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whataperfectwasteoftime · 2 years

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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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