and grind yourself against him. This time Marcus doesn’t stop you, allows you to smear your wetness all over his smooth skin. You hear the words ‘perfect’ and ‘whore’ repeated over and over again, the sounds of each word reverberating against your clit.

Instead of white, you see bright blue and shards of red.

He sucks on your clit—hard. You scream his name. Your hips gyrating and stuttering into his wanting mouth. Marcus groans loudly, slurping as his tongue laps at your core, swallowing every drop. Your lungs burn. Your eyes throbbing from rolling so deep into their sockets. Never—Never in your life had you come so hard. Especially not with a man. It would be the toys that pushed you off the edge and your vivid imagination.

“Fuck, baby, that was amazing—” he says wetly. You tremble. “Can you do it again?”

You nod but just as he’s about to dive back in, you tug on his hair, drawing his attention back to you. Your chest heaves helplessly, your cunt fluttering to feel his tortuous mouth on you once more. “Want to taste you too,” you slur. “Use me.”

He pushes himself back so he’s sitting on his heels, you’d forgotten that Marcus was still fully clothed. You eye him hungrily. His cock strains painfully against the fabric of his pants and all you want to do is wrap your mouth around the width of him.

Marcus robs himself through the fabric, smiling, “You want me to fuck that pretty mouth?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then, lay back down.”

You frown but do what he says anyway. You had expected him to ask you to get on your knees instead, your mouth watering at the thought of struggling to take him whole. The scent of paint is thick in the air and once again you’re staring at the ceiling. You hear the faint sound of fabric falling to the hardwood floors. Soon enough he’s standing near your head, fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking himself lazily while looking down at you.

Before he can say anything, you reach out. He holds your hand with a slight surprise and finally takes a step closer. “How did I get so lucky tonight?” he mutters, both his thighs bracketing your head as he sinks down.

Marcus doesn’t sit fully, his body hovering enough so your mouth can reach his pretty cock. You follow the path of the throbbing vein with the tip of your tongue and a drop of precome oozes down from the slit, landing on your chin. You grin widely at the way he shudders, enjoying that he is breaking down just as easily. His breath comes in short pants, the puffs of hot air stimulating your clit deliciously. He kisses your mound and lowers his hips, you dutifully suck on the head, swirling your tongue, your heart leaps at the way he moans into you.

He twitches on your tongue, “Can I fuck your mouth, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice hoarse and thick. “I can’t take it.”

Instead of using your words, you press your palms on his ass and push him down until he’s halfway in and you’re choking. His sigh of relief echoes across the living room. He thrusts again, pulling back until the tip is touching your lips before snapping them back down again. Your throat seizes around him as he goes down inch by inch. You love the way he has surrounded you compelled. His body like a weighted blanket while his tongue delves deeper into you.

Marcus groans loudly, and you feel his hips start to buck faster and more erratically. You try to relax your throat as much as possible, letting him take control of the pace. He pulls back, then he plunges back in all the way to the hilt, making spit and come trickle down the corners of your stretched-out lips.

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” he praises, his voice strangled with pleasure. “My sweet little whore, such a perfect hole for me.”

He closes his lips around your clit and draws various shapes around the tender flesh. You moan around him in response, the vibrations sending shivers through his body.

His hips jerk with each movement. You can feel his cock swelling in your mouth, and you know he’s close to coming. You take him as deep as you can, wanting to feel him pulse and release inside you. You can barely breathe, your own release right around the corner and he knows it—he knows it and presses his lips even harder, moves his tongue with more vigor until he tears your orgasm from you.

You cry our around his cock and that only spurs him on, fucking into your mouth deeper, harder.

With one final thrust, Marcus moans and buries himself deep between your lips. His hot release shoots down your throat, some of it dribbling onto your chin and chest.

“Don’t swallow,” he suddenly says, his voice riddled with authority that makes you throb. He pulls out of your mouth with a soft groan, and you wait until his face comes back into view. “Open your mouth, baby,” he mutters. You do and he shoves two fingers inside, smearing his seed all around your lips and down your body, he mixes it with the blue and red paint that marks you as his own. “You look stunning,” he murmurs, his eyes glued to your body.

Then he leans down and kisses you fiercely, his tongue seeking out the sweet taste of his own release. Those same lips slide down to your throat, biting and licking, as he lays down next to you, pulling you into a tight embrace.

Your body seeks his own. Your face burrowing into the solace of his neck, the dried paint leaving flakes of color across his skin while his come leaves shiny stains. The taste of him is now tainted with hints of fear and uncertainty.

“I’m afraid,” you sniffle into the crook of his neck, and he holds you tighter. “I don’t want this to end. For it to become another memory that is out of reach.”

“It won’t,” he murmurs, lips moving along your forehead. “Don't you already know how sick with love I am for you?”

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x fem!reader #marcus pike x f!reader #artist!marcus pike #marcus pike au #the mentalist fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #hauntedhoedown #haunted hoedown

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pedroscurls · 2 months

Text

second chances | series masterlist

wip | ao3

Summary: After Marcus moves to DC - alone - he's determined to just focus on work. After a failed marriage followed with his failed relationship with Lisbon, Marcus believes that love just isn't in the cards for him anymore. Until you move in next door. Character pairing: Marcus Pike x fem!Reader Rating: 18+ minors dni, each chapter will have its own warnings.

Part 1.

Part 2.

Part 3.

Part 4.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal characters #marcus pike #the mentalist #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike fanfic #the mentalist fanfiction #the mentalist fanfic #marcus pike x fem!reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x reader #story: second chances

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oogaboogasphincter · 5 months

Text

Deceits of the Devil (priest!marcus pike x f!reader) | chapter two: the magician

chapter summary: after the harvest dinner, you're kept up all night by a frightening plague and are bedridden for the next couple days. when sunday arrives, never did you think you would look forward to mass as much as you do now that father pike is involved. yet another illness bewilders you during the service and a knight in an alb comes to your rescue - and gives you some very interesting information. does this help you feel less alone or will it make you even more of an apostate?

word count/series~chapter-specific warnings: 6.1k+ words // MATURE (18+ ONLY) MDNI! reader uses she/her pronouns and is incredibly non-religious, slow burn taboo relationship, lots of religious/spiritual talk, horror elements and general spookiness ~ descriptions of vomiting/vomit, some light body horror, fainting, discussions of health, slow burn is slow burning, WE LEARN HIS FIRST NAME IN THE NEXT CHAPTER TRUST I WILL SPARE YOU PRECIOUS READER FROM READING FATHER PIKE AS EVERY OTHER WORD GOING FORTH

a/n: i'm not really sure if i like this chapter, i think i do?? again i'm not really sure where i'm going with this story, but i'm just trying to go with the flow and have some fun with minimalist editing. i have some ideas for later chapters but i'm not too sure how i'm going to get there yet. marcus seems a little ooc to me in this chapter, but he also only had like 30 minutes of canon screen time so i feel like i'm entitled to some creative liberties 😭 again, let me know what you liked and what you'd like to see more of in future chapters! :) *moodboard is for aesthetics only, reader has no physical description

The embroidered rosettes lining the hand towel’s edges start to warp into one dusty pink blur as you swallow back bile again. You’ve been hunched over the toilet all night, switching between dry heaving and being sick so often that you can’t tell the difference anymore. Knelt on the cold tile, with the moonlight that comes through the window making a mockery of your candlelight, you feel incredibly alone in Lucy’s house. She’s just upstairs in her room, but you don’t want to disturb her from sleep at this hour of the night. You’ll continue to wick your own cold sweat away and clean any residue of gut spillage until you’ve emptied yourself - a point you thought you had reached hours ago.

When you got back to Lucy’s you felt fine, jovial even. The innocent flirtations and budding friendship you shared with Father Pike at the harvest dinner injected a spring into your step, one so strong that Lucy commented on it with a smile. She gave you a quick tour of her inherited cottage, since you only had time to change clothes after arriving from the airport before you were sprinting off to the cathedral.

The house is all vintage charm, with quaint rooms and antiquities. Lucy’s room is upstairs, neighboring the room that belonged to her mother before she passed away. Lucy has left it untouched in its entirety because her wounds are still too tender to prod, which you respect with wholeheartedness. You didn’t ask questions when she walked past the room as soon as she introduced it. Downstairs contains the living room, which is populated with wicker and wool save for the pink velvet couch. The kitchen is embellished with mint gingham, complementing the vintage and well-kept appliances. Lucy has an en suite, so the downstairs bathroom is all yours, with its clawfoot tub beneath a massive shuttered window that overlooks the backyard’s garden. Your bedroom has the same whimsical view, albeit from a much smaller window. It seemed dark when you first walked in, but the towering beautyberry bushes just outside explained that. The room is largely taken up by the queen bed, outfitted with pine-colored linen, so you suppose that accounts for the extra shadows too. Despite the eerie silence that shrouds the house, you can see yourself living here peacefully for your visit.

The two of you said your goodnights to each other and retreated to your assigned rooms. You hung up your clothes, stocked the bathroom with your toiletries and cuddled up in the sheets for their first time cradling someone ever. The stress and excitement from your evening had drained you of energy, but somehow you couldn’t find sleep. Actually, you know exactly why you couldn’t sleep: visions of Father Pike danced in your head like goddamn sugarplums. While your visit is contingent on when you’ve deemed your stay sufficient - and when you’ve been accepted for an apartment in a city thousands of miles away from this village stuck in an orthodox time warp - Father Pike is a major draw to settle your wings.

Regardless of the opportunity that cities hold, it’s difficult for you to find people you mesh well with. You don’t make it any easier on yourself, opting to sequester yourself to university, work, your solitary bedroom, rather than put yourself out there. But that’s because when you do, you find arrogance, cruelty, entitlement. It’s easier on your heart to be alone and you enjoy your own company.

Enter: Father Pike. He was kind, kinder than anyone else at the cathedral. You might be biased, with his dreamy eyes deviously manipulatling your impression of him into a favorable one. Maybe he didn’t show you any more chivalry than any other person would have, you just spent more time with him so it unfolded naturally. But no - he felt different. You tossed from one side to the other, wracking your brain for answers and scrambling your thoughts once they had composed into investigated little piles to see if an answer was lying in plain sight instead of hidden amongst overthinking. Nevertheless, your mystery remained unsolved of any concrete reasoning.

You decided it was his honesty: the way he treated you with understanding delicacy when you revealed your unreligious core; how he laughed at your atrocious jokes that erred on the side of being sacrilegious - a genuine laugh at that; his smirk that took pleasure in the mischief shared between you two when he helped maintain your guise, one that gleamed with… dare you say it… devilishness.

Without your permission, your brain, slightly delirious with exhaustion, began orchestrating a symphony named after him. As you drifted off to sleep, the cozy scent of cinnamon filled your nose, the warmth of his gentle yet confident touch tingled all over your skin. He was like a plate of steaming waffles on a blustery morning, an everlasting hug, a book destined to be your favorite that’s hidden amongst the most unassuming shelves, just waiting to be picked up and cherished by you. You’re doomed.

A sharp pain in your stomach awakened you and the nonstop churning that followed it had you fleeing to the bathroom. The light was unresponsive when you flipped the switch, and after a few more unsuccessful tries, you barely had time to light a candle before your body unleashed itself. Thankfully you had gotten some light because you were in no shape to aim for the toilet in darkness. You attribute your upset stomach to a multitude of reasons: the nerves from seeing your best friend in-person for the first time in a year; the sudden illness you experienced; the butterflies that Father Pike gave you. You had even begun thinking that maybe there was a part of the meal that triggered you, but there’s no way you’re still harboring anything you consumed in the last twenty four hours.

Like any time you’re sick, you start trying to think of things that calm you down. Maybe if it is in fact your nerves that are acting up, some peace will help put a stop to your blight. You close your eyes and rest your head against the toilet seat, breathing in and out, images coming clearer to your mind with each breath. A field of flowers dancing underneath happy sunlight, the gentle lapping of ocean waves on a clear day, the scent of a puppy’s fur, Father Pike’s hands…

Your efforts have the complete opposite effect of your intention. The veins that web across the top of Father Pike’s hands, instead of the heady attraction they conjured earlier, make you squirm like eels caught in a trap. With every little detail about him that you try to remember comes a drowning of illness. Is he… is he making you sick?

You close your eyes as your body hurls forward into the toilet again. Sweat trickles down your temples and invades your eyes, stinging them with salt and forces you to wrench them open. When you look in the toilet, you jump back with a startle. It can’t be. You scrub your eyes with the backs of your fingers before slowly grasping the bowl with your two shaky hands and peer inside: your vomit is bright green. The pile of sludge glows inside, too weak to illuminate the bathroom, but enough to constrict your pupils out of both exposure and fear.

What the fuck?! Like roadkill, you turn away out of revulsion but can’t stop staring back at the offense through your periphery. Could you even flush this thing? It looks like radioactive waste straight out of a bad post-apocalyptic movie. With every second that passes of it just sitting there, you become frightened to a degree where you can’t stop trembling. That thing just came from your body. In the dark, now accompanied by neon ambience, your hand searches blindly while your eyes are glued to the monstrosity, like it will get up and walk away. You grab the hand towel to wipe your mouth clean, but you curl into it, muffling your sobs. You wish someone was there to tell you that you’re fine, there’s nothing wrong with you, just to hold you. Only one person clouds your mind…

More lime green empties into the toilet. You huff in frustration, completely fed up. At this point, you’ll disregard the unnatural hue of your vomit as a fluke if you could just stop and be granted the ability to sleep. As silly as it sounds, you determine there is a brown-eyed common denominator in all your illnesses. So, with the dismal energy that remains, you thwart all thoughts of him away. You shut your mind’s doors, shutter the windows, pull the blanket up and over your head and hunker down in your mental fortress. You can feel the arrows of lust being shot at the walls, incessant and ambitious in breaking you down. You don’t let them nudge one brick. They soon retreat and your castle falls silent, like there had never been a threat in the first place.

To your surprise, it works. Like magic, you’re finally granted some mercy by your body. The cramping dissipates like cotton candy in a puddle, and suddenly, you feel all better. Your muscles are a little sore from seizing and releasing, but other than that, you’re… fine. The cold sweat evaporates and the acidic taste in your mouth is neutralized. You grimace at your puke, which has reverted to its horrible organic color. You seriously don’t know which is more putrid: this horribleness or the glow stick version.

You now feel comfortable - and eager - to flush so you do. You stuff the soiled towel into the laundry bin, making a mental promise to Lucy that you’ll do your best to scrub any evidence of this night out of it. Within minutes, you’re flopping down onto your bed, huddling under the covers and finding a sleep too peaceful to follow the horrors you just suffered.

—-

Saturday you’re bedridden - against your will. You tell Lucy about your blunder, excluding the radioactivity bit, and she cancels the activities she had lined up for you two to have some fun, forcing you to stay confined to your bed. She serves you tea and keeps you on a diet of bread, apples and chicken soup, rolling her eyes at you when you beg and whine for a piece of her dessert. But, your best friend always knows best.

When you settle down for the night, a fear creeps up in you that the events of last night will repeat themselves, or even worse, go to more horrid lengths. But, thankfully, you feel like normal before bed and you stay asleep, thanking the stars and moon in your dreams. You had kept your mind clear of Father Pike, you noted.

—-

Sunday morning is here and you get out of bed jittering with excitement. Today you’re going to mass and that means you get to see Father Pike again. You laugh at your own foolishness when you realize this will be only the second time you’re seeing him, tugging your jeans up over your hips and jumping to get the job done faster. But, in a town desolate of amusement, you allow yourself to lean into the infatuation. There’s nothing wrong with a little blossoming crush, you tell yourself, untouchable or not.

Lucy chuckles when you walk into the kitchen, her cereal spoon hovering in mid-air, “Wooow,” she elongates the syllable as you twirl on your heel, showing off your incredibly mundane outfit, “I haven’t seen you up and awake this early in… how many years ago were we in kindergarten?”

“Oh, ha ha,” you grumble playfully, pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and taking the seat across from her. You keep your eyes trained on your breakfast, feeling your best friend’s gaze boring into your lips that twitch with a smile you can’t fight no matter how hard you try. The silence of the cottage, save for the awkward clanking of your spoons, rips a giggle from you that you smother with your hand.

“Don’t act like I don’t know why you’re so chipper,” she accuses conspiratorially. You look up at her, your anxious shoulders deflating with an impatient sigh.

“Just tell me what time we’re leaving.”

—-

The cathedral looks much less cozy in the brightening sunlight than it did illuminated by warm-toned street lights and candle sticks the night prior, but it’s no less majestic. There are crows perched on the roof, cawing a morning chorus. The structure’s hulking size seems less threatening by their presence in addition to the pale backdrop of the morning. The inky blackness of the night sky has opened to reveal a powder blue, bouncing off camel coats and cherry scarves that had been twisted into muddy smudges and blood ties at the harvest dinner. Even the cathedral’s inner hull seems more like an endless cavern than a sinister vacuum, with your curiosity being stimulated by all that you could not see before; what lies inside all of the corridors, the hidden passageways, the arched doors? Maybe that’s something you could ask Father Pike.

All of the newfound loveliness aside, it doesn’t erase the feeling that you’re in a place where you don’t belong. You didn’t quite think through all the ramifications of seeking out your holy crush, but who doesn’t forfeit their rationale in the face of infatuation? You’re always open to learning, especially about cultures that you’re not a part of, but you didn’t think mass would be this boring.

Lucy briefed you about when to stand, sit, stand again, when to sing and when to be quiet. So no one would suspect a thing, you follow along like a lamb with the same robotic obedience that everyone else does. You’re surprised to find personal dismay at the lack of life behind the hymns that the other goers recite, nor is there any in Father Thorn’s sermon. It saddens you that these people dedicate their lives to this higher cause, boast about how it divinely guides them to choose the right paths in life, only for them to sing with as much enthusiasm as you do. Father Thorn stands painfully erect, addressing the room like a schoolteacher whose monotone and thoughtless eyes make you think that maybe there was some reluctance in his profession of choice. From the piercing glare he gave you yesterday, you know better than to imagine questioning his integrity lest you want your severed head deposited into his goblet.

Father Gala flanks the droning priest in a gilded throne that must serve no other purpose than to support the elderly Father’s aching bones. He listens on with a permanent soft smile, flickering his eyes amongst the audience with visible cheerfulness. His eyes lit up when he noticed you in the crowd and gave you a friendly nod, which you returned with amicability. Lucy nudged you on the shoulder when he glanced away with a whisper, “Look, you’ve made a friend.”

And on Father Thorn’s other side stands who you’ve been aching to see for a whole of thirty six hours. He had taken very seriously to carry out the beginning demands of mass, saying his prayers and following the proposed movements with an almost militaristic adherence. But since the reading of scriptures began, his shoulders relaxed and his fingers interlocked in front of himself with peace. His brown eyes gaze absentmindedly to the narthex behind you and you so desperately want to get up close and see how the sunlight that streams in through all angles of the building hit his irises. Do they shimmer with threads of gold, or do umber chasms allude an unreachable depth?

Your crush seems eons away from where you sit a few rows back from the sanctuary. The sermon fizzles out to a barely noticeable hum as a tornado of names rushes through your head while you assess your preferred priest and try to imagine which would fit him best. While you’re intent on respecting his title and maintaining proper etiquette for someone you literally just met a few days ago (and internally cringing at the speed of which this infatuation has snowballed) you have to at least dream of what you could call him.

Is he a David? No, he’s too young for such an old name. But it is biblical and maybe he’s a junior, or the third or fourth. Dave as a nickname is where you draw the line. That just feels all wrong.

Possibly something strong and sturdy, like Joel? Eh, Joel sounds too ornery and old again.

Go simpler, you think, Jack. No offense to all the great Jacks of the world, but it would be a shame if this exceptional man was dubbed so plainly.

And none of these options sound good with his last name, which you know as fact: David Pike, Joel Pike, Jack Pike. No, no, definitely not.

Cutting into your brainstorm, you agree that Father Pike can wear anything and look great. He has his usual black priest garb on, but layered atop is a white robe whose seams are trimmed with a red and gold pattern of tiles. If you’re being completely honest… it’s a little heinous. The fabric looks starched beyond belief and the decoration screams of yester-millenia. But, somehow, his virility isn’t snatched by the drabness. His shoulders maintain that delectable broadness you noticed at the dinner, along with a poise that is mannered yet youthful. The golden threads shimmer adorably in the sunlight with the fidgets of his wrist as he fiddles with the side of his thumbnail.

As if on cue, his eyes land on you just when your cheeks break out in a heat. Your heart jumps to your throat momentarily but is lulled back down to your chest by his soft, tender smile and the identifying gleam in his gaze. It’s as if you’re his puppet and he’s pulling the strings to shape your lips into a smile to match his own, completely unable to control your body. You think you can’t find him cuter but then he’s upturning his hand so his palm faces you and he waves. Again with your bodily autonomy extinct, you wave back with the shy nature of a blushing virgin.

Lucy notices your hand first and her eyes are quick to follow your tunnel vision. She takes your wrist and lowers it to your lap, glancing at you with that funny mixture of scorn and encouragement that only a best friend can give. “Not now,” she whispers quickly before returning her attention to Thorn’s speech with the shadow of a smirk. Father Pike still looks at you.

Your mind drifts deliriously to a part of mass that Lucy called communion, when the parishioner metaphorically drinks the blood and eats the body of Christ, or drinks wine from the goblet and eats a wafer from the hand of a priest. The seduction engulfs your mind like a virus thinking about sipping from a goblet that Father Pike holds in his strong hands, meeting his gaze while your throat bobs with drink. While taking the wafer into your mouth as he places it on your tongue, maybe he’s slow to withdraw and your lips would catch on his finger…

Lucy taps your bicep to indicate to you it’s time to stand again. Father Thorn’s voice is suddenly much louder, booming in your ears and reverberating in your chest, down to the ground beneath your feet.

“God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father; through him all things were made.”

A fickle tingling lunges through your veins, sending your nervous system into a familiar panic. When have you felt this peculiar feeling before? You feel ill, like you want to curl up on the floor and empty yourself, or passing out would be an easier option. Oh no.

“For us men and for our salvation he came down from heaven,”

Everyone bends at the waist, bowing towards the sanctuary, but you remain standing upright, frozen. Your eyes bulge with wild terror. The blood drains from your face. Father Pike meets your gaze and he furrows his brow in confusion at first, before you watch him be consumed with brazen worry.

“And by the Holy Spirit was incarnate of the Virgin Mary, and became man.”

Father Pike disappears from your sight as your eyes roll into the back of your head.

—-

You come to groggily with a lukewarm cloth being pressed to your temple. A low, firm voice is muffled and distant in your ear despite its closeness, but you absorb its warmth intravenously, “Hey, hey, hey…”

You can hear his strain to remain calm and steady. He drifts away for a moment, you feel your feet being propped up on a pillow, and his breath is back at your ear, ghosting over your dewy cheek.

Under the safeguard of questionable consciousness and the panicked edge in his soul, he lets an endearment slip, “Wake up, pretty girl, come on…” he whispers in an increasingly pleading tone. His timbre does the opposite of his intention and keeps you wanting to stay asleep, to writhe and drown in his comfort within the darkness of your mind. In your dreams, you can be his pretty girl.

You roll onto your side and grumble, fighting to stay in your head. The unforgiving surface you’re laid out on shoves against your bones but you remain stubborn. The man at your back chuckles under his breath. He pries your arm from your side and overturns it in his hands, cradling it delicately, and you wish to feel those arms and hands encapsulate you, engulf you like a snake and constrict. But then he’s pinching the tender patch of your inner bicep, jolting you awake. You tear your arm back and by the offense on your face, he knows you’re back in reality.

Someone had moved you from the spot you had collapsed to this room, empty of anyone besides Father Pike. It’s quiet and dull, exposed stone comprising both the walls and floor. You’re sprawled out on a large and long wooden table, atop a sweetly placed blanket that unfortunately doesn’t do much to cushion. Wardrobes and other tables dot the rest of the room, illuminated by the small and sparse stained glass windows that line the perimeter.

Father Pike assesses your mindful curiosity and deems you sound and coherent. He decides to awaken you further with a little well-intentioned abrasiveness.

“Are you going to do this every time I see you?”

“I hope not,” you sit up and Father Pike is quick to put a hand on your back, steadying you. Only now with your eyes open do you realize just how incredibly close he is to you; his lips parted with apprehension are mere inches from yours. You meet his eyes and you were right - they glow in the sunlight, the caramel streaks highlighted and accompanied by obscured taupe that shelters his innermost secrets. You flinch away imperceptibly, afraid of your own arousal.

“Are you-” he has to clear his throat, turning away to spare you before he tries again. His voice was tight with nerves.

“Do you feel okay?” Much smoother but there’s still a hint of constraint. He’s softened from their teasing.

You think for a moment, mentally check in with your body then answer honestly, “Yes, I’m okay.” And you are. Besides a subtle ache on your outer thigh, which you assume broke your fall, you feel completely normal.

Father Pike stands from where he knelt and puts the back of his hand to your forehead, checking your temperature. You try your very best not to drench your panties. “Do you feel any pressure in your head? Any nausea? Do you feel dizzy while sitting right now?” It’s a barrage of questions, but in his comforting tone it doesn’t feel anywhere near overwhelming or like an interrogation.

“No pressure, no nausea. I feel a tiny bit dizzy, but nothing like before. And after all, I did hit my- did I hit my head?”

“No, your thigh hit the ground first. It looked like you twisted your knee on your way down. Thankfully, because if you hadn’t, you would’ve hit your head first.”

Now that he mentions it, your knee does feel a bit funny. Hopefully it’ll just bruise over and won’t cause any lingering issues.

Your thoughts are obliterated when Father Pike takes your face in his palms, tilting your chin up so he can look into your eyes. He’s checking your pupil size, but it sends an unwarranted, delectable chill up your spine nonetheless. There goes your attempts to avoid a mess between your thighs. You gulp foolishly and he looks at your throat bob. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip before sealing his mouth closed. A habit you can picture him doing any time he’s deep in thought, this time it’s dipped in eroticism.

“Does being unknowledgeable about the church really stress you out this much?” He’s caring, concerned. Condescension, intolerance and disdain are in a different galaxy entirely than his intentions. His eyes bore into yours considerably, assessing you like you did him earlier. Trying to figure you out.

You gather your thoughts, taking into account the near-fainting spell you had on Friday and trying with all your might to remember only the vital details of what happened during the night after you got home. Coming up with no definite answer, you shrug, “No, this felt completely unrelated. It was just my body acting out of order.” You had felt uncomfortable during the sermon, but not fearful. It didn’t wrack your nerves to sit there and listen to illusionary words like it had when Father Gala shook your hand for the first time. But even then, your illness had come after the stress. Your sea of anxiety had been drained and what came to be revealed at the bottom was a previously undiscovered chest of volatile poisons. They felt correlated, perhaps, but not connected.

Father Pike’s worry remains in his face like he doesn’t believe you. Not because he thinks you’re lying, but almost like… there’s something you don’t understand that’s happening. Suddenly it feels a little awkward between you two, with the cause blurry. You decide it’s best to elaborate so you both can have a few more pieces to aid in finding a solution.

The door is a good distance away from Father Pike’s back and looks as though it’s made of the sturdiest oak to ever grow, but you still don’t trust it. If someone were to lean their ear against the other side, in addition to the enshrouding silence, they could clearly hear what is being said. Mass must have ended a while ago, but the cathedral is open to roaming parishioners, tourists and other inquiring minds. You lean towards Father Pike and he comes to stand at the edge of the table. Lowering your voice, not nearly to a whisper but close enough, you confide in him again,

“But, I won’t lie. I feel as if one wrong move will get me permanently exiled.”

His expression doesn’t change. The neutrality of it is a little disconcerting, actually, with the way he just remains standing there with his fingertips perched on the edge of the wood, until he retracts himself to where he had been a few feet away. He doesn’t deny nor confirm your feelings, his eyes downcast.

He clears his throat again. “Are you anemic? Diabetic? Do you have any reason why you’d have fainting spells?” His tone is steeped in worry, rushed. Like he just wants a clear-cut answer so that neither of you have to keep guessing or digging deeper.

And he’s almost a little… aggravated? His words are acute and directed at you, like you’re suddenly the reason to blame. It is your body that’s being troublesome, but you’d like to know what’s been going on with it recently just as much as he does. Even if you did, it’s not your responsibility to tell him, nor your fault for its antics. With his sight still turned away, busy adjusting your feet on the pillow, you furrow your brows in disbelief and make your scoff come off as animated, playful, “I didn’t know you doubled as a doctor, Father Pike.”

Luckily, that seems to put him at ease. The bothered creases in his forehead smooth away and he looks back up at you with a humble smile, as if to say he’s sorry for getting so suddenly worked up. He rests his hand on your shin, so naturally, but he takes it away the same moment and puts his arms at his sides. You know he wanted to leave it there, the flicker of guilt across his face evident. You rein yourself back, tightening the restraints that have come loose on your attraction; you don’t want to break him.

His voice reverts to its baseline calmness, “I don’t. My brother is a doctor and I would help him review for tests, so that gave me a lot of free training and insight. Just being around him, the physician’s mindset started to rub off on me. They see things in such a peculiar, analytical way, so different from my own. Logic prevails over everything… it’s helped me to decipher who really needs the help and who doesn’t.”

Oh. Such a strange thing to hear Father Pike admit that… it gets your gears going.

You approach it as gently as you can, while still feeding your curiosity, “Hey… aren’t you guys supposed to believe that Christ can cure anything?”

You don’t think you mean to bat your eyelashes at him provocatively but you do. He smirks, shakes his head with a chuckle that more or less comes out as an amused exhale from his nose. He cuts your boldness back down to a humble level, “I thought you didn’t know much about the church?”

Oh? His accusatory smugness mirrors yours. Two can play at this game, apparently.

“I don’t, but I know enough that you guys put all your faith into your, well, faith.”

The waning dizziness you felt earlier has officially rid itself, so you feel it’s safe to sit up on the table. Father Pike takes a seat as well in a chair that he’s pulled from aside one of the wardrobes, positioning it close to you so that he’s not too far should you feel woozy again.

“Well, yes…” He’s thinking, does that godforsaken thing with his tongue on his lip again. Then comes the confession.

“Some of the parishioners… they’re painfully alone. The only people they talk to are family who either forget their existence half the time or enable them. Being alone all the time, you need to entertain yourself with something. They’ve been reading the same scriptures for their entire lives, it plays behind their eyelids whenever they close; it’s in their dreams.” He takes a heavy breath, steadying himself for the brutal honesty he’s about to lay out to you. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this naked before in his life.

“It’s not like the Bible gets an update,” you kid quietly. That gets him. The skin around his eyes crinkles as Father Pike laughs heartily, nodding his head, “Exactly.” He echoes you with amusement, “It’s not like the Bible gets an update,” his smile grows fonder. You mourn the joy that leaves his face when it’s replaced with a solemn frown.

“As much as they don’t want to admit it, the people of this town are like any other. They yearn for change. They need something new, fresh, to stimulate their minds, or at the very least, a distraction from their loneliness. So, on a very normal day, their knee starts to hurt. And then as the days go on and they do their usual tasks, the knee begins to hurt more. It worsens until they fool themselves into walking with a limp, saying that they can’t live their excruciatingly mundane lives anymore. Because they desperately want a change, no matter if it’s a hindrance.

“Sometimes, pity is king.

“They refuse to go to the doctor without the church’s approval. They come and see to me, or one of the other Fathers, and we talk through their ailments. I say a blessing or two, and on their way home, suddenly that appointment they were pleading for has lost all urgency. They’ve been miraculously cured by us, or God. But we’re not doing any radical, magical healing here. Don’t get me wrong, there are very real illnesses that affect our parish.”

He pauses to look around the room, as if someone has slipped through the cracks in the rock and hears his rational disagreement as something obscenely blasphemous. His voice is low and wary, but you’re proud to detect a streak of confidence when he talks about his personal beliefs.

“The others here, they shun modern medicine. They believe what you said, that all things can be cured through Christ. But… that’s not entirely right to me. There are people who need more… pragmatic cures. Then there are others who all they need is a little motivation from the spirit.”

You never thought you’d be empathizing with a priest over feelings of exclusion, no less somewhere in the heart of a cathedral, surrounded by religious paraphernalia. It doesn’t feel like Father Pike is baiting you to say that the church is a farce just so he can blackmail you later. His quick, breathless words speak for themselves; he’s been dying to show someone his heart. But are you really the first outsider to cross his path? There has had to have been someone who wandered into Carmeltree unknowingly or a resident that didn’t readily accept the teachings that they began being indoctrinated with since birth. Father Pike’s motive doesn’t seem malicious, but it’s unclear.

“Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs, clasping his hands together with a smile amused by the simplicity of his answer, “I have one of your secrets, and now you have one of mine.”

Dry chuckles fill the room. “That’s a pretty big secret,” you joke.

“What about it?”

“Well,” worry crosses your face, imagining what the Bible wavers would do if they heard what Father Pike is spilling across you now, “if anyone else heard it, about their priest, well, you’d be…”

“Exiled?”

“Yes. Mamed, called a fraud or a non-believer.”

“Well that’s incorrect. I’m a believer.”

“Not by their standards, you aren’t.”

“See why I’ve confided in you?”

A steady wave of recognition settles in the air. Two people with their morals in line but would be labeled heathens by the rest of the conservative population have established a safehouse in one another to retreat to if need be. Lucy was right - you have made a friend, she just had the wrong Father.

The elderly one’s cane taps ring out in the gaping corridor outside your room, alerting you and your friend that your divulgence must end. The stiffness returns to his back, squaring his shoulders underneath that heavy-looking alb as he stands and scribbles something on a piece of paper.

Don’t think about the sweat on his skin. Dappling his muscles, collecting in pools until they runneth over and stream down in little rivulets…

He helps you to your feet with a hand in yours, but it’s shoving the paper into your palm before you have the chance to drool over its warmth. “Here’s the town doctor’s details. If you feel unwell or the fainting persists, please go see him. I don’t-”

There’s a knock at the door. “Father Pike?”

He makes a comically fearful face at you, clenching his bared teeth and widening his eyes, snapping to put a finger to his lips when he elicits your desired giggles.

“One moment please!”

He ushers you to a door at the back corner of the room, leading to one of the many magnificent courtyards incorporated into the cathedral.

You turn back on the step to take one last look at him, “Thank you for all your help.”

He takes your hand in his own two, like his Father before him.

“You’re in my prayers.”

You go to leave, but he murmurs urgently, leaning out of the doorframe, “Come back tomorrow. I can help strengthen your act.”

He winks at you.

A friend, you remind yourself. He’s just a friend. The giddiness that bubbles up from your heart to your throat begs to differ.

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oonajaeadira · 5 months

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For the Love of Fic: December 9

I'm doing my best to get through my massive reading list by the end of the year, so buckle up, fam, you're about to get served a buffet of fic. There's so many tasty morsels here, even Mama Flores has to appreciate this feast.

🪐 = Year of Themed Creation Fics!

FRANKIE MORALES

Sheer Desire by @the-blind-assassin-12 Okay so imagine you're Frankie's +1 to a Millerboy wedding. And there's dancing and yearning and flirting involved. And the knowledge that after the reception, you're going to have him all to yourself. Now add in black thigh-high nylons. And the desire to see them in his hands. And his desire to have those lacy tops pressed against his ears.... IT'S HOT LIKE FIRE. DID YOU THINK IT WOULD NOT BE. GO GET IT.

2023 Summer Kiss Prompt #2: Frankie Morales - Kiss in the Hammock by @something-tofightfor I mean, who doesn't want to be cuddled up in a hammock with Frankie? Who doesn't want those soft curls and soft lips and warm arms all pressed up against you?

2023 Summer Kiss Prompt #12: Frankie Morales - Kiss in the Dark / Break Up Kiss by @something-tofightfor A little angst and a lot of love are on display here. Frankie's here to show his responsible and protective side, and while there's plenty of hurt, he does it oh so softly and I'm just glad we are left with hope.

2023 Summer Kiss Prompt #14: Frankie Morales - “I miss you” Kiss / Angry Kiss by @something-tofightfor So remember that hope I just mentioned up there? Same pairing here, and the hope pays off. It's not without some real talk, but perhaps that's what makes the love even more deliciously sincere.

The day Frankie both loves and loathes the kitchen counter by @undercoverpena This is such a wonderful domestic Frankie POV piece. The way he wants to be better for reader, to provide more, to keep promises...the way he adores everything about her, including how she loves to bundle up in his clothes... Getting a peek inside a man who is sweet and loving and seeing the motivations there is such a treat. I really got swept up in this one.

MARCUS PIKE

The Thing About Second Chances by @artemiseamoon 🪐 This is exquisite. The pain of walking away really hurt. But then, when they met again it is so masterfully done...there are all these little impulses of his, wanting to do everything for her that could easily be overbearing except that he's just so damn loveable and it's hard to watch two people who clearly live each other be denied. I'm not sure he can really change all that much, but I am really pulling for them. Sometimes a little time apart can really drive home how much you can miss someone. Beautiful.

The Moon in May - Full Moon by @hopeamarsu Alpha Marcus. and. sitting on lap. purring and. teasing and soft and spreading you open but requiring go slow. is a tasty treat. brain mush. purring chest at my back. yes please.

JOEL MILLER

Something Wild and Unruly by @ezrasbirdie Okay, remember when I said that there was a fic that was so beautiful it made me want to quit writing? This is it, and I mean that as a high compliment. Like, I finished it and just put my head in my hands and stared out the window with a big smile on my face. It's outlaw!Joel and old west sex worker!reader with a heart of gold and a good attitude about what she does. It's got so so so much feels and yearning and softness and bathing and the ending is beautiful and full of hope...this fic is up all of my alleys and making all of my jams and is my entire life mood. It is my new official Fave Birdie Fic™️ and I need to sing that to the world.

Small Joys: Wheelbug by @keldabe-kriff 🪐 The whole point of Lyr's Small Joys series is just that--joys. So it seems antithetical for Ellie to have found a bug that's big and bitey and for Joel to freak out about and try to bat it away. But the joy part of it comes from reader's reaction--to the wonder at finding a wheelbug in nature where it wasn't expected--and Ellie's, who of course will always find wonder in something new. Simple and beautifully done.

Small Joys: Leaf Pile by @keldabe-kriff 🪐 Yes, the joy here is jumping in a leaf pile, but the joy I got from it was being able to hear Joel and Ellie perfectly in this. I also love the process Ellie gets to have in collecting the leaves and talking to a neighbor. It's really delightful.

The Sun Will Shine Again by @foli-vora I can't imagine dealing with crippling depression during the years after the outbreak, how hard and crippling it would be. And yet, I think I'd be able to manage if Joel was on my side, telling me he'd carry me as long as he could just to make sure I made it through. This is just such a beautiful piece. I want to curl up in it like a blanket.

Tangled Triumphs by @planet-marz1 I think my blood sugar levels hit an all-time high with this one and I ascended into the heavens. Joel learns to do Sarah's hair and it's so sweet and precious and I love them. Please read this. I need other people to share my squeals.

JACK DANIELS

Cast Iron Sunshine part 1: Think I'll Call You Sunshine and part 2: Daisy by @blueeyesatnight Color me intrigued. We got ourselves a cocky cowboy in the wild west and a female doctor reader with some determination, sass, and willingness to sport a revolver, and I want more of that push and pull I'm sure is coming. The first meeting is just enough tingle to rub my hands together with glee. HE'S SUCH A SHIT. But then comes Daisy and she's here to lay some hearts open...

What Happens in Vegas.., ...Never Really Ends in Vegas, and Forever by @wildemaven A beautiful drabble trio that encompasses the realization that you've accidentally-in-Vegas married Jack, trying to quit him, and being unable to do so. Do yourself a favor, don't think about it too hard, and give into your cowboy.

Remember Me by @toomanystoriessolittletime This twisted my little heart and melted me in so many ways. When Jack is brought back and can't remember his girlfriend? Can I just cry a river? No worries though, the ending's a happy, hopeful one.

DIETER BRAVO

Thought That I Was Dreaming by @haylzcyon Salty, spicy, and sweet all at once...this may just be my dream Dieter smut. I very much love a "did he really say???" but then the reason for her not asking was perfect. How does Haylz make the very filthiest filth the sweetest sweet?

Sleazy Santa by @morallyinept This what happens when Dieter's not an actor, just a tremendous sleezebag working as a mall Santa (he's respectful to the kids) and you can't stop wanting that scummy D and go bang dirty in the Grotto. There's candy cane action. It's real nasty. And written like a fkn gourmet meal. The sweatier Jett writes this slimeball, the more I want. I don't know how. It's like Christmas magic. Delicious.

Crawling Back to You by @prolix-yuy This fic is a feast and all of my favorite dishes are on the table. Monsterfkn. Demons. Blasphemy. Sexy contracts. Dieter being a menace. And softness????? This is smut and it is hot hot hot, but there's enough here that's sweetness and fondness that it's going straight to my forever faves list. HE RUINS HER SO NICELY. UGH!

Rendezvous in Reno by @theywhowriteandknowthings A Dieter with small-dick insecurities? Please and thank you, this is super cute. I'd love to get called out for describing his junk wrong in my fics and get a personal correction.

It's Never Over by @pennyserenade We don't get enough exes-to-friends fic around here, and this one is really nice. As much as I hope for them to connect again, I respect their love for each other and their need to just let themselves be special to each other. There were moments here that were bittersweet, but I really loved that about it.

DIN DJARIN

Birfday--Din by @writeforfandoms Listen. Is it so wrong that I want to cook a nice breakyfast to show Din how much he's loved? Is that too much to ask? Thanks, Jen, for something soft and sweet.

Then We'll Find Out Together by @missredherring A lovely little drabble about settling down in a new home with Din, getting used to the slowness and softness and niceness of everything. And when reader can't sleep, the one thing that's familiar--Din himself--is what calms her down. A lovely little drabble that I would like to live in.

Bounty and Hunter by @never--doubt 🪐 A soulmate fic wherein soulmates can't hurt each other. How interesting then that one of you is being hunted...and makes quite a game out of it?

Significant by @softlyspector He's been calling you riduur for months and you still don't know what it means. Once you find out, that's when the fireworks start. I don't know that I've read dialogue for Din and his sweetheart that affected me the way the last two lines of this fic did...... *swoons*

PERO TOVAR

Watercolor by @iamskyereads I mean, give a sellsword a bath and you may be in for trouble. But not this man. This man just needs a little care, and while he may not say much, he make good on all kindnesses. I would do anything to give this man a bath and have him speak kindly to me.

Date or Inseminate by @sirowsky Now listen. You're gonna have to read the warnings on this, because I for one get really squicked by dub-con mixed with medical malpractice. I didn't read the warnings and it came out of nowhere....but I'm telling you my eyebrows shot up and then I just giggled through the whole thing like WHAT IS HAPPENING. Sometimes fic is just there to be fun and slap you silly. IRL? No please. But this? Go in with the right mood and it's just strangely and shockingly delightful smut.

JAVI GUTIERREZ

Formula 101: December to Remember Part 2: Take What Comes by @littlemisspascal There's a lot to love about Rae's F1 media fic. Even outside of the easter eggs in the worldbuilding and the lovely way Javi and Oddball's relationship develops, there are the delightful media interludes--emails, texts, instagram posts complete with character comments--that use pictures and dialogue to move the plot along in a unique way. I love how a short text chain not only sets up a later story locale, but illustrates a history and relationship between two characters so fluidly. Every chapter is a delight to see how the media enhances the storyline...a storyline that is moving in a very interesting direction...

SPECIAL GUEST CORNER

BO KATAN KRYZE

Hiding Away from the Galaxy by @ghostofskywalker 🪐 I love a good reunion story. Here, you're an ex-Jedi who has a past with Bo and come to find her when all the wars are done. I'd agree that it's worth the wait when she takes you in her arms....

MARC SPECTOR

My Knight in White by @flightlessangelwings 🪐 Jey's been doing a year of protectiveness, and you know I don't mind that AT ALL. I would love nothing more than to have Marc follow me home and protect me. And then, yeah, if he let me follow him home...and into his bedroom....I wouldn't complain..... *swoon*

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kayleezra · 8 months

Text

Some Strangers (Part 3 to Someone Else) // (Marcus Pike x GN!Reader)

Word Count: 3219 Warnings: not even proofread in the slightest! I’m letting yall read this rawdawg Summary: Last part babes! This is it, the grand finale of angst! Good luck to you all and sorry for any emotional turmoil this series may have caused you 😌

Marcus’s POV

I was offering her a life, a future, with me. Because I needed to fill the void in my heart, a void the shape of you. I wanted Teresa to fit void and I tried to make her fit but she didn’t and she knew she didn’t she knew she was competing with someone else, someone who wasn’t even around anymore. So she left, I don’t blame her, I’ve become a version of myself I hate. I destroyed what I had with you for a false future, a future that was built with you. I was selfish, I am selfish, I saw something new and shiny and thought it’d fulfill the future I had with you but that was the problem. The future I wanted was only possible with you. I not only ruined that but dragged another woman into this mess as well. She’ll be fine, Teresa was with me as a distraction from Patrick, an attraction that couldn’t be ignored. Now she’s with the man she wanted and I’m alone. I deserve the ache and pain I’m feeling, the heavy guilt that sits on my shoulders, I hate what I did and who I became.

I was able to start anew in Washington. The pain never left me but no one knew my horrific actions, the man who had been divorced once and later left his soulmate for a woman he barely knew all because she was new and exciting. I went to work and lived my life day-to-day quite ordinarily. Never socialized, I couldn’t hide my pain well enough to socialize or make friends. But this false sense of security came to a screaming halt when I was told I’d be returning to California for a case. There I’d face Teresa, who was happy with Patrick and the city where I made my biggest mistake.

As much as I hated the idea of going my heart leapt at the chance. You were there, I’d be close to you. I could visit you. I could, but I won’t. I know you don’t want to see me. When I think of you I’m reminded of how amazing you are and how much I love you but for you, I remind you of pain and heartbreak, that anyone can leave no matter how much you love them. I’m not just a ghost in your life but a haunting, a poltergeist. My actions haunt you every day, have changed your view of the world and yourself in the worst way possible, I’ve instilled fear in you.

I’ve arrived at my old office, I’m not working with Teresa’s team but God isn’t kind enough to spare me entirely.

“Can I help you?” an all too familiar voice asks, breaking me from the report I was filling out.

I turn to see him, Patrick Jane, the man Teresa left me for, the man she wanted me to be.

“Jane.”

“Mike… Hello,” he welcomes awkwardly, surprised at my presence, understandable.

“I’m uh here consulting on a case, was a last-minute assignment,” I explain, avoiding the elephant in the room.

“Beard looks good.”

He’s starting to piss me off, I don’t know what he wants, if he wants me to beg for information about Teresa and make him feel like more of a man but he’s already won. He’s got the girl of his dreams; Teresa, and I have lost mine; you.

“It’s for an undercover thing,” I pause, he wants to acknowledge the elephant in the room, “so, you and her?” I finally ask.

He makes his way closer, “Yeah, um, I’m sorry we’d- we didn’t intend for it to happen like this.” He almost seemed genuinely apologetic, something I didn’t expect, I thought I’d come back here a hated man, not a pitied one. “I know the last thing on her mind was hurting you.”

The words hurt because it's exactly what I did to you, unintentionally hurt you, I never wanted to hurt you.

“I know that,” I respond quickly, trying to get this over with as soon as possible, trying to forget the pain I feel while here. My eyes dart around the room looking for an escape but there is none.

I take a breath, Teresa and Patrick, the perfect couple, will probably live a picturesque life like the one you and I planned together before I burned it to the ground.

“So do you have a plan?” I ask, thinking about the future I promised you and then tried to force upon Teresa. My tone and demeanour have become more hostile, not at Jane but rather at myself for losing the future I wanted.

“I- I don’t really understand,” Jane plays dumb, he wants

“Well, I was offering her a life,” a life I planned and built with you, that I wanted to fulfill with you, “a home, a family if she wanted it,” a home I wanted to come home to, to see knick knacks you’d decorate the place with, a home where you’d be at ease. A family we made together, maybe kids running around with sticky fingers or just gathered friends and loved ones around our dining room table. “A future,” that only has meaning with you in it. “Have you thought about any of that?” Does Patrick think about the very real future he has with Teresa? Because I think about the future I could have had with you every damn day.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead yet,” Patrick answers.

He has a real potential future with Teresa, they’ve known each other for years, and he hasn’t thought about what their future may look like, while I still dream about what our future could have been. I look back when I first started thinking about the future with you in it and panicked because I thought I was moving too fast and that if I voiced my thoughts I’d scare you away. Little did I know that you were thinking the same thing, secrets we each kept until one fateful night months down the line.

If Patrick doesn’t think about his future… what is it he wants from her? “Well… what’re you offering her?” I ask quizzically, confused about how a couple can seem to love each other so furiously and not think about their future together. Maybe it’s because Jane has never had to worry about his future romantically, he believes people will always be banging at his door to get a taste, “I mean other than Patrick Jane,” I add with venom, angry at the situation I find myself in in comparison to Jane.

We don’t get any further as Teresa’s lone voice pierces the silent room.

“Hey,” she says politely announcing her presence, clearing looking for Jane.

Jane excuses himself, passing Teresa while whispering some cute pet name. Teresa scans the room nervously as I approach, wanting to talk without listening ears hearing, she has the same question Jane did when he realized it was me.

“What’re you doing here?” she asks.

“I’m consulting on a case, just had to fill out a deposition,” I finish with a sad sigh. When I look at Teresa all I see is the pain in your eyes when I told you about her. Before, when I saw her and you disappeared from my mind, now? You’re all I can think about.

I don’t let her prolong the conversation, “anyway, it was good to see you, Teresa.”

“You too, Marcus,” she says meekly.

I acknowledge Jane with a curt nod and go to leave, happy to get out of the office. I'm about to reach the doorway and breathe a sigh of relief when Teresa calls out, “They’re still here,” she says with some urgency.

I stop in my tracks but don’t turn, I don’t know what she means yet or if she’s even talking to me, but then she says your name. I haven’t heard your name out loud in what feels like millennia, it’s sharp yet refreshing like ice. You don’t just live in my head, you’re still real, you still have a life to live that isn’t the fantasy in my head. I turn to look at Teresa, having so many questions I want to ask, to pick every bit of information she has about you but I don’t get the chance.

“I think it’d be good if you saw each other. Maybe buried the hatchet,” she says with a reassuring nod. Then she goes to the nearest table and begins writing on a scrap piece of paper. “I think you need it, the both of you,” she adds before joining Jane and leaving. The paper has a phone number. Your phone number.

– Second Person POV, Past –

Life had been… boring… grey without Marucs. You weren’t miserable, you’d found a new normal, a new baseline. You weren’t happy or sad, but not numb or robotic either… it was like you were just going through the days letting the wind blow you wherever but you also weren’t relaxed as that might suggest. You were in an in-between, neither here nor there. Until you’d gotten a text.

Your phone buzzed in the morning while you were getting ready for the day. The number wasn’t in your contact list but the message made it clear who it was from.

‘I thought you should know that Marcus and I have split. I’m telling you because he’s still living with the ghost of you, maybe you guys can work things out. -Teresa’

It felt like the text was supposed to bring you relief but it didn’t. It dwarfed you back to the melancholy feeling you were drawing in when Marcus first told you about Teresa. You didn’t think this was your chance to get him back, you didn’t feel bad that Marcus had made a mistake and still wanted you. You just felt small… your emotions were so big that you felt small.

You didn’t know what to say to her, you didn’t owe her anything but she wasn’t at fault for anything either. You settle on something that doesn’t focus on you, on what happened.

‘I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you. I wish you guys could’ve been happy.’

The text is heartbreakingly true. Marcus hurt you and you still loved him, always would, but because of that, you wanted him happy even if the cost was you. You accepted living a miserable life while watching him and Teresa get married, have kids, and grow old together, because at least then Marcus would still exist in your world even if you didn’t exist in his.

Nothing more came out of that text. You’re thankful for that. You got to truck on in your grey life and not be set back or thrown in a whirlwind.

– Second Person POV, Present –

As more time passed you healed. Your smile became less fake. You didn’t forget about Marcus but in a way… you did. Marcus didn’t rule over you as a gloomy cloud anymore. This was not a result thanks to you and you alone, you credit your therapist for a lot of it. Even though your therapist would tell you that you’re the one who sought therapy, that you’re the one who kept up with it, that you’re the one who did the work. And you 100% are that person, you are to thank them while also acknowledging the help their guidance provided.

You felt new like you’d broken out of the dead shell Marcus left you in. You’re on the way home from a decent day when you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket, you glance at it and see a number you don’t recognize. At first, you think it to be a scam but then your eyes skim the message and you know it’s not. You also know that whatever is within the text while requires your full attention so you pocket it and try not to overthink it for the time being.

You’re happy to get home, it finally feels like your safe space, the place where you're most comfortable. So once you drop your things you debate whether you settle in or read the text. You decide to settle in, you’ll feel better, you want to read it when the rest of the day and done. You unpack your bag and change while trying not to let your mind catch fire with anticipation.

Finally, you sit down and open the text.

‘I know this is random and we have no relation or obligations to one another but Marcus is in town. Patrick and I ran into him in the office, he’s in for a case. I’m not here to tell you that he looks miserable because he doesn’t but he’s… I don’t know, grown. And I know his actions still haunt him. I hope the two of you can meet, even just for coffee, to lay everything to rest.’

Her message is cordial and not pushy. It’s dawned on you since her last message that she’s so eager for you and Marcus to bury the hatchet because she saw his aftermath. You might have healed but he might not have, he might still have something to get off his chest. You don’t owe him anything to help him heal or clear his conscious. You don’t pity him or feel sympathy but you do still love and care about him, maybe not the same way you once did, but you still do nonetheless. You let out a loud sigh before you begin typing.

‘Do you have his number?’

‘No but I know how we can do this’

A little bit later you get a text from Teresa that tells you that you and Marcus will meet at a nearby lounge after work. From what she tells you, you think it sounds all too inconspicuous, like he’s being kidnapped but after some further discussion, it was the easiest way without getting anyone in trouble.

A few days later you find yourself putting more effort into your look. You tell yourself it isn’t for Marcus and it isn’t, you’re not trying to win him back with your looks, you just want to put your best foot forward with him. A small part of you is even excited, the old you that’s still with Marcus. Another louder voice is terrified. You think of him and worry that all you’ll be able to see and think about is how awful he left you, broke you. You put effort in to try and drown out the voices as well, you can’t feel bad when you look good right?

You make you’re way to the lounge at the set time, and see Marcus seated alone. You go to join him, your heart is in your throat and you suddenly feel nauseous. When Marcus sees you his eyes widen and he freezes for a moment before abruptly standing from his chair. He whispers your name in disbelief and his shocked reaction tells you that Teresa didn’t tell him you’d be showing up.

“Marcus,” a beat of silence, “I take it Teresa didn’t tell you I was coming?”

“N-no, no, she uh- said something about an agent and I meeting for a case, I-”

You can’t help but laugh at how nervous he is. You finally nod and explain, “yeah, no. That’s not what’s happening, umm, I was told you were in town and I was hoping we could meet and-” and what? I don’t know.

“Of course, yeah-” he agrees.

You smile, he looks good, he has some facial hair but it suits him. Then you realize that the two of you are standing awkwardly at a table, “guess I’ll take a seat,” you tease yourself.

Marcus moves and says he’ll help you, “oh no, I got it, don’t worry, sit down,” you reassure.

Finally, the two of you are seated and there is an awkward silence. Both of you try to start a conversation at the same time.

“Oh, sorry, you go ahead,” the both of you say at the same time. Which ends up in the both of you laughing.

Marcus feels his heart come to life again when he hears your laugh. He doesn’t realize how much he missed this, misses you. But if he is honest he knows he doesn’t deserve your smile, your laugh, your love. After, what he did he doesn’t deserve you, he doesn’t expect you to want him back either. Life feels more colourful than usual when he sees you but a part of his chest aches because he knows that this is no longer his, all because of him.

“How have you been?” you ask with a smile.

“Uh, good… I guess”

“You guess?”

“Yeah, I just… there’s been a lot going on between the move and then work and- you know, just busy,”

You nod solemnly, “I’m sorry about you and Teresa by the way. I really did want it to work out for you,”

Marcus can’t help but look away, filled with guilt.

“Yeah I don’t think I wanted wanted it to work with her…” he says quietly.

“What?” you ask with your brows furrowed.

Marcus looks away and clearly becomes nervous, “I didn’t want Teresa as Teresa. I… we got together and all I wanted was for her to be you. That… that was what ended our relationship, I was trying to make her into someone she wasn’t because she isn’t who I wanted.”

Oh, you think. “Oh…” you say aloud upon realization.

Marcus nods guiltily, “yeah… I hurt you and dragged another woman into the mess all for… something I still can’t quite understand.”

“Marcus… I’m sorry but we can’t- I’m just not-,” you sigh, “we can’t just get back together,” you explain painfully, both because you are reminded of the pain he caused and because it feels like you’re saying ‘good-bye’ to him again.

“Oh no no! I wasn’t implying that- I just, I needed you to know that… there was nothing ever wrong with you. You had everything I wanted and for some reason… I tried finding that in another woman…” Marcus explains.

You nod, a heavy silence covering the both of you.

“So are you staying or going to be around for a while?” you ask Marcus curiously.

“I’m not sure, until the case is solved for sure but… afterwards… I’m not quite sure what I’m doing,” Marcus scoffs at himself.

“Well… don’t stay away because of me.” you say softly, “I was able to find my peace and you deserve that too… and maybe if you’re going to be around for a while we can find time like this every now and again, and just get the closure we both need.”

Marcus’s eyes light up at the thought of seeing you again and his chest aches at the thought of being so close to you, living in the same city, but not being able to love you how he wants. He looks at you and sees a new person, a bright, smiling, lively person who isn’t letting their past haunt them and Marcus knows that that means the door for him is closed. It hurts but he doesn’t fault you, you deserve it and like you said, maybe he does too.

(A/N: don't forget to join my taglist or just let me know if you wish to be added since not everyone tagged is in my taglist!)

Taglist: @spideysimpossiblegirl @littlemisspascal @writer-darling @avengetheunnatural @currentobsessionrabbithole @harriedandharassed @alberta-sunrise @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @jediknight122 @thirddeadlysin @kirsteng42 @theredwritingwitch @wildemaven @tuquoquebrute @louderfortheback @trey-18 (also tagged those that were so kind about the first/second part!)

#marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike #the mentalist fanfic

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