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thetriumphantpanda · 10 months ago

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LOST IN OUR VICES | TWO

Chapter Summary | A proper date has Marcus falling even further into his lie about who he is, but when you're as beautiful as you are, he can't find it in himself to care all that much.

Pairing | Professor!Marcus Pike x Student F!Reader

Word Count | 4.7K

Chapter Warnings | Dubious ethical relationship between a professor & student, Marcus continues to go along with a lie, art gallery date (I know nothing about art so go easy on me), romantic rain kisses, a dinner date featuring food and alcohol, two idiots slowly falling in love. Explicit smut - oral sex (f&m), a smattering of exhibitionism, unprotected PiV sex, creampie, some light somno (Marcus wakes you up eating you out), absolutely filthy talk, finger sucking, cumplay and I think that covers everything!

Authors Note | This..... well, what can I say. It simply fell out of me once I got into the swing of things - I wanted to make Professor Pike filthy and I think I've managed it. I'd love to know your thoughts, so feel free to comment, reblog or send me asks about this! As always, a huge thank you to @undercoverpena for reading this over and to @saradika for the beautiful divider.

Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs for writing updates.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Marcus is stood at the bottom of the steps to the National Gallery, easy to spot in the crowd. He’d not really left your mind for the entire week, your lips still holding the ghost of his, the feel of his palm against your ass still branded onto your skin. You’d talked almost every day, texts back and forth, the usual thing when you were getting to know someone, but when he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, and then flashing that smile at you, he’s even more gorgeous than you’d remembered.

He grasps your hand in his own and leads you up the steps and into the gallery. He picks one of the free maps up and grabs a pen from his back pocket, telling you to circle three rooms. You’ve been here before and know exactly the paintings you want to see so it’s an easy task. He does the same, citing that if you wander aimlessly, you’ll be here all day, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but he’s got dinner reservations you have to keep.

Marcus picks Sunflowers by Van Gogh first, the bright yellow flowers bring you joy whenever you see them, especially so in these dark, winter months when life is so scarce. You insist on seeing The Fighting Temeraire because it reminds you of your grandfather, the reason you love art so much.

“I remember coming here with him when I was very small,” You explain, stood in front of the painting, “We stood here for so long, and I just remember thinking I wanted to learn more about it all.”

The rest of the afternoon slips by like that, showing each other paintings until you’ve run out. You’re stood in front of Marcus’ last pick, The Garden of Love. Somewhere along the afternoon, he’s taken hold of your hand, fingers entwined with yours.

“You can see the brush strokes,” He muses, pulling you in front of him, your back dangerously close to his front, his free hand pointing over your shoulder, “Lean forward, you can see them, I promise.”

And he’s right, his back pressed to yours to push you forward so you can see them. His mouth right by your ear as he talks you through what you can see, the stray brush hairs and the way the grass has been painted to give it movement. There are goosebumps flowing across your skin, before he remembers when you are and moves away from you slightly, letting your heartbeat return to normal.

There’s a moment where he checks his watch, then he takes hold of your hand and starts dragging you from the gallery - paintings blurring as you have to run a little to keep up with the pace. When you reach the front entrance, you hear it before you see it, the downpour of rain, fat droplets hitting the ground, forming puddles. You curse the fact you hadn’t properly checked the weather before leaving.

You look to Marcus, who holds up a finger, drops your hand slightly, then steps over to the side where a burly security guard nods his head toward Marcus and takes a step out of the way. There’s a small umbrella stand behind him and you watch as Marcus reaches over and plucks one of the umbrellas from it.

“Thanks, Mike, see you next week buddy.”

Mike tips his hat to Marcus, and then at you when he clutches your hand in his once more, adding a wink and a knowing smirk towards you like he knows exactly what's going to happen for the rest of the day.

You step into the downpour, letting Marcus hover the umbrella over the two of you. He stops, lets you take in the surroundings - Trafalgar Square bathed in darkness and soft light from the streetlamp’s. You crane your neck to look up at Nelson’s column.

“I remember coming here when I was younger, with one of my friends, and trying to take a picture of me touching the top of it from down there,” You point your finger down towards Whitehall, you know exactly where you stood all those years ago, “Hold on,” You say, fishing your phone out of your pocket, opening up the camera roll and scrolling as far back as you can, to find the exact photo you’re talking about, holding it in front of him, Marcus laughs, because the tip of your finger is nowhere near the top of the column, “Not my best attempt, I must say.”

Pocketing your phone, you take a few steps to the left, starting off to your dinner reservation, when you feel the warmth of Marcus’ palm slip around your wrist, turning you around so you’re stood in front of him, toe-to-toe, your face tilted up at him.

He brings his free hand, the one not holding the umbrella, up to your cheek, and you feel his thumb brush over the skin there, ever-so gently, before he’s leaning down, lips across yours in a soft press. You step forward, moving close enough to him to wrap your arms around his neck - droplets of water from the edge of the umbrella dripping onto his jacket as he kisses you.

You can hear the rushing of the traffic around you, splashing through pools of water, and the chatter of people around you, locals and tourists alike, but none of it matters. Not when there’s that low pool of butterflies churning in your stomach, and certainly not when he pulls away, tip of his nose pressed to yours as you bite your lip a little, none of it matters except him.

“So, what does next week have in store for you?” Marcus asks, sipping on his glass of wine.

“Outside of trying to hit my weekly word count, I'm going to a public lecture that professor Pike is giving at UCL on Thursday.”

Marcus is mid-sip, choking slightly on it as he swallows, covering his mouth with his napkin to try and keep whatever this is under control.

“Are you alright?” You ask, concern dripping from your voice.

“Yeah,” He says, holding up a hand, coughing a little to clear his throat, “Sorry, swallowed wrong,” There’s another pause as he sips from his water, “That sounds interesting though, what is he lecturing on?”

“He’s lecturing on counterfeit art,” You explain, knife cutting through your steak, “He used to work for the FBI and I think the lecture supplements the release of his new book.”

“I had no idea he was an ex-agent,” Marcus shrugs, “Sounds interesting though, you’ll have to give me the rundown next time we meet.”

“You could always come with me?” You offer.

He smiles and lets out a little chuckle, “What time is it?”

“It starts at 6:30.”

You watch as he chews on his food, thinking for a moment, “I might be able to make it, I’ll have to let you know how teaching goes that day, but it definitely sounds interesting,” You pick up your wine to sip at it, “But if I can’t make it, we can certainly do something next weekend, okay?”

He politely insists on going back to your place once the meal is over. Apparently not expecting this was to go so well, he hadn’t tidied and didn’t want you to think bad of him when your eyes glanced over the mess. It’s endearing to you, and you’re only more than welcome to have him over. The bed needs christening anyway.

Marcus holds you hand this time on the walk from the station. It’s dark and cold but thankfully the rain has stopped. He pulls you away from the edge of the pavement when a car threatens to splash you as it passes you, then insists that you walk on the inside so you don’t get wet. It’s those small things that make you smile, that make your tummy flutter, makes you realise he knows how to treat someone.

It makes you think about the last person who had been in his position - never getting this far, mainly due to the fact that on the second date he insisted that you made him feel stupid when you spoke about your research. You wanted to tell him that was because he was, but you held your tongue, let him pay for dinner and then told him you didn’t see things working out.

When you let the two of you into your apartment, you flick on some of the lamps instead of the big light and watch as he walks to the long windows that look out onto the garden. You’re a few floors up, looking down on the garden from a height and you can see a few people milling around, illuminated in the dark by the orange glow of the lounge lights from the ground floor.

“Nice place.” Marcus murmurs, hands in his pockets as he looks out of the window.

“Yeah, I can’t deny it,” You smile, “Do you want a drink?”

He turns to face you, “Not really.” He speaks with a smirk.

He holds out a hand, palm upright to the ceiling. You wander over to him and let your own hand slip into this, relishing the feeling of his hand closing over yours, gently dragging you towards him. The way his other arm slips around the small of your back is effortless, as is the way he pulls your entire body to his, mouth slanting over yours in a soft kiss.

It’s over too quickly for your liking, but then he’s bringing both is his hands up to your face, clutching your cheeks in his palms, “You look beautiful in this light.” He murmurs, looking at you, warm. orange glow from your lamps illuminating you perfectly.

“So do you.” You almost whisper, letting your hands grip at the edges of his jacket, smiling as he lets you push it off his body.

“What do you want?” He asks softly, “Tell me what you want, baby.”

Looking up at him, bringing your hands to the collar of his shirt, you undo the first two of his buttons, “What do you think I want?”

“I wouldn’t want to assume,” He speaks back, the zip of your jacket caught between his thumb and pointer finger, slowly dragging it down, inch-by-inch, “I want to hear it.”

You bring your hand up to cover his then, slowly pushing it down until your jacket it fully unzipped, “I want you to take my clothes off,” You say with a flutter of your eyelashes, “And then I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk straight.”

Your hand lets go of his, letting his shove your jacket off your shoulders to fall to the floor. That hand sinks down his chest until your palm runs across the front of his jeans, bulge evident as you press more firmly, biting your lip as he gasps.

“You’ve got a filthy mouth.” He groans, running his thumb over your bottom lip.

“You haven’t seen anything yet, Marcus.” You wink, slowly falling to your knees in front of him.

He tangles a hand in the hair at the back of your neck and pulls gently, making you look up at him, “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Marcus doesn’t protest again, just looks down at you, sitting pretty on your knees, and raises his eyebrows as if to tell you that if you want it, you can take it. Your fingers work his belt open, pull it through the loops of his trousers, before it’s added to the pile of discarded clothes so far. You work the button open, and slowly drag his zipper down, before you hook your fingers into the waistband, dragging his trousers and his underwear down to his knees in one go.

It takes all of your willpower to ignore the gentle bob of his cock right in front of your face. He’s big, probably the biggest you’ve ever seen. You wrap your hand around the base of his cock, pumping your fist slowly, as you bring your lip to every inch of skin around his cock, pressing hot, wet open-mouth kisses all along the small swell of his belly, until you can hear his laboured breathing and his hand is tightly fisted in your hair.

You pull back, finally dragging your hand all the way up the length of his cock, letting your thumb trace gently over the head, swiping the pearly bead of precum that sits there, swirling it over the head. Then, you lean forward, eyes strained to keep them locked on his own, as you press a single kiss to the weeping head of his cock, tongue darting out just a little to taste him.

“Jesus Christ,” You can hear Marcus mutter from above you, “Darling you’ve got to put me out of my misery.”

Looking into his pleading eyes, those brown orbs glossed over with wet, practically begging you to stop teasing him are too much, so you do indeed put him out of his misery. Opening your mouth, letting the head of his cock rest there just a moment, letting your tongue tease the underside of him just a little, before you wrap your lips around him and hollow out your cheeks, letting your mouth slide down his length as much as possible until he hits the back of your throat, the length you cannot fit into your mouth still has your fist working it.

His back is to the window, the streetlights and the glow from the apartment building across the garden is bathing him in an angelic light. He leans back, letting his back rest against the pristine glass as you move your mouth up and down his cock, letting him hit the back of your throat, the free hand that isn’t pumping at the rest of his length coming up to cup his balls, gently massaging them.

You can feel his hands scoop your hair up, gather it at the back of your head so he can look down and see your face as his cock disappears into the wet cavern of your mouth. It’s sloppy, there’s saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, and when you pull off him to catch your breath, running your fist along his length, it’s soaked - line of saliva connecting him to your mouth.

“You getting it nice and wet, baby?” He asks, voice strained, “Getting it nice and wet so it slips into your pussy nice and easy?”

You’re about to put your mouth back on him when he brings one of his hands to clutch at your chin, shaking his head. He pulls you up to your feet, turns himself around so you’re the one in front of the window. His hands on your waist move you so you’re facing outward, looking at the darkness of the garden below.

Marcus reaches around your body, chin resting on your shoulder so he can see what he’s doing as he undoes each of the buttons of your shirt. He pulls it off your shoulders, discards it to be forgotten on the floor.

He trails his hands up the exposed skin of your ribcage, letting his palms rest over the cups of your bra. He squeezes gently once, then again with a tighter grip, then he’s trailing his fingers around your back to the clasp, where he manages to undo it without any trouble, letting that fall to the ground too.

You’re acutely aware that if anyone was to look up from the ground below, they would be able to see exactly what was going on, but when his warm hands come up to cup the weight of your tits in his palms, fingers rolling your nipples into stiff peaks, you can’t find it in yourself to care, you only tip your head back onto his shoulder and sigh in pleasure as his hot mouth starts sucking at the skin of your neck.

One of his hands wanders, skimming down the skin of your belly, past the waistband of your skirt and tights, until his hand is cupping your sex, hot through the cotton of your underwear. His fingers trail down, right to where your aching cunt is leaking for him, wet patch clearly evident on the material.

“Fuck me,” He groans, pushing himself into you, the hardness of his cock grinding against the material covering your ass, “You’re fucking soaked for me baby.”

You can feel him drag his hand back up, just slightly, until it’s slipping under the material this time. Finally his hand is right where you want it. You can feel his fingers slipping between your folds, inching down until they’re mixing in the pool of slick, dragging upwards until his finger finds your clit. He presses gently, circling slowly but it still makes your knees buckle. Marcus steadies you with one hand around your waist.

“Careful, baby,” He whispers into your ear, teeth nipping at the lobe, “Don’t want you to fall.”

You’d have a smart retort if his fingers hadn’t rendered you silent. You close your eyes, let yourself focus on those precise circles of his fingers, moving your hips in time to his movements. You bring an arm up, wrap it around his neck and turn your face, feeling his lips find your own, mouth open and tongue melding with yours.

Marcus lets his fingers move from your clit and you let out a whine of protest, until you feel him slip two of them straight into your cunt, as far as he can fit them, curling them gently against that spot inside you that has you falling forward, palms against the glass of the window.

You feel his spare hand grip at the hem of your skirt, shoving it up to bunch at your lower back, that hand then falling to grip your ass through the dark material of your tights. His fingers are tight against your skin, gripping you, spreading you, as his fingers continue to work inside you. He pressed just perfectly into one spot, making you cry out. You can feel the tightening in your core, feel your pussy flutter around his fingers.

“Oh baby,” He coos, “Are you going to come?” You nod your head, “Tell me,” He demands, hand moving up to tear your tights down and over your ass, “Tell me how good it feels.”

“Marcus,” You whine, moving your hips down in time to the upwards movements of his fingers into your cunt, the slick there causing a lewd squelch each time he does it, “Fuck, please, it feels so good.”

“Please?” He chuckles, dragging your body back up from it’s slouched position, “Please what?”

“Make me come.”

And so he does. He curls his fingers, sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and works your body perfectly, until you’re whining and wiggling against him. He drags his fingers from your pussy, drags them back up to your clit, circles it maybe three or four times and then he’s flinging you over the edge, tight coil snapping in your tummy, pleasure blooming everywhere as those fingers work you through every second of your climax.

You’re boneless now, pussy throbbing, sweaty skin sticking to the skin he’s got on show, as he moves you gently towards your bed. He lies you down on your back, strips you of everything else you’re still wearing, and then steps back, taking off each item of his clothing that he still has on. You watch him unwrap himself in front of you, your hand drifting between your legs, spread for him and on show. It doesn’t matter that you’re sensitive, you let your fingers dance lightly across your clit, spreading yourself open for him.

“Like a work of fucking art, baby. ” He murmurs, knees sinking into the bed as he settles between your thighs.

He swats your hand away from your cunt, leans forward to kiss you as he gently slips two of his fingers back inside your pussy. He pulls back, brings his slicked fingers to his mouth and makes a show of sucking them clean, just inches from your face.

“Taste so good baby,” He speaks, letting those two fingers find your aching hole, pressing inside once more, and you think he’s going to do it again, but this time, when he drags those fingers from you, he grips your chin, making your mouth fall ope, “Taste yourself.” He orders, watching you as your tongue slips out, inviting his fingers in.

You make just as much of a show as he did, sucking his two fingers into your mouth, tongue dipping between them to suck them clean. When he’s satisfied, he kisses you again, lets his tongue mix with yours, not just his taste now, but the taste of your cunt on his tongue too - musky but sweet.

“I want to fuck you so bad, baby.” He murmurs into your ear, settling himself into a position where you can feel his cock dragging through your wet folds.

“Please,” You beg, “I want you so badly.”

“Do you have a condom?” He asks, nose nuzzling at the delicate skin behind your ear.

“I do,” You say, “But I take the pill and I’m clean.”

He pushes back, body resting over yours, chest pressed against your tits, “You want me to fuck you bare?”

“I want you to fuck me bare, Marcus,” You whisper, hands cupping his face, “I want you to fill me up.”

“You’re something else.” He speaks softly, one of his hands reaching between you to guide his cock down, head nudging at your aching cunt.

He doesn’t say anything else, he just presses himself into you, feeding you every inch of his cock as slowly as he can manage. With every inch, your head tips back, until he’s fully inside of you, tip of his cock kissing at your cervix, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” He groans, burying his face into the crook of your neck, “You’re tight as a fucking fist baby girl.”

“So big,” Is all you manage to choke out as he starts moving, slowly dragging his cock out of you to push back in, “I’m so full.”

“That’s right baby,” He agrees, pushing himself up onto his palms that are planted on either side of your face, “So full of my cock, right?”

This position allows him a little more freedom to move his hips, which he does, dragging out of you and then pushing his cock back into you with a little more force and it makes you fucking sing. He feels so good, cock brushing at all the right spots inside you as he speeds up a little. You look down between your bodies, watching his length spear into your pussy, watching it disappear inside you with every thrust.

“I won’t…” Marcus sighs, “I’m not gonna last long baby.”

“I don’t care,” You sigh, “I wanna feel you.”

Marcus picks a rhythm - rough thrusts of his hips that have his cock hitting at the depths of you, his head dipping down to take one of your nipples into his mouth - worrying at it with his teeth and then soothing it with his tongue. You’re so close, you can feel another orgasm right there on the cusp, so close that you can feel tears forming at the corners of your eyes. When you close them, you feel a trail of tear drip down and settle in pools in your ears.

“No need to cry baby,” Marcus soothes, letting his mouth lick at the trails of tears from your eyes, “I got you, I can feel you, come for me again baby, it’s okay.”

He shifts positions slightly, dragging your legs up to rest on his shoulders, then he presses forward, folding you practically in half and then picks up his pace.

You’ve never felt like this, no-one has ever rendered you into such a wet, squealing mess before. Your nails are digging into his arms, leaving half-moon patterns there. Every punch of his cock inside you is pleasure mixed with a pang of pain. You can’t breathe, but you don’t care, because with each stroke of his cock you’re falling further and further, until you close your eyes, tip your head back and see starts as your second orgasm tears through you. You hear yourself scream for him, mouth dropped open as he loses whatever control he had before. It’s hard and it’s fast, and it’s all fucking worth it when he drops your legs and goes still.

Your name is falling from his lips like a chant, like a prayer at church as you feel his cock throb inside you, white hot cum painting every inch of the inside of you. He manages to keep his weight from collapsing onto you, pushing himself back on his knees instead, letting his cock slip from your tight heat.

You watch him as he holds your legs spread, watching his cum seep out of you. It’s performative and entirely unnecessary, but you dip a hand between your legs, use two of your fingers to spread yourself open and push lightly, letting him watch his cum pool at your hole, dripping down between the cheeks of your ass. You feel one of his fingers follow the trail, scooping it back up to press back inside your pussy, then, that fingers is slipped into your mouth.

“How do we taste baby?”

“Pretty good.”

In the moments that follow, once you’ve used the bathroom, the two of you settle under your sheets. Marcus on his back with you draped over his chest. He’s drawing shapes on your back, pressing kisses to the crown of your head as you slowly drift in and out of sleep.

When you wake, it’s still dark, the moon is high in the sky, and his face his buried between your thighs, leisurely eating at your cunt like he’s got all the time in the world. Your let your fingers tangle in his brown curls as he slowly works you up, tongue lapping at your clit softly until you’re writhing and twisting in the sheets as he makes you come for the third time that night.

He kisses you as he settles back down next to you. He turns you over so he’s pressed against your back, holds on of your legs up so he can push his cock into you again. You’re sore and spend and every muscle in your body aches, but he’s soft this time, rocking his hips into you from behind, slowly fucking you with his arms wrapped around you, both of you looking out into the darkness beyond the windows. He comes inside you for the second time that night, but neither of you make time to move. His cock slotted perfectly inside you, his cum leaking out slowly around him and down your thighs as you both fall asleep again.

In the morning, the storm has cleared and the low winter light wakes you up. The bed is empty, but still warm when you move onto your back, eyes adjusting to the light. Marcus is at the foot of the bed, doing up the last buttons on his shirt.

“I have to go.” He says simply, but with a tone that says he’d rather do nothing more than crawl back into bed with you.

“That’s okay,” You say, pushing yourself up, holding up the sheets to cover yourself, “Will you come back later?”

“Do you want me to come back later?” He asks, sitting on the side of the bed to slip his shoes on.

You shift slightly, moving so you can tuck a particularly unruly curl behind his ear, “I do.”

He turns, smiles at you, then kisses you softly, “Then yes, I’ll come back later.”

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