HAYLEY marcus pike is my ultimate comfort character and this series, especially the newest chapter, feels like i have a blanket tucked around me and nothing bad can ever happen :’)
i truly love with my whole heart when marcus finds someone who he can feel the entire breadth of his feelings without feeling like he’s /too much/
i can’t handle that soft man not being soft anymore 😭😭😭
it's ME I AM THE ONE TUCKING THE BLANKET AROUND YOU.
Marcus feels deeply and I don't think he's ever found someone to not only match that energy, but to do it without even really trying. So he always has these small defenses up to protect him from the judgement or misunderstanding of others, but they are never so strong that he completely stifles himself.
But with our reader, I knew all he had to do was be on edge just enough to need to vent, and then just experience that feeling of truly being heard and understood to realize he'd never have to withhold those parts of himself. This recognition of sorts hits them both like a freight train, honestly, and they are GONERS now.
And girl listen, I could not handle a Marcus that isn't soft and romantic and thoughtful and so so endearing either. You will simply never find that here.
Thank you sm for sending this, I am holding this ask in my hands so so gently right now and for the rest of time. I really really needed it today, and I'm so glad you are enjoying my babies together <3
Clean Sheet - A Marcus Pike Author AU - Ongoing Series
Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!reader
Summary: Marcus makes a decision.
WC: 4.6k
Warnings: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI reference to past sex acts, oral sex, masturbation, lots of pining, angst (Marcus has a lot of feelings), mentions of self-consciousness & masking behaviors, one (1) fish joke
A/N: You know what, I don't even want to acknowledge how long it took me to finish this chapter. So I don't think I will :')
This is alllll Marcus's POV, and his head is one of my favorite places to be. I just live here now. I'm really excited to show you guys where he's at after the last chapter, and how our sweet reader is (completely on accident) opening his eyes. I have so many feelings about it & we simply do not have the time for them all.
Previous Chapter
Series Masterlist -- Main Masterlist
No longer working in an office has its perks, to be sure.
An easy stride and profound productivity was found in Marcus’s current free-form routine and relatively liquid time frames. The lack of counted hours or stuffy conference rooms or uncomfortable water cooler chat were things he didn’t realize had weighed on him until they were gone.
Marcus Pike never saw his creative energy as having four walls or eight hours to hold it, anyway.
But he still hates Mondays.
Specifically this Monday.
Not only had it ushered in more of the muggy air that kept him wanting to hide away in his apartment, but also brought an actual hard deadline to his calendar. The gravity surrounding the impending phone call felt, to Marcus, as physically present as the early morning fog stuck to his window panes.
As much as he liked to complain about his agent Rachel’s methods, (and her suggestions, and the volume of her voice, and her personality in general) she’d actually come through for him in the past few weeks. Although he wasn’t outspoken about his particular reservations regarding the continuation of the Feedback series, there was still no way to hide his discomfort and ambiguity over the looming contracts she’d been sending copies of to his inbox on the daily.
So she’d secured extensions, spoken extensively with publishers whom Marcus knew to be no fun at all over the phone, and let him sit on them. But his jig was up now, and all the extra time in the world couldn’t have made him feel more steady on his shaky legs.
He’d drafted his response days ago–a long-winded approach to say “thanks but no thanks”–but the courage to hit the little flying envelope and send it off had remained elusive.
A clatter from the kitchen tears Marcus from a momentary retreat, face in hands and elbows planted on the desktop in a small rebellion against the document sitting open on his monitor.
The lines between his brows deepen, but no emotion stronger than his current discontent regarding his future can shoulder its way through to reveal itself over his face. He stands slowly, mind elsewhere as he moves to the kitchen to find Ellie in the sink, one paw in a dirty coffee mug.
Removing her gently from the basin, he ignores her disappointed squeaks and places the small tabby on the rug. He proceeds to hand wash the mug, but instead of putting it away he sets it back on the counter–distracted.
Marcus trails a finger across the cool granite, willing just a little bit of tension to melt down his spine as he reminisces once again over the events of last weekend.
Your body under his hands was so alive and responsive and needing, like it had been intent on telling him that there was no better place on Earth to be than crowded between him and his kitchen counter. Recalling the vantage point he’d had on his knees, the memory of you perched on the edge hasn’t failed yet to pull everything in his abdomen tight.
Filling his kitchen with beautiful sounds, Marcus worshiped you with his mouth, his tongue, his hands–breathless whines and whispers, and those airy giggles you let out during the aftershocks of your orgasms. If he focuses, pinching his eyes shut now, the sound of a silent question on your lips after he’d taken you apart the second time rings like bells through his body.
You couldn’t help but try to give him something in return, cupping his aching length over his jeans with a playful bite to his lower lip. The disappointed pout you gave when he gently batted your hand away almost broke his resolve, but he was determined to do this right, the way you suggested–slow.
Even if that meant taking himself in hand mere minutes after seeing you to a cab, barely making it back to the kitchen to spill himself on the same counter you’d just spent the better part of an hour writhing on.
It had been a proper battle not to suggest seeing you again right away. He figured you would want space, and was sure you must have been able to see through his white lie and discern how difficult your “casual” suggestion was going to be for him. But you’d texted him first, early the next morning, asking if he wanted to make drink plans for later in the week.
As he settles back in at his desk, smirking at how embarrassingly fast he'd responded to that text, Marcus faces the blocks of text covering his screen. He lets the smile fall from his face and his eyes drift out of focus until it's all only black smudges on a too-bright background.
He had worked harder than he had in months over the days following to make sure his manuscript looked different enough to warrant a reprint before seeing you. It was important, he’d realized, to make sure you knew how much your insight had changed the way he was weaving Loop’s story, and that it would show in his latest edits. And he’d wanted to give enough time for you to look it over thoroughly before picking up his order, and you, Wednesday evening.
The sparkle in your eyes as you pulled a green folder from your bag, watching his face anxiously across the small booth, was so pretty that Marcus didn’t even notice the abundance of notes on your copy at first.
They were written in purple ink this time.
“The red made me feel like your teacher, or something.”
In the minutes you’d lean in to read passages silently with him under the hazy green light, the thrum of anticipation would fill the minimal space between you and render him mostly unable to focus on his work. It was an effort to keep from pushing the draft aside in favor of pulling your body into his, the idea of using the back corner booth as a make-out spot like a couple of teenagers far more enticing in those moments.
But then you’d speak, and Marcus would immediately remember how there was nothing in the world that could make him want to keep you from sharing anything going on inside your head; from being exposed to another small piece of yourself, innocuously shown with every offhand comment or meaningful suggestion.
His fingers entwined in yours itched for more on the walk back to your place, and there was no hesitation to trail you up the stairs when you'd invited him in for a nightcap. He took only a swift moment to inspect your space, you flitting nervously from the kitchen into the living room before lighting a candle and gesturing towards the handful of mostly full liquor bottles on your countertop.
He hadn’t given you the chance to needlessly apologize for the sparse mess–his hands finding your waist, his lips hastening to the curve of your jaw as he pulled you into his chest in such a way he hoped conveyed how badly he wanted you. Marcus’s movements were urgent, hungry hands and desperate lips pressing and molding into your form, and your body responded to them in kind.
The way your thighs caged his own when you pushed him into your oversized lounge chair felt incredible, but as his tongue danced in your mouth and he coaxed your hips to roll forward, your covered center pushed perfectly against his hardening cock and sent heat lightning down his spine.
A sharp gasp when a shift in his weight pushed up against your clit brought him back to Earth, removing his hands from your hips to frame your face.
"Is this okay?"
You’d let out a breathy chuckle, lips ghosting over his while running fingers through his hair. "What about this," you said, rolling your hips over him again, the corners of your mouth quirking up at the slight slack of his jaw in response, "makes you think I'm not okay with it?"
Marcus groaned softly, the words "fair enough" slurred out with a wondered expression before bringing your face back down to his.
Kissing you was like breathing, every brush of your lips and press of your tongue effortlessly penetrating and nourishing deep parts of him long untouched; as if there hadn’t been dust in the rafters or fear beneath the rugs before you showed up.
Slipping down his torso, Marcus had bloomed beneath you as your mouth lingered around the neck of his shirt, nipping at the barely exposed collar bone underneath. Slowly you’d slunk to your knees in front of the chair, coursing your palms across the soft cotton that covered his heaving chest and down his sides until reaching his waistband.
Despite his single beer and his dislike for the type of metaphor, Marcus had felt drunk as he followed the movements of your hands until you were rolling the button of his jeans between your fingertips, only heavily meeting your gaze again once you’d taken your time raking your eyes back up his form.
And there you were, on your knees with hooded lids and parted lips.
Not that Marcus could number the amount of times you’d taken his breath away in the last week, but he’s not ashamed to admit this was one of the most memorable.
The sight had gone straight to his cock, and it twitched against the strained denim before you. Your eyes flicked down only for a second before finding his face again, and you smiled somewhat bashfully as your fingers traced over the bulge.
When Marcus brought his hand to your cheek, you leaned into the touch–turning your head to find his thumb with your lips. He gasped, embarrassingly sharp, when you wrapped them softly around the digit, the wet heat of your mouth sending sparks across his skin as you followed the gesture with a firm cup to where he was aching for you.
As you unzipped him Marcus let his thumb fall from your mouth, pulling your bottom lip with it and practically growling out your name with a chuckle. “So fucking gorgeous,” he added, watching as the warmth behind your eyes shifted to something fiery beneath his words. Bowing your head, you mouthed at the exposed fabric still covering his length, slipping your hands beneath the hem of his shirt to push it up over his soft tummy.
Presently, there’s another clatter in the kitchen, but he’s far too engulfed in his daydream to care.
Marcus’s head hit the back of your chair, the heat of your breath seeping through the material as you palmed the parts of him your lips didn't graze. Lost in the sensation before your fingers slipped beneath the elastic circling his hips, he fell into powerlessness under your touch as you freed him. Long, slow strokes sent fire through his abdomen and down his thighs, muscles tensing and hips chasing your hand as you moved up and down his length, gathering the small amount of moisture leaking from his tip to coat and ease the movement.
When Marcus recalls the way you looked up at him, the uncloaked desire in your eyes mirroring what was coursing through him–it still sends something liquid, molten, to his gut.
A prickle of embarrassment follows when he remembers how desperate he felt in that moment, how it felt like he could already feel your lips around his shaft, how close his tongue was to begging for your mouth. But he didn't have to, your breath hot and ticklish and ghosting over the quickly hardening head of his cock as you asked, "Can I? Please?"
"Fuck, yes-"
His tip was gliding across your tongue as soon as the word left him, and your mouth was somehow better than he’d imagined. Marcus had to let his head fall back again, had to find a spot on your popcorned ceiling to concentrate on instead of how fucking good you felt around him–so sweet and so warm and wet that he couldn’t help but think he'd end up painting the back of your throat in record time if he didn’t actively attempt not to.
And he surely could have, the way your tongue cradled his cock as it slipped further and further back, how you whined so lightly around it every time his head knocked against your soft palate. He could have let go of the tension he was holding in his hips to keep them down and came immediately, pushed forward until he felt your throat constrict around him, felt the way it would pulse as you’d swallow him down–
But he didn’t. He wouldn’t.
Not when you were at his feet and all he really wanted to watch you, to brush away the tears that breached your eyelashes and murmur how beautiful you were, how good you felt or any number of things he’d never remember saying but were absolutely true.
When he’d finally given up on holding back, he’d known you could tell. There was a slight raise in the apples of your cheeks before the hand not working him at the base snuck down your front and beneath your own waistband. He watched, slack-jawed and awestriken, until your eyes shut and you whimpered around him and he was gone.
Marcus had barely heard your choked gasp before it was cut short by a swallow–could barely keep his vision focused as he watched the speed of the hand between your thighs increase and the muscles in your neck tighten and relax, again and again, as he came down your throat.
He's sure the noises he made as he took in the sight were messy, pathetic, but at that moment it was the last thing on his mind. Because once he'd finished, moving swiftly off the chair and all but falling to his knees as you giggled and let him lay you down on the rug, the only thing in the world that mattered to Marcus was figuring out what he had to do to have you shaking beneath him.
The sound of porcelain shattering on hardwood finally rips Marcus from his waking dream state. He almost trips over Ellie as she bolts across the apartment, socks slipping through the threshold of the kitchen to find his freshly cleaned mug now in pieces on the floor.
Why hadn't he put it away?
He sighs, staring at the shards before kneeling to pick them up and feeling the thrum in his veins from his wool-gathering lose heart. It wasn't his favorite cup by any means, but it was the one you'd used.
Marcus furrows his brows, lips pursing as he tries to shrug away an absurd but deep-seated implication of warning. Like this could be a sign–this old and well-loved mug, a physical manifestation of his heart if he were to open it up completely for the hundredth time without worrying the consequences.
Shame, then disgust, breaks through when the hair on his neck stands on end. How easy it is for him to look for signs these days. How nonchalantly he will search for something, anything, to prove that the way things always ended was justified; that it wasn't anyone's fault he couldn't settle down for real–love was simply improbable. It wasn’t in the cards for him.
Heartbreak is a home to Marcus, so very foundational to his sense of self. Some days, he yearns for it, wills for it to fill the cavity of his chest, settle onto his ribs and bring him back to times where he was vulnerable but true.
Maybe his expectations had always been high, his motivations a bit misguided–but that had never made the way he felt any less real. And Marcus wouldn’t bring himself to be ashamed of the fact that he’d stayed open, all these years, to the possibility of finding the right person.
No matter the risk of disappointment.
Because to him, the good parts–the romance, the intimacy, the weightlessness and surprise and passion and life that come with falling in love–were always worth it, in the end. Though he may lament over who he’d given his affections, Marcus never regretted being in love.
The feeling of heartbreak, of loneliness and of endurance, reminds him of that, and it’s…comforting.
Fucking hell, he thinks, acerbic as he holds too tightly to the broom in his hands and sweeps up the remaining bits of coffee mug. Comprehension arrives in the most irritating fashion, fragments of sharp ceramic crashing to the bottom of the bin.
Has he put off rejecting these contracts, worked on this series for so much longer than necessary, kept on until he harbored hate for it…just to torture himself?
What a creative means to keep happiness out of reach, and to convince himself he’s had no say in the matter.
“Goddammit,” he grits through his teeth, exhaling hard as he tucks the broom away and heads to his desk with purpose.
There’s a knock at the door before he takes a seat.
Marcus can’t think of a single thing he’d rather see through his peephole than you, looking sheepish and scratching your fingernails across the lid of a tupperware container in your hand.
Your eyes go wide when he swings the door open, as if you weren’t expecting to find him on the other side of it.
“Hi,” he breathes out, the touch of a smile on the corner of your mouth already easing the weight of discomfort in his chest.
“Hey, sorry, is this a bad time?”
“Not at all,” he says too quickly, stepping aside, “Come on in.”
You beam, and Marcus withholds an actual sigh of relief when you plant a kiss on his cheek before brushing past him. The aroma of whatever you brought lingers behind, swirling with that fresh, citrusy scent that’s always on you. He trails it into the kitchen.
Twirling to him once you’ve set your bag on the counter, you snap the lid off the container and present him with a heaping stack of what appears to be coffee cakes cut into tiny squares.
“Want some?” you ask, wagging your eyebrows a little before popping one in your mouth.
“Cuth-tomer gave ‘em tuh me,” you add, mouth still half-full as he grins and takes one for himself.
“Mm,” he nods, knitting his brows in approval at the burst of sugar and cinnamon across his tongue. You watch him chew, surely smirking at the way he’s refusing to talk with food in his mouth.
“Coffee?” you ask before he’s done chewing, and he nods and shoots you a wink before turning in his socks to ready the pot.
Catching the little green numbers on the microwave as he dumps out the grounds from earlier and grabs a fresh filter, he asks, “Shouldn’t you be at the shop?”
“Took an early lunch,” you say, the warmth of your palm soothing on his waist as you sneak by to plant a hip on the counter, “Ms. Rosa gives me treats if I deliver her business cards, and she’s only a few blocks from here.”
“Sounds like a win-win. You don’t charge extra for that?”
“Nah, it’s not a service I offer. She’s just sweet, and lucky that I will do a lot for baked goods.”
“Guess I’m lucky too, then,” Marcus says, throwing a smirk over his shoulder before reaching into the cupboard for two mugs.
The coffee maker hisses, and you hum.
“I guess you’re lucky I don’t mind sharing.”
Mugs and treats in hands, you follow him out to his balcony. As Marcus settles into a patio chair, you ignore his provided seating in favor of sitting cross-legged on the cool concrete.
“How’s your morning been? Busy?” you ask, raising your brows and taking a sip. His eyes linger longer than they should on the wedding band shaped divot on your finger, and he coughs to get rid of the tightness in his throat that follows.
“Yeah…well, no, actually.”
“Early morning riddles, my favorite.”
He laughs, giving his head a shake before sighing. “Sorry, I mean, my brain has been busy today. Not much actual work going on, though.”
“No need to apologize. I know what you mean,” you shrug, staring intensely at the surface of your drink before setting it down and putting your gaze back on him. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
“Well,” he starts, blowing a raspberry through his lips before setting his own mug down, “Don’t you have to get back to work?”
“I’ve got time.”
Before he even realizes it’s happening, Marcus unloads. You sit quietly, patiently, sipping your coffee as he tells you about his deadline. About the options and his hesitations, about the fear and anxiety and self-sabotage and how he's finally, just now, piecing together his silly hang-ups.
Marcus recognizes that he's always been an open book–at times, to a fault. He can’t help it usually–it’s the self-awareness that the only way to rid himself of ever-looming emotions or ideas is to get them out. And the way those feelings present themselves when he does release…
It varies like the wind.
So that’s always been on him, taking such care to ensure he’s expressing correctly, or saying the words he actually means, or practicing the right tone so that when he does he is easy to perceive; pleasant, polite, not too much.
And God–with you, none of that is so hard. There's not a cell in his body that believes you would ever see him as too much.
Until you, he's not sure anyone has so effortlessly read between the lines.
He’s not entirely sure if the emotions that flash across your features as he speaks just happen to mirror every one he feels inside him, or if maybe he feels them because you do.
It all seems so natural to you too, the little hums and nods you give completely devoid of disinterest or condescension or anything that might make him wonder if he's oversharing with someone who has better things to do.
So words just keep falling from his mouth.
He doesn’t realize how verbose he’s gotten until he compares those stupid contracts currently dangled before him as, “just, fucking, floating listlessly above my head. Like shiny little hooks, eager to reel me in fast to…to a place I won't have air to breathe.”
A muffled laugh follows his monologue, and the warmth that fills him at the sound almost overpowers his confusion.
"I'm so sorry," you wheeze, throwing your hands up cutely when he gives you a confused smile and asks what’s funny. "Just, it’s a fishing metaphor."
You pause, completely overcome with giggles. "Your name is Pike."
And if he didn’t already know it, watching you fight back tears of laughter at your own fish joke, now he's positive.
He’s fucked.
But he's not complaining.
"Okay, well," you finally say, a little breathlessly, "I mean it sounds like you've made up your mind."
Marcus nods, feeling the smile slip from his face. It comes back, smaller, when you swing your legs beneath you to kneel beside him, resting a cheek on his thigh.
"Guess so."
"I won't pretend to know the future, but I do think this is a good thing, Marcus."
"Yeah?" he murmurs, making gentle circles with the tips of his fingers over the curve of your shoulder, feeling satisfied at the shiver that runs through you at his touch.
"I mean, I just…admire you, I guess? You know what isn't good for you, and make decisions based on that. You want to be happy, and you work towards it. A lot of people don't know how much easier said than done that is."
"Haven't always been the best at it, to be honest."
"Still," you sigh. Turning your neck, he feels your lips on his kneecap before he hears you mutter "proud of you," into his skin.
A fierce affection claws at his throat when you push away, the too much part of him screaming to pull you back and into his lap and kiss you until he can't breathe. But he doesn't, watching as you settle back onto your bottom and trace a ring of coffee on the concrete left behind by your mug.
"Thank you," he says. It doesn't feel like the sentiment is enough, but he’s sure it's the best he can do right now.
"So what’s next?” you ask.
“I have to send an email.”
Your smile is sympathetic, but you roll your eyes. He’s thankful for both gestures.
“And after you send an email?”
“Well, I still need to finish Feedback 5. There might be a bit of a lag in final editing, the way I want it to end, but…I’ll have some time-” He breathes in deeply, letting it out slow as he concentrates on your face, “-time to figure out the rest.”
“You should take a trip, maybe. ‘End of an era’ vacation, you know?” Marcus watches as you rise, stepping forward to prop your elbows on the railing of his balcony and study the cityscape. “I can’t tell you how much it did for me.”
At this time of day, the sun gets tucked behind a taller building a few blocks down, only a halo of its light radiating from behind it. Your head cocks as you spectate the effect, a smile pulling at your lips when you breathe out a small, “huh.”
There’s something in your understated reaction that throws Marcus into a small fantasy–the image of you, standing at the base of a mountain or the edge of a valley or in an old castle or a museum or anywhere else but here. His name in your voice, the scent of citrus and dark beer, the weaving of your fingers through his as you bask in the beauty of something new and unknown–with him.
“Yeah,” he finally says, standing to join you against the rail just as the sun creeps far enough west to cover you both in clear, undiluted light.
“Yeah, maybe I will.”
Marcus almost can't believe the disparity in how he felt when you knocked on his door, compared to now when it latches shut behind you. It was frustration and annoyance driving him this morning, but what fills him now as he settles at his desk is excitement; the anticipation of his possibilities, and hope.
You'd checked your watch once the sun jumped from one building to the next, swearing and apologizing for having to leave.
Your urgency didn't keep you from pulling a plate from the cupboard and leaving at least half of the remaining coffee cakes for him. He chews on one while reopening an email he wrote last week but never sent.
He considers reading it over for the 50th time. Then, Ellie jumps into his lap–conjuring the image of you, standing with your nose smushed into the top of her head when the cat had finally let you pick her up before leaving–and he decides against it.
Clicking send, Marcus powers the computer down as soon as it escapes his outbox. Nabbing a paperback from the bedside table and leaving his phone in its place, he makes his way back to the balcony.
The sun is bathing his porch now, the heat it brings producing a light sheen on his forehead only minutes after sitting down. He ignores it, instead stepping further into someone else's story that’s playing out across the pages in his hand.
Darkness creeps over the city by the time he checks his phone again. There's half a dozen missed calls (from Rachel), along with a myriad of texts and emails. He swipes them all away with an exception–two texts from you, the last received about 30 minutes ago.
You: Would it be unseemly to ask you to come over for dinner?
You: Scratch that, I don’t care. You should come over.
heLLO I am feeling some weird energy tonight so I wanted to share a snippet of the next chapter of Clean Sheet that I'm chipping away at, if anyone is interested :)
A lot of this chapter is spent in Marcus's head, which is truly one of my favorite places to be. So we are introspective, we are a little bit angsty, but also SO back babey.
Heartbreak is a home to Marcus, so very foundational to his sense of self. Some days, he yearns for it; wills for it to fill the cavity of his chest, settle onto his ribs and bring him back to bygone times where he was vulnerable but he was true.
Maybe his expectations had always been high, his motivations a bit misguided–but that had never made the way he felt any less real. And Marcus wouldn’t bring himself to be ashamed of the fact that he’d stayed open, all these years, to the possibility of finding the right person no matter the risk of disappointment.
Because to him, the good parts–the romance, the intimacy, the weightlessness and surprise and passion and life that come with falling in love–were always worth it, in the end. Though he may lament over who he’d given his affections, Marcus never regretted being in love.
The feeling of heartbreak, of loneliness and of endurance, reminds him of that, and it’s…comforting.
thank u for clicking read more here is some author marcus vibes for ur trouble~
Hi I just need you to know that I've read the latest chapter of Clean Sheet 5 times this morning and I am WORKED UP over what's really a relatively tame chapter 🥵🥵🥵 Can I spend the rest of the day in my bunk? No???
Just listen, I am AFFECTED. I can't wait to see what happens next. 😏
SCREAM I am so blushy over this, Penny. Marcus affects me as such all the time, and there's just something about those small moments with CS Marcus that murders me anytime I think about him. I am THRILLED you've enjoyed him, I know it's been too long since I've gotten back in the weeds with them but I promise it is coming!! Thank you sm for this super sweet message that maybe might be kicking my ass into gear to work on him again<3
