#countdown smut

[writtenbyadriana]

When the thunder rumbles, Pt.1

Pairing: Mark Meachum × fem!reader

Summary: We were never supposed to end up here. A storm. A borrowed house. Too much history between us. I told myself I was over him. I was wrong.

Warnings: emotional distress, hurt, heartbreak, cheating (mentioned), exes to lovers, kissing, physical intimacy

This fic contains the use of y/n and pet names (e.g. sweetheart, baby, love,...)

Words: 4979

Note: English isn't my first language.

We all miss Mark Meachum, don't we?🥺

Part 2 ➡️

💫 Check out my masterlist here!

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"I would never in a million years spend the night in there with you!"

With my arms crossed tightly over my chest, I sank deeper into the passenger seat, my gaze fixed in disbelief on the dark, silent house in front of us. Rain kept hammering relentlessly against the windshield of Mark's Ford Bronco. Somewhere in the distance, thunder cracked through the night like a warning.

Beside me, Mark let out a dramatic sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, eyes closed, breathing measured — like he was physically holding himself together, trying not to completely lose his patience.

"And what exactly do you suggest we do instead?" His voice was calm. Too calm. I knew him well enough to recognize that this was the voice he used when he was anything but calm.

I shrugged, still stubbornly staring straight ahead. "I don't know."

Mark huffed and turned toward me. "Great plan, y/n."

Then, softer, more careful: "C'mon. Dave's gone all weekend. He won't mind if we crash at his place. It's better than killing ourselves out there in this storm."

Deep down, I knew he was right. Driving any further in weather like this would've been suicide.

But I couldn't just…agree to this. I couldn't spend the night in the same house as him — not after everything. Not after he had ripped my heart out, crushed it without mercy, and left me emotionally wrecked in the aftermath.

"No way", I said firmly, shaking my head. "I'll just call an Uber."

From the corner of my eye, I saw his eyebrow lift as he watched me dig my phone out of my jacket pocket — only to be greeted by the mocking words No service on the screen.

"Fuck", I muttered, letting the phone drop against my thigh.

Mark, of course, looked like he'd already expected this. He clapped his hands once, as if the matter was settled, unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the driver's door. Cold air rushed into the car, making me shiver instantly.

"C'mon", he said over his shoulder. "There are multiple beds in there. We are not sleeping in the car!"

Without waiting for my response, he stepped out into the rain and jogged toward the front door.

I watched him for a few seconds…then, with a quiet sigh of defeat, I followed.

My shoes made soft, wet sounds against the rain-soaked ground. To keep from getting completely drenched, I pulled my jacket over my head — though it probably wasn't just the rain I was trying to shield myself from, but everything that was about to happen.

With quick steps, I came to a halt beside Mark in front of the front door. He glanced at me only briefly, wearing that unmistakable grin that clearly said: See? Told ya.

I rolled my eyes instinctively. A habit I'd picked up during our time together.

"Do you actually have a key?", I finally asked, letting the jacket fall back over my shoulders while tugging it tighter around myself. Thank god the architect of this house had at least been smart enough to include a porch roof.

Mark's mouth curved into that crooked grin again as he shook his head. "Nope."

That made me pause — until he crouched down beside the door, lifted the flower pot resting there, and revealed a single key hidden underneath. That explained a lot.

"Creative hiding spot", I muttered. Still, I was ridiculously relieved that he knew where the spare key was and hadn't planned on breaking into the house.

Mark shot me a quick wink before sliding the key into the lock. The door opened with a quiet creak. "Ladies first", he said, gesturing me inside with a mock-gallant sweep of his hand.

I rolled my eyes again but stepped over the threshold anyway. The brief brush of my arm against his chest was something I very deliberately chose to ignore.

Inside, I was met with a warm, muted stillness — a sharp contrast to the storm raging outside. Rain hammered against the windows while somewhere in the house, soft creaks traveled through the walls, as if the building itself had noticed that two people with far too much unspoken history had just crossed its threshold.

I reached for the light switch beside the front door, needing the light just to orient myself. Then, I slipped out of my jacket and draped it over the nearest chair. Water dripped onto the floor — and for a moment I simply stared at the small dark spots, as if they might tell me how I was supposed to handle this.

With a quiet sigh, I kicked off my shoes, nudging them aside with my foot so I wouldn't track even more dirt through the house. The thin fabric of my socks met the cool floorboards, grounding and exposing all at once.

A second later, I heard the soft thud of Mark's boots hitting the floor behind me. Of course he noticed. Of course he followed suit.

Then he closed the door behind us and leaned back against it. Too briefly to be accidental.

"See? Not so bad", he said quietly.

I didn't turn around. "We've been here for thirty seconds."

A soft, almost amused exhale behind me. "Fair."

I folded my arms across my chest again — not because I was cold, but because I needed something to hold myself together. The house was cozy. Far too cozy. Dim lighting, warm wood tones, a blanket casually thrown over the couch. Like it had been designed for people to feel safe here. To let their guard down. To let closeness happen.

Great.

"I'll show you the layout real quick", Mark said, pushing himself away from the door. "Then you can pick a room as far away from me as possible."

I shot him a brief glance. "Appreciate the consideration."

A crooked grin tugged at his mouth. Not forced. Not teasing. But the other one. The one that used to knock the ground right out from under me. I hated that it still worked.

He led me down the hallway, gesturing to two doors. "Guest rooms. Both comfy. Bathroom's in between. Kitchen…" He nodded toward the open living area. "…obvious."

"You've really studied this place", I muttered.

"Dave and I once got stuck here way too long on an observation." His shoulders lifted slightly. "It kind of feels familiar."

I only nodded, even though something unpleasant twisted in my stomach. Too many shared memories. Too many nights where familiarity had been dangerous.

"I'll take that one", I said eventually, pointing to the room at the end of the hall.

Mark nodded. No comment. No joke. And somehow that made it worse.

When I closed the door behind me, I leaned my forehead against it. Breathed in. Out. Just one night. Just a storm. Just a house. Just Mark Meachum.

What could possibly go wrong?

Outside, thunder rolled through the sky, like the universe itself was laughing.

---

I spent a while in the room, lying on the bed, letting the silence settle around me, though my mind refused to. Every detail of the day — the witness interview, the drive, the storm — kept looping in my head. Why hadn't we just made the whole thing weather-dependent? Checked the forecast properly, listened to the warnings? We'd never have driven this far, never ended up here, in a house I didn't belong in, with him just two doors down.

I hugged my knees, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how I'd let him get too close once. Too close, too fast, and how cruelly he'd pulled away afterward, leaving me raw and tangled in my own feelings. And now, he was somewhere behind that wall, probably lying in the guest bed two rooms over, completely at ease, probably even snoring lightly, while I tried to make sense of the mess he'd left me in.

I reached for my phone, fingers trembling slightly. The screen lit up: 2:37 a.m. A small, bitter laugh escaped me. Who plans for this? Who ends up in a stranger's house in the middle of a storm with the one person they'd hoped never to see again like this?

With a sigh, I swung my legs over the bed and padded out into the hallway, bare feet brushing the cool floor. The oversized T-shirt, tossed on the bed and practically calling my name, replaced the damp jeans and T-shirt I'd worn all day. It smelled faintly of fabric softener, comforting in its simplicity, and I welcomed the soft weight against my skin.

I reached the kitchen, stretching up toward one of the hanging cabinets, looking for a glass as I heard him.

"Top shelf. Second from the left", Mark's voice broke the quiet, casual and completely unnerving at the same time.

I jumped, spinning around to see him on the sofa in the adjacent living room. Dim light pooled around him. Jeans, dark t-shirt, socks. Whiskey in hand. Casual, effortless, infuriatingly perfect. My gaze lingered longer than it should have — and I felt it, the familiar twist in my chest, the rush of heat I always tried to hide — before forcing myself to blink and give him a sardonic tilt of my head.

"Wow, captain instructional. Good thing I didn't know the glass patrol was on duty tonight", I muttered.

He laughed, a low, amused sound that slid straight under my skin. "I've got to set boundaries somewhere", he said, raising the glass slightly.

I grabbed a glass, hesitated, thinking about the water bottle tucked in the fridge, before noticing the whiskey bottle sitting temptingly on the living room table.

Mark's eyes flicked toward it, a half-smile teasing. "Help yourself", he said. "But if you want some, you'll have to come over here."

I froze for a heartbeat. Something stronger than water felt necessary — maybe necessary in ways I didn't want to admit.

Then I crossed the short distance and poured myself a modest amount, the amber liquid catching the dim light.

Mark's eyes followed me the entire way, slow and deliberate, as I reached for the whiskey bottle on the living room table. I could feel the weight of his gaze tracing my movements — the way my bare legs stretched toward the table, the soft bend of my knees as I lifted the bottle, the careful tilt as the liquid filled my glass.

Heat pooled in my stomach. My skin tingled in a way that was impossible to ignore, my pulse picking up. I hated that he could do this to me — that just by watching, he could make me so acutely aware of myself, of my bare legs, of the way the oversized t-shirt barely protected me. Vulnerable. Exposed. And yet, part of me couldn't look away, couldn't stop wondering if that subtle smirk or the faint sparkle in his eyes meant he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Wow", I said finally, tilting my head, trying to sound more amused than flustered. "Really subtle, Meachum. Watching me like some…exhibit?"

He straightened slightly on the sofa, raising his hand in mock defense, though the faint grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. "Hey! I was just…making sure you didn't spill the whiskey."

I rolled my eyes, hiding a small smile. "Uh-huh. Totally believable."

Sitting beside him on the sofa, I left enough space between us to breathe, tugging the hem of the t-shirt over my knees like it could somehow shield me from him. But I could feel it — his eyes lingering, impossibly, on the expanse of my bare legs. The awareness sent a sharp little thrill through me, mingled with the heat of embarrassment and something I wasn't ready to name. Too much skin, too much memory, too much him.

The quiet thrum of the storm outside, the faint scent of whiskey, the muted lamplight, the sofa beneath us, and the unspoken tension between us — it made every nerve alive, every thought sharp, every feeling impossible to ignore.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The kind of silence that wasn't empty, but heavy. Charged. Loud in ways sound could never be.

I lifted the glass to my lips and took a larger sip than I meant to. The whiskey burned its way down my throat, sharp and unforgiving — and somehow that sting grounded me. Pulled me back into my body. Back into the room. Back onto the sofa, with Mark sitting far too close for someone I was trying very hard not to feel anything for.

His gaze never really left me. I could feel it without even looking.

And of course, that was exactly what my mind chose to latch onto.

Memories came uninvited, slipping in through every crack I tried to keep sealed shut.

The first time we'd met — all wrong timing, all wrong place. Him leaning in the doorway of the briefing room, coffee in hand, watching me like he'd already decided I was trouble. Late nights on stakeouts, sharing bad jokes and worse snacks, laughing far too easily for two people who were supposed to keep things professional. That night on the motel balcony, when the air had been too warm and the distance between us too small, when his hand had brushed mine and neither of us had pulled away. The first kiss that had never been part of the plan. The way I'd fallen asleep against his shoulder afterward, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I hadn't been building walls my entire life.

God, I'd been so stupid.

A quiet exhale left my lungs before I even realized I'd been holding my breath.

"You're not sleeping either, huh?"

His voice cut gently through the mess in my head.

I blinked, focusing back on the present. On the dim light. On the storm. On him.

I tilted my head slightly, lifting the glass in a mock toast. "Yeah, well. I always preferred listening to thunderstorms on some acquaintance's couch with my ex and a bottle of overpriced discount whiskey."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Ouch." Then he shook his head faintly. "For the record…Dave's not just an acquaintance. He's a friend."

I wrinkled my nose instinctively. "You have weird standards for friendship."

That finally earned me a quiet laugh. Not loud. Not forced. Just real enough to tug something uncomfortable in my chest.

I hated that it still did that.

I took another sip, slower this time, eyes dropping to the amber liquid as if it held answers. It didn't. But it gave me something to do besides look at him. Besides think about how he was still sitting there, still watching me, still existing far too close to my carefully maintained emotional distance.

Outside, the storm rumbled again. Inside, everything felt louder.

---

It was sometime around four in the morning when I finally noticed the clock on the oven.

The storm had softened to a steady, tired drizzle. The world outside felt paused, like it, too, had run out of energy to keep raging.

Inside, the whiskey bottle sat between us on the coffee table, noticeably lighter than it had been. My glass had been refilled three times now — maybe four, if I was being honest with myself.

We were still on the sofa. Talking. And somehow, at some point, the space between us had shrunk. Not gone. Not dangerous. Just...smaller. Enough that our shoulders occasionally brushed when one of us shifted. Enough that his warmth reached me without trying.

I didn't remember how the conversation had drifted here. One moment we'd been trading sarcastic comments about Dave's questionable choice in house décor, and the next—

"Remember that stakeout in Berlin?", Mark said, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "When you almost blew our cover because you laughed at my accent?"

I huffed softly. "You sounded like a villain from a low-budget spy movie."

"You're cruel."

"You're dramatic."

He smiled at that, the kind that came easy now. Unguarded.

"Okay, my turn", I said, lifting my glass slightly. "The time you tried to make coffee in the break room and somehow managed to set off the smoke alarm."

"That machine was faulty."

"You put hot sauce in it, Mark."

"In my defense, it was labeled terribly."

We were both laughing now. Actually laughing. The kind that reached the eyes.

Alcohol had a way of dissolving the careful edges. Of loosening the parts of me that had been clenched tight for too long.

The memories shifted slowly after that. From ridiculous. To familiar. To…softer.

"That night in Prague", he said quietly after a moment. "When everything went sideways. You stayed up with me until sunrise."

I nodded. I remembered. Too well.

"You didn't have to", he added. "But you did."

I swallowed, gaze dropping to my glass. "You looked like you needed someone who wouldn't leave."

The words settled between us, heavier than everything else we'd said tonight.

My chest felt too tight. Too exposed.

So of course my mouth chose the worst possible direction instead.

"And then there was the time in that stupid motel in Valencia", I said lightly, too lightly. "When we both agreed that sharing one bed was a terrible idea."

His smile faltered — not fading, just shifting. Sharpening. His head tilted slightly. "Was it?"

I exhaled a quiet, humorless breath. "No. That was the problem."

I stared ahead, the memory too vivid, too warm, too dangerous. The closeness. The laughter that had faded into silence. The way everything had felt inevitable.

When I finally glanced at him, his expression had changed. Not angry. Just… intense.

"Don't", he said quietly.

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things like that." His voice was lower now, rougher around the edges. "Not when you're sitting this close to me."

My pulse tripped. "Why?", I asked, even though part of me already knew the answer.

He held my gaze, unwavering. "Because it's hard enough hearing you talk about us like it meant something", he said slowly. "When I'm not allowed to do anything about it."

The air between us felt suddenly too thin. Too charged.

But for reasons I couldn't explain, I couldn't make myself stop — not when the memories of that night flared so vividly behind my closed eyes, as if it had happened yesterday.

"Do you remember that night?", I asked before I could stop myself.

He didn't look away.

"Yeah", he said quietly, his voice lower now. "I remember." His jaw flexed once. "It was…impossible to forget."

Something in his gaze darkened, just slightly. Like a shadow passing over something already intense.

"I still think about it", he admitted, softly enough that it felt like a confession he hadn't meant to give.

My breath hitched — barely noticeable, but real.

I tilted my head, forcing a half-smile I didn't quite feel. "That sounds like a you problem. No one's forcing you to think about it."

A beat of silence. Then he turned fully toward me.

"That's exactly the problem", he said. "It was the best sex we ever had."

The air felt heavier. Thicker.

Instinctively, I bit down on my lower lip, my thighs pressing closer together as Mark's gaze locked onto mine — as if he were trying to take in every reaction, every flicker of vulnerability.

He noticed.

"Do you ever miss it?", he asked quietly. "Being like we were. Not the chaos. Not the fallout. But…us. The way we fit when it was just us."

I hesitated.

His voice softened. "I don't mean just physically", he added, though both meanings lingered in the air. "I mean the way we moved around each other. The way everything felt easy. Natural. Like we were exactly where we were supposed to be."

My chest tightened.

The truth hovered on my tongue — terrifying and achingly familiar.

"Yes", I admitted finally, barely above a whisper. "I do."

The word settled between us like a live wire.

Neither of us moved. But neither of us looked away either.

Instead, Mark shifted closer — close enough that our knees touched. The rough denim of his jeans brushed against the strip of bare skin the oversized t-shirt didn't quite manage to hide. The contact was barely there. And yet it felt impossibly loud.

I stilled for a heartbeat, fighting the instinct to unravel over something so small. So stupid. I straightened my spine as much as my cross-legged position allowed, as if posture alone could make me less transparent. Less breakable. Less his.

It didn't help.

Because then I looked at him. At those eyes. Those infuriating, beautiful green eyes that had once held promises they'd never kept. That had once made me believe in futures I'd had to bury.

"I was such a damn idiot, sweetheart", Mark whispered, his voice raw, almost stripped bare. "I wrecked everything. All of it. Over one stupid moment."

The words hit deeper than I expected. Deeper than I wanted.

Grief rose first. Then anger. Then the unbearable confusion that had haunted me ever since. That familiar burn gathered behind my eyes, sharp and threatening. I blinked hard. Once. Twice. Don't cry. Not now. Not here. Not in front of him.

"You cheated on me, Mark."

The words barely made it past my throat. Too fragile. Too tight. The memory of that night — his voice, his confession, the way my world had cracked open — still hurt like fresh glass.

"I know", he said quietly. "But it was only one time. You have to believe me."

A hollow, bitter sound left me — half laugh, half breath — and I hated myself for it when the tears slipped free anyway, tracing hot lines down my cheeks.

"One time too many."

Mark swallowed hard after my words. I saw it in his throat, the way the guilt sat there like something sharp.

"I know", he said again, but this time it wasn't just acknowledgment. It sounded like regret carved into every syllable. "I know what I did to you. And I hate myself for it every fucking day."

My breath trembled. The dam I'd held together for hours cracked completely.

"You have no idea...", I whispered, and then my voice broke open. "...no idea what you meant to me. What you still mean to me." A shaky laugh escaped me, bitter and wounded. "I thought we were…solid. That whatever we were building, it was real. And then you threw it away for..." I scoffed, tears blurring everything. "For that blonde disaster with the personality of stale toast."

The words were sharp. Ugly. Honest.

Mark didn't even flinch. Instead, his face crumpled in something dangerously close to pain. "You're right", he said quietly. "About all of it."

I shook my head, anger rising again through the tears. "Then explain it to me! Because I still don't understand how you could even look at her when you were...when we were—"

"Happy", he finished softly.

That single word hurt more than anything else.

"We were", he said again. "God, we were. That was the problem."

I blinked at him, confused, furious. "What?"

His gaze dropped to his hands, clasped tightly together like he was holding himself in place. "It started feeling...too good. Too real. Like something I didn't deserve. Like eventually you'd wake up and realize you deserved someone better. Someone who could give you more than I ever could."

My head snapped up. "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard."

He looked up again, startled.

"You think I stayed because it was convenient?", I demanded, voice rising. "You think I went through everything with you because I didn't know what I wanted?" My chest felt like it was splitting open. "Meachum, I sat next to hospital beds and waited for test results. I watched you fight through pain and fear and exhaustion and I still chose you. Over and over again."

Silence slammed into the space between us.

"You don't get to tell me I'd leave", I said, quieter now, but more dangerous. "You don't get to rewrite what I felt just because you got scared."

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Pain flickered across his face.

"I was trying to protect you", he said weakly.

I shook my head fiercely. "No. You were trying to protect yourself."

He nodded slowly, like he couldn't deny it anymore. "Yeah. Maybe I was."

The tears wouldn't stop now.

"You broke me", I admitted, voice trembling. "You broke something in me so deeply that I don't know if I'll ever let anyone that close again. I don't know if I'll ever feel safe enough to give someone what I gave you."

Mark's head lifted sharply. "That's not true."

I let out a humorless laugh. "You don't get to decide that either."

"You will find someone", he said immediately, conviction burning behind his eyes. "Someone who earns it. Someone who deserves the way you love. Because you…you love like it's rare. Like it's sacred."

My breath caught painfully.

He shifted closer without me fully noticing it happening — slowly, carefully, like he was afraid I'd bolt. His knee brushed mine again. This time, neither of us moved away.

"I'm so sorry", he whispered.

His hand lifted hesitantly, as if asking permission without words. When his thumb brushed gently beneath my eye, wiping away a tear, something inside me fractured and softened all at once. The touch was careful. Reverent.

Another tear followed. And he caught that one too. Then another.

We were too close now. Close enough that I could see the tiny scar above his eyebrow. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, the gravity of him, the pull of everything we'd ever been.

Outside, the storm had picked up again, rain hammering against the windows, lightning slicing through the night — as if the weather itself was aware of the tension building inside.

We stayed like that, too close to pull away, too close to ignore. Our eyes locked, and it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of us. Every heartbeat was louder than the last, every inhale sharper, every tiny shift of air around us electric.

Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted his other hand to my cheek. I kept my hands folded tightly in my lap, gripping them together as if my life depended on it — forcing myself not to reach for him, not to lean into that warmth. Our whiskey glasses, long forgotten on the coffee table, sat abandoned, witnesses to how quickly everything else had fallen away.

His gaze roamed over my face, lingering at the curve of my jaw, tracing the line of my lips, then darting back up to my eyes.

My throat tightened. I wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Not a word. Not a sound.

"I'm so sorry, y/n", he whispered, just barely audible, a confession meant only for me.

Then he leaned forward, ever so slightly. My eyes fluttered shut, surrendering before I even realized it. And as his breath brushed against my lips, every thought except the memory of his mouth — the way it had always felt, the way it had always made me forget myself — disappeared. My chest tightened, my heartbeat sped, my stomach clenched. I could only feel.

His lips met mine — soft, tentative, impossibly close, a whisper of a touch that sent everything inside me into overdrive.

And then — a thunderclap, impossibly loud, crashing through the house. We both jerked back, hearts racing, eyes wide, breath stolen by the sudden sound.

Then…we laughed. Nervously. Breathless and awkward. A shared sound that broke the tension just enough to remind us we were still human, still alive.

"That was close", I whispered, cheeks burning as I looked down for a moment, trying to steady my racing pulse.

He nodded, scratching the back of his neck, the faintest hint of sheepishness in his expression.

But then…his gaze found me again. That impossible, unreadable look — sharp, magnetic, filled with all the things he never said, all the things I hadn't dared to admit. The air between us felt like it could ignite.

Before I could even think, he snapped forward. His lips met mine again— but this time the contact was hard, claiming, desperate.

I gasped. A startled, unformed sound, but instinctively, I surrendered. My hands shot up, threading into his hair, tugging him closer, needing the contact, needing…him.

His hands found my hips, strong and sure, pulling me impossibly nearer, tilting the balance of the world. Every heartbeat, every nerve, every inch of me alert and alive.

The kiss deepened, hotter, like every unspoken word, every crushed memory, every longing we'd both buried came rushing out through our mouths. I could feel it in the press of his body against mine, the tilt of his head, the way his lips molded to mine with such familiarity it was like breathing.

Then he moved — subtle at first, testing the ground — and suddenly I was straddling him, knees on either side, pressed against him. My hands in his hair, his hands on my hips, and the world outside, the storm, everything, had shrunk to just this. Just us. Just this fire, this electric pull, this collision of memory, desire, and too-long-suppressed emotion.

The kiss intensified, turning more urgent — especially when Mark traced his tongue along my lower lip, a silent request for entry. I granted it without hesitation.

I felt him shift beneath me, the solid weight of his body, the warmth of his skin even through the layers of our clothes — and all the hesitation, all the fear, all the longing of the past hours and months melted away, dissolving into that one, shattering, perfect moment.

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Part 2 ➡️

@magic-sprinkled-daydreams @cranberrysauce666

[writtenbyadriana]

When the thunder rumbles, Pt.2

Pairing: Mark Meachum × fem!reader

Summary: We were never supposed to end up here. A storm. A borrowed house. Too much history between us. I told myself I was over him. I was wrong.

Warnings: cheating (mentioned), exes to lovers, kissing, physical, teasing, explicit sexual content (18+!), oral sex, p in v, spanking, power dynamics, emotional intensity

This fic contains the use of y/n and pet names (e.g. sweetheart, baby, love,...)

Words: 3840

Note: English isn't my first language.

So...there you go: Part 2 Mark Meachum trying to fix things up 😏

⬅️ Part 1

💫 Check out my masterlist here!

-------------------------------------------------------

Mark's hands found my bare thighs almost on instinct, gripping them tightly.

For so long, I'd denied myself the chance to feel him — out of fear that he'd hurt me again, just like before. He probably would. Not even on purpose…simply because he was him. But in that moment, I didn't care.

My body responded before my mind could catch up, reacting to him the way it always had. My fingers tangled deeper in his thick hair, my lips moved relentlessly against his, my hips shifting instinctively against him.

A soft whimper slipped from my throat when I felt the rough fabric of his jeans against the most sensitive part of me, even through the thin layer of fabric.

"Fuck, baby", Mark growled into the kiss. "I missed you. I fucking missed you."

My brain should have snapped back to normal by now — but instead, it did the exact opposite. All the ifs and buts I'd carried with me over the past few months without him simply disappeared.

Mark's hands kept moving upward — from my thighs beneath the oversized t-shirt, over my ass where he briefly grabbed me, guiding my movements, all the way to my hips. There, his fingers pressed more firmly into my bare skin, as if he needed reassurance that this was real. That I was here. Closer than I'd been in a long time.

"This is an absolutely bad idea", I murmured against his lips — unable, however, to stop kissing him.

Mark smirked, letting his fingertips trail slowly up my spine. A hot shiver ran down my back.

"You've said that before", he replied softly. "And it turned out to be the best idea ever."

I sighed in quiet defeat, knowing he was right. That only he could quiet the burning tension between my legs. Even if I'd hate myself tomorrow for being this weak.

For a heartbeat, I let myself linger there, feeling the weight of him against me, the pull of everything we'd buried stirring under my skin. My chest rose and fell rapidly and I wasn't thinking — just feeling. But then, somewhere between the pounding of my heart and the warmth radiating from his body, a thread of clarity wove through the chaos.

My hips stilled, my hands shifting to his shoulders as I pushed myself back just enough to look at him properly.

Mark paused as well — his eyes dark with desire, his breathing as uneven as mine.

"What's wrong, love?", he asked hoarsely, head slightly tilted.

Love…

How many times had he called me that? How often had I ached to hear it again? How often had I cursed myself for still hoping he'd ever use that stupid pet name?

I took a slow breath, closing my eyes briefly to steady myself. When I opened them again, Mark was still watching me — questioning, but just as expectant.

"Please…" I began softly, my gaze dropping to his chest, unable to meet his eyes. "Please, don't hurt me again."

That hit.

Mark blinked. Once. Twice. Then he closed his eyes tightly, as if he needed a moment to process the weight of my words. His nostrils flared as he exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.

When he opened his eyes again, they were heavy with everything — regret, longing, sorrow. A quiet ache that made my chest tighten.

Slowly, he slid his hands from beneath the t-shirt and cupped my face. His fingers brushed carefully through the loose strands of hair that had escaped my braid, tucking them back gently before resting his palms on my temples, holding me with quiet certainty. His gaze bore into mine, unwavering and raw.

"I…I swear...", he began, voice low, rough with emotion, "...I'll never hurt you like that again. Not ever. I can't…I won't." His thumbs traced tiny circles against my skin. "I was an idiot. A fucking fool. And I am so, so sorry for every second I made you doubt me. Every tear you cried because of me…I...I can't take them back, but I swear I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it right."

My throat tightened, a lump forming. Tears pricked my eyes again, but this time, I blinked them back. I wanted to believe him. I had to.

He kept speaking, words pouring out, steady and full of conviction. Promises, confessions, apologies — all wrapped together in the warmth of his voice.

Slowly, I felt myself nodding, almost against my will, letting myself trust, even if only a little. The weight in my chest eased slightly, and my pulse slowed just enough to feel the space between us.

For a long moment, he simply held me, just looking. Drinking me in. And then, almost unconsciously, he wet his lower lip with the tip of his tongue — a small movement that made my attention snap back to him. My breath caught. I couldn't think. I just leaned forward, closing the gap between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that was sudden, instinctive, and full of everything we hadn't said.

Mark's eyes closed immediately, relief sliding through his expression as he exhaled softly into the kiss. It deepened, slow at first, then firmer, more insistent, as if he was letting every word he had just spoken find its way into that single touch.

And then, carefully, his hands moved from my face, resting instead on my ass again. The connection between us tightened, and I wrapped my arms around his neck reflexively, my legs instinctively finding a hold around his waist. Every small motion of trust and need was mirrored by his, grounding us in the here and now.

He shifted, steadying me against him as he rose to his feet, bringing me up from the sofa in his arms. I instinctively clung to him, locking my legs behind him, holding on, letting the warmth and steady pressure of him carry me forward. Step by step, we moved together through the living room, silent except for the soft sounds of our coordinated breaths, until he guided us toward one of the guest rooms.

Through it all, our lips remained locked, every movement a continuation of the trust and longing that had been building between us all night.

We reached the guest room door after only a few steps. I noticed because Mark struggled to press the handle down with me in his arms — and in the process, he accidentally bumped my head lightly against the closed door.

"Ouch", I muttered, though I couldn't quite suppress a small laugh.

Mark immediately looked up, clearly only now realizing what had happened. "Fuck, I'm sorry, baby", he said at once — then added with a crooked grin: "That's really the last time I hurt you."

I blinked in surprise. As if the situation weren't confusing enough already, my mind immediately tried to overanalyze his words. Instead, I laughed again and playfully punched his shoulder. "You're such an asshole, Meachum."

All I got in return was a smug wink — and a quick kiss that made me forget everything for a moment. "Your asshole."

Then he returned to what he'd originally intended to do, opened the door, and carried me inside, gently lowering me onto the bed.

Without taking my eyes off him, I shifted further back until I lay in the middle of the mattress. My legs parted almost instinctively, leaving space between them.

I still couldn't quite grasp that we were here — that we were this close again. Closer than we'd been in a long time. And yet everything felt painfully familiar, as if we'd never been apart. Not physically. Not emotionally.

Mark seemed to feel it too. The way he stood there, looking down at me, said more than words ever could.

"Look at you", he murmured, almost to himself. "More beautiful than I imagined."

"And you're not even old enough for dementia yet." Despite everything I felt, I couldn't quite stop myself from teasing him.

He shook his head with a grin. "Just wait. Anyone that cheeky usually has to deal with the consequences."

I shifted my hips slightly, watching him closely. "I'm looking forward to it."

A quiet breath escaped him. Then, without hesitation, he hooked his fingers into the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, letting it drop carelessly to the floor.

The only light in the room came from the moon outside the window, softened by the rain still falling beyond the glass, while the distant thunder had faded to nothing more than a soft backdrop to our breaths. And yet I could still make out the familiar lines of him standing there. I swallowed hard.

"Like what you see?", he asked quietly. "Even on an old man?"

I smiled faintly, lifting my hand in a halfhearted gesture. My patience was wearing thin. "Come here before I change my mind."

He didn't need to be told twice. Within moments, he was on the bed, hovering over me, his arms braced on either side. His gaze traced over me slowly, deliberately, before returning to my face.

"Don't you think you might not need the tee anymore?", he breathed, one hand moving lightly along my side.

I closed my eyes briefly, the sensation stealing my focus. "It might be… impractical", I admitted softly.

"Then let's finally get rid of it."

I had no idea where his sudden impatience came from — especially after all the teasing — but Mark actually followed through. He straightened up, kneeling between my legs without using his hands for support. Then he ran both hands over my thighs and hips again, slowly pushing the t-shirt up bit by bit.

I helped by lifting my upper body slightly, catching the hem myself and pulling it over my head along with him.

And just like that, I was in front of him — half lying down, half sitting up — in nothing but my black bra and panties.

"You're gonna kill me", Mark growled before leaning in and capturing my mouth in a hungry kiss.

I smiled into the kiss, fully aware of the effect I had on him. Mark had always been the kind of man who could be driven crazy by pretty lingerie — even if it never stayed on for long once he'd seen it.

Still kissing me, he eased me back down onto the mattress. One hand cupped my jaw, keeping me close, while the other traced slow paths along my body — my cheek, my neck, my shoulder, down over my bra, and to my stomach. There, his fingers circled my navel, and a soft sigh escaped me.

Mark smiled against my lips. He knew exactly how sensitive I was there — and he was using it deliberately.

"God, I've missed that sound", he admitted, before his mouth left mine and found the spot just beneath my ear instead.

I gasped, tangling my hands in his hair once more.

"Don’t tease me", I whispered, trying to sound more convincing than I felt.

"Or what?", he murmured against my skin, his mouth drifting down to my collarbone.

"Or—", I started, but the words fell apart when another breath slipped out of me as I felt his fingers brush the edge of my panties.

Of course he noticed. He glanced up at me briefly, searching my face, reading every reaction without effort.

"Very convincing", he said dryly.

As much as I wanted to fire back a comment, I was too distracted by his fingers, which slid beneath my panties, exploring the soft skin of my mons with deliberate slowness.

"Still as soft as ever", he murmured, while his attention shifted to the curve of my left breast through the fabric of my bra.

With his free hand, he pushed the cup down, giving him direct access to my already sensitive nipple, which he began circling with his tongue.

My hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer. My hips lifted instinctively, hoping he would finally move his fingers exactly where I needed them most.

But Mark wouldn't be Mark if he made it that easy. He had always loved tormenting me far too much. Back then — and apparently still now.

Because instead of giving me what I silently begged for, he withdrew his hand from my panties.

The sound of protest that left my lips turned into a broken breath as he simultaneously closed his mouth around my nipple and sucked gently.

Then he released me and shifted back slightly, rising onto his knees and putting a little distance between us again.

"So impatient", he grinned — that infuriating, self-satisfied grin I desperately wanted to wipe off his face. "So fucking impatient. And I haven't even really started yet."

If I hadn't been so affected by him, I would have snapped back. I would have asked him why he had to be such an arrogant, infuriating asshole — and why he took such pleasure in teasing me.

But instead, I frowned, pouted, and pleaded with a quiet, breathless: "Mark."

That was exactly what he wanted. His grin deepened. His hands closed around my ankles, drawing me closer.

"Tell me what you want, love", he whispered as he leaned down toward me again. "You'll get everything you want."

I bit my lower lip, breathing in slowly. "You", I whispered back. "All of you."

That seemed to trigger something in him.

In the dim light of the room, I could have sworn I saw his gaze darken — sharper, more dangerous. But also more certain.

His fingers hooked into the sides of my panties — and with almost deliberate slowness, he drew the already soaked fabric down over my hips, my ass, my thighs, my legs.

But instead of simply discarding them, he brought the fabric to his face and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. And I had never seen anything hotter in my life.

Almost dazed, he shook his head. "How could I ever have been stupid enough to let you go?"

I bit my lip again — but this time to hold back the emotions rising in my chest.

"Now stop being so melodramatic and just fuck me already!"

Mark let out a low laugh, tossing my panties onto the mattress beside him. "That's the plan, baby."

Then, without hesitating, he shifted between my legs, lowered himself onto his forearms — his face directly in front of my wet center. Once again, he searched my eyes. Once again, he waited.

I gave him a small, eager nod in answer before my eyelids fluttered shut, my breath catching as I felt his tongue glide once along my folds — his first deliberate movement against me...and not his last.

Mark ate me out like a starving man, like someone who needed this to survive.

He licked along my folds, over my clit, tugged at it, lapped up my juices — with just the right amount of pressure to make me see stars.

My moans grew more uncontrolled, louder, my breathing faster. And I was fairly certain I wouldn’t last much longer.

"Fuck, I'm…I'm close", I whimpered as my pelvis rocked helplessly against him.

"That's it, baby." Mark placed an arm across my stomach, holding me steady, keeping me right where he wanted me. "Let me see you like that again."

With his index and middle finger, he parted my folds before pressing the tip of his tongue to my clit again, moving in slow circles.

My breath caught in my throat, my heartbeat skyrocketing.

"Jesus…", I hissed, fists tangled in the bedsheets. "I need you so bad."

And then I came — harder than I ever had in my life.

Mark didn't stop, licked me through the aftershocks, only pulling back once my vision cleared and my breathing finally steadied again.

He kissed my still-sensitive center once more before licking my own taste from his lips.

Then he crawled up my body, hovering over me, his face only inches from mine.

"Satisfied?", he asked softly — but the wide grin on his face told me he already knew the answer.

Without a word, my gaze drifted down over his bare torso — down to the more than obvious bulge straining against his jeans.

"Things are getting a little tight down there, huh?", I asked with a crooked grin.

Mark let out a breathless laugh. "Like crazy." Then he took my right hand and guided it between us. "Time to let him play."

I didn't need to be told twice. With practiced fingers, I unbuckled his belt first, then undid the button of his jeans.

Mark gasped softly, watching every movement with intense focus.

But I wasn't about to make it that easy for him — not after the way he'd tormented me before finally giving me what I wanted.

Instead of removing the fabric completely, I slipped my hand inside his open jeans and wrapped my fingers around his penis through the thin layer of his boxers.

A low hum escaped him, his hips instinctively pushing forward.

"Don't tease me, sweetheart", he murmured roughly.

My grin widened as I began to move my hand slowly. A small victory for me. "Sucks, hmm?"

Mark nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. "More than that." Then, with a determination that sent a shiver straight down my spine, he added: "I wanna feel you. Right now."

Gently but firmly, he removed my hand from his crotch — only to free himself a second later, first from his jeans, then from his boxer shorts.

Meanwhile, I reached behind my torso, unhooked my bra with my thumb and forefinger, and slipped it off.

My mouth watered in anticipation as Mark's penis sprang free, thick, long, erect — ready for everything to come.

He grasped it, giving it a few slow, teasing strokes before positioning himself between my legs. "Are you still on the pill?", he asked hoarsely, bracing himself with one hand next to my head, the other still on his shaft.

I nodded, sucking my lower lip in. My legs parted of their own accord, giving him even better access.

"Good", he murmured, before easing the tip into me — slowly, torturously slowly, as if he'd been waiting for this moment forever and didn't want to miss a single second.

A soft moan escaped me. I never would have thought I'd ever again experience the pleasure of being completely filled by him. I never would have thought I'd ever again see the tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead from the effort of holding back his arousal.

Mark began to move slowly, testing the waters, gauging how far and fast he could go.

My legs curled around his hips, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.

"God, I missed you", he sighed. "I missed this. I—"

He cut himself off, thrusting harder, deeper.

My moans became more regular, higher-pitched. My hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his hot, taut skin.

With every thrust, every breath, every filthy word whispered in my ear, I felt myself teetering on the edge of my second orgasm.

"You were made for me", Mark groaned, tilting his hips, hitting that spongy spot inside me that always drove me wild. "So perfect."

Shakily, I brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, tugged him down by the nape of his neck, and kissed him messy, desperate.

A few more thrusts, and that familiar warmth pooled in my lower abdomen, spreading through my belly.

"I'm coming", I whimpered, lifting my hips to meet his, matching his every movement.

He seemed to take it as encouragement — his thrusts became harder, deeper, precise.

With a soft cry, I reached my next climax, legs trembling around him, breath hitching in my throat.

But Mark wasn't finished. After riding out my orgasm, he withdrew, his hands moving with smooth precision to roll me onto my stomach.

A surprised sound escaped me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him straddle me, his legs trapping mine.

"Close your legs."

I obeyed, eyes closing, as he greeted my ass with a hard slap before spreading my cheeks apart.

"You're so hot. So unbelievably hot." Then he plunged into me from behind, filling me completely.

This time it was him who couldn't hold back a moan. "Fuck, you're so tight."

He quickly found his rhythm again, fucking me like his life depended on it.

I gripped the bedsheet, digging my fingers into it, my head heavy against the mattress — completely consumed by the sensations he was stirring in me.

Once more, his flat palm struck my ass. Again. And again. Each slap drew a small, breathy cry from me.

"That's it", he growled, his speed increasing. "You're taking me so fucking well."

His thrusts grew more erratic, more urgent. His breathing louder, his moans more frequent — a clear sign that he was close.

Then, without warning, he pulled away and turned me onto my back. He lifted my right leg, draping it over his shoulder. Whatever he planned next, I knew it would ruin me for any other man — and I didn't mind.

"You're so beautiful", he murmured, sliding inside me again — this time with an even more merciless drive. We moaned in unison, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room.

One of his hands clenched firmly around the thigh of the leg draped over his shoulder, while the other pressed into my side, holding me steady. I instinctively tried to bend my leg, but his grip was unyielding.

Then he started moving — fast, hard, unrelenting. No teasing, no rhythm shifts. Just raw, relentless power.

"Look at me", he grunted, thrusting over and over. "Look at me while I make you come again."

I tried, my gaze straining to focus, but the sensations he stirred — the knot in my stomach tightening again — made it nearly impossible.

Mark leaned further over me, his chest pressing against mine. "Baby…", he murmured breathlessly in my ear, "… look.at.me."

Summoning the last ounce of strength, I complied. My vision blurred as he drove into me, fulfilling every desire, draining the last of my energy.

He was merciless. Hard. Exactly how I loved it.

And then came the next orgasm, sudden and unforgiving, sweeping me away completely, pulling me out of reality.

My inner muscles clamped down on him so tightly that he stumbled mid-thrust. "Shit, you're killing me", he gasped, thrusting deep two, three, four more times before he finally came — long and hard, inside me.

Gradually, his movements slowed. Our breaths evened out, the room settling around us.

He stayed propped on his hands beside my head, arms tense as he held himself from collapsing on me. A breathless laugh escaped him. "I take that back…"

"Huh?", I whispered, chest heaving.

"I take that back", he said, voice rough. "That was the best sex we ever had!"

-------------------------------------------------------

@magic-sprinkled-daydreams

@cranberrysauce666

[writtenbyadriana]

Summer breeze

Pairing: Mark Meachum × fem!reader

Summary: I was only planning to soak up the sun and perfect my tan. But Mark Meachum on my balcony — and that gaze, lingering far too long on my legs — promised anything but an innocent summer afternoon.

Warnings: age gap (early 30s/mid 40s), flirting, explicit smut (18+), oral sex (female receiving), fingering

Words: 2506

Note: English isn't my first language.

-------------------------------------------------------

The sun was high in the sky, as if it had decided not to tolerate a single shadow.

I’d retreated to the wicker chair on my balcony — legs stretched lazily across the railing, the hem of my floral skirt having ridden up over my thighs.

The thin fabric of my white top clung to my skin, shifting slightly with each breath.

Warm light poured over me, and the breeze toyed with the loose strands that had escaped my braid.

From behind my sunglasses, I could watch the people passing below — not that much was happening.

I didn't hear the balcony door until it was already half open.

A deep, slightly rough voice floated out: "Ah. There you are."

I pushed my sunglasses up into my hair and turned.

Mark was leaning against the doorframe — jeans, a dark grey T-shirt, hands in his pockets, looking like he'd just wandered by.

But I knew he rarely did anything "by accident."

Mark was the kind of man who always seemed a little too big for whatever space he was in. No matter where, no matter when — the second he walked in, every eye followed him. Whether he wanted them to or not.

"How'd you get in here?", I asked, though I didn't really care. Mark was welcome here anytime...maybe a little too welcome.

"Pam let me in", he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be on friendly terms with our housekeeper. Proof he spent far too much time here. Not that I minded — not in the least.

"Looking for someone?", I asked, keeping my voice just a bit too casual.

He stepped onto the balcony, taking a quick glance around.

"Yeah. Your uncle, actually. We needed to clear up something about…well, long story." He waved a hand vaguely.

I shrugged. "He's not here." A beat. "You can wait, if you want."

His gaze lingered on me before he answered. One eyebrow lifted — that expression, half amused, half something else I could never quite pin down — and he dropped into the chair across from me. He leaned back, broad and at ease, like he had all the time in the world.

"You do realize you look like the cover of some old summer catalog right now, don't you?"

I laughed softly. "Are you calling me old-fashioned?"

"No." His eyes drifted slowly from my face down my legs. "I'm saying you look…stunning."

I pretended not to notice and slid my sunglasses back into place. But my pulse had already given me away.

We talked about nothing in particular — how warm it was today, how he liked the idea of my entire family living under one roof, how bad my uncle was at texting back, something about a repair in his apartment — but underneath the words, something heavier lingered.

Every time I spoke, I felt his gaze on me, testing if I'd let it stay.

And he did let it stay — at my knees, tracing the length of my thighs to the hem of my skirt, holding there a heartbeat too long.

He was nearly sixteen years older than me. That wasn't just a number — it was in the calm way he moved, the way he claimed space without trying.

I was in my early thirties, sure I'd learned how to keep my composure — but with Mark, half a second of silence and a single look were enough to unravel me.

"Do you always have this much free time?", I teased.

His mouth curved. "For you? Always."

The quiet that followed wasn't awkward — just thick, as if the space between us was closing in.

I shifted my legs slightly, curious if his gaze would follow.

It did. Unhurried. Unashamed.

"You know you're being kind of rude", he said.

I arched a brow. "Because I'm making you wait?"

"Because you're sitting here acting like you don't know exactly what you're doing."

Heat curled low in my stomach — and it wasn't from the sun. "And what exactly am I doing?"

He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Sometimes you play a dangerous game."

I tilted my head, keeping my expression steady. "And you? You just watch?"

"Not always."

He rested an elbow on the armrest, leaning toward me without breaking eye contact.

I caught the faint bite of aftershave, mixed with summer air and a trace of coffee.

His gaze lingered on my face before sliding down — slow, deliberate — until it reached the hem of my skirt. There it stayed, like he saw no reason to look away.

My fingers curled into the armrest, as if I could anchor myself there.

"I thought you came to see my uncle."

"I did."

"And now?"

"Now…I'm not so sure."

His hand rested casually on his thigh, though the tension in his forearm betrayed him. A small twitch, as if he were holding himself back.

"You're too young for these games", he murmured.

"I'm thirty-one."

He nodded — more like he was reminding himself this was fine.

"And I'm old enough to know better."

He smiled faintly, but his eyes didn't. They searched me. Measured me. Waited.

Somewhere along the way, my knee had drifted closer to him.

"Want me to tell you what I'm thinking right now?" His voice was lower now, smoother.

"Maybe." I shrugged.

He leaned back, letting the moment stretch. "Maybe I'd rather see how long you can pretend it's not getting to you."

I laughed, but it came out thin, catching in my throat.

A strand of hair blew across my face, and before I could move, he reached out — his fingers brushing my cheek, too deliberate to be accidental.

Our eyes locked. Too long. The kind of moment where you know the next breath will change everything.

Then he slid his chair closer. Not too close — just enough for his hand to brush my knee, intentional or not — and stay there. Warm. Steady. Definitely intentional.

His fingers moved higher, slow, deliberate, and every nerve in me went sharp.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

I didn't.

He held my gaze for a moment, as if making absolutely sure. Then he leaned in, and the world seemed to go still.

His shadow fell across my legs, his hand finding my knee again — this time firmer, more certain.

"You're making it damn hard for me to behave", he murmured, almost too quietly to hear.

My pulse thundered in my ears as his thumb traced slow circles over my skin. No rush. No hesitation — a slow, deliberate touch, the very antithesis of the lightning etched into his thumb.

Goosebumps rippled up my thighs despite the heat of the sun.

His eyes flicked to my mouth, then back to mine. "Do you know how long I've—"

He cut himself off, shaking his head slightly, like he didn't want to say it out loud. Instead, he leaned in, so close I could feel his breath against my lips.

I could have said something. Made a joke. Broken the moment. But I didn't.

His hand slid higher, over the hem of my skirt, his fingers warm, insistent. My breath caught, and I knew — this wasn't just a harmless summer flirtation anymore.

"Mark…"

His name on my lips was like a promise before he finally closed the distance between us.

The heat between us had long surpassed its peak.

Mark didn't break eye contact as his hand slowly wandered upward, pulling the thin fabric of my skirt with it. The hem slid over my thighs, centimeter by centimeter, as if he had all the time in the world — and at the same time not the slightest intention of ever stopping.

His gaze followed the movement, briefly, before looking back at me. Determined. Possessive. But also…hungry.

"Mark…" It was barely more than a whisper, my voice vibrating with a mixture of nervousness and desire.

"Shhh…"

My skirt was now pushed up so far that not only were my thighs completely exposed, but the dark fabric of my underwear was also fully visible.

Mark straightened slightly, placing both hands on my calves and stroking slowly upward to my knees. Then he lifted my legs from the ledge, guiding them gently but firmly down until my feet were back on the floor.

The sudden closeness between us made my pulse jump.

"Better this way." His voice was deep and husky as he took another step closer.

With a fluid motion, he moved the chair I was sitting on slightly back — just enough so that he had enough space in front of me.

He rested one hand on the armrest, the other gliding over my legs again, this time from the outside inward, until my knees gave way under his grip and opened.

He was now kneeling between me, completely filling the space. His gaze lingered on my eyes, as if he wanted to seek that silent consent once more.

I didn't respond with words, instead letting my hands slide into his hair.

A barely audible laugh flickered across his face before he lowered his eyes, held my skirt at my waist with a deliberate grip, and pressed his lips warm against the skin on the inside of my thigh. At first fleeting, then firmer, moving.

A trembling sound escaped my mouth as he did the same to the other thigh.

The sunlight still warmed my shoulders, but the rest of my world lay in the shadow he now occupied — between my parted legs, every movement of his hands and mouth like a deliberately set command for my breath.

The sounds of the street below blurred. All that remained was him. And the certainty that we had just crossed a boundary that should never have existed.

I drew in a sharp breath as his lips placed a kiss where the thin fabric of my underwear separated them from my skin. Gentle, yet so unmistakable that it took my breath away.

The heat in my body seemed to gather at that one spot — the fabric was already damp from my arousal.

His hand glided along my hip, back to the inside of my thigh, playing with the waistband for a moment before slowly, almost provocatively, sliding the underwear aside.

My heart was beating too fast, my fingers dug deeper into his hair, and I felt my legs open even further — a silent invitation.

He took a deep breath against my skin, and that alone made me close my eyes.

Then there was only him, his hands, his warmth — and the awareness that we could no longer take anything back here.

Mark's hands held me firmly, the fabric of my panties still pushed aside. His gaze shot up to me, a sparkle in it, as if he wanted to savor every one of my reactions.

"I've wanted to see you like this for far too long", he murmured before lowering his head again.

The first warm, soft touch made me gasp for breath.

His tongue traced a hot path along my wetness — slowly, torturously slowly. He repeated the motion several times. Each stroke of his tongue felt like deliberate exploration, while his thumbs gently caressed my thighs — as if trying to soothe me and drive me insane at the same time.

I slipped my hand into his hair, pulling him closer without thinking.

He chuckled softly against me, the sound vibrating through me, teasing. "Already so impatient, huh?"

Before I could answer, one of his hands left my thigh and slid decisively between us.

Without hesitation, one of his fingers found its way — exploring, teasing — without giving me exactly what I craved. He mimicked the motion of his tongue, running it slowly along my slick center before sinking deep inside me.

The sudden shift made my breathing even more shallow.

Mark watched me bite my lip. "You like that?" His voice was deep and velvety, with a dangerous undertone that thrilled me almost more than his touch.

He began to move his fingers inside me — slowly at first, as if letting me adjust — before slipping in a second finger and quickening the pace.

The moan that escaped my lips was unstoppable.

Even more when Mark returned his mouth to the delicate dance of his fingers. Warm and demanding, his tongue playful, yet shifting the pressure with each moment.

I felt my insides tighten, my back arch, and I held my breath for a brief moment.

Mark's lips wrapped around my clit, circling it, tugging gently before releasing with a soft plop.

His fingers continued their steady rhythm inside me.

"Mark…please…" The words slipped out fragilely, a mix of frustration and longing.

He grinned crookedly. "That's how I like you...when you beg me."

He found a rhythm with his fingers that sent me soaring — only to slow it down the next moment, almost stopping, until I lifted my hips in impatience. He caught the movement with a firm grip, forcing me to stay still.

"I set the pace here", he murmured.

His lips returned, alternating between warm kisses and firm fingers, pushing me to the edge.

He built me up, almost letting me fall, then lifted me even higher with the next breath.

The sun burned my skin, beads of sweat gathering on my neck, my breath coming in gasps — and I knew he wouldn’t let me go until he chose to.

His rhythm changed again — this time faster, deeper, more demanding. The intervals between the pauses grew shorter, as if he had decided enough was enough.

I gripped his hair tighter, my knuckles whitening. My knees instinctively squeezed around his shoulders, and Mark reacted immediately, pushing them apart with a firm grip to make more room for himself.

"Like this…", he murmured against me, his voice ragged with concentration.

His fingers and mouth now worked together seamlessly, every stroke, every movement perfectly timed.

My breath became uncontrollable — short, sharp gasps — as my back arched against the armrest.

"Mark…I—"

"It's okay", he interrupted, without slowing down. "Just let it happen."

The warmth in my stomach built so quickly it made me dizzy.

I could feel Mark sensing it too — his grip tightened, his movements becoming more deliberate, deeper, as if he were trying to push me right over the edge.

An involuntary sound escaped me, half-choked, half a cry.

He pulled me even closer, leaving no space between us.

The world shrank to that single moment — sun, breath, hands, mouth — until the tension shattered in one overwhelming pulse.

My body clenched against him, my head fell back, and all I could hear was my own heartbeat.

Mark kept contact, letting the rhythm slow until my breathing returned to something like normal.

Then he looked up, a self-satisfied smile on his face, running the back of his hand over his lips, glistening with my juices.

"I think your uncle can wait a little longer."

[writtenbyadriana]

Marked by Mark

Pairing: Mark Meachum × fem!reader

Summary: I just wanted a girls' night out. But he showed up…and left me with a pounding heart and a mark on my neck I couldn’t ignore.

Warnings: flirting, teasing, strong language (in a light way), emotional tension, inner conflict

This fic contains the use of pet names (e.g., baby,... )

Words: 2737

Note: English isn't my first language.

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Girls’ Night.

Exactly what I needed. Finally out — laughing, dancing, drinking, leaving everything else behind.

With a flicker of anticipation and a hint of defiance, I slid into my favorite party outfit: a black, body-hugging satin dress that skimmed just above my knees. The left-side slit, the deep waterfall neckline, and the thin straps made me feel like I was doing everything right. Paired with my black strappy heels — the ones that made me taller and more confident than I really was — I felt unstoppable.

I'd styled my hair into soft waves that fell over my shoulders, and topped it off with rose-gold earrings and a few delicate bracelets that caught the light. Perfect.

Perfect for forgetting: the endless workweek, the ongoing hassle with my apartment owner, and the whole thing with —

The doorbell rang, yanking me out of the mirror. Of course. Just as I was about to put on lip gloss. I didn’t have time for an unannounced visitor. Maybe if I stayed quiet, they'd go away.

But then came a second chime, louder, more insistent. With an exasperated sigh, I set the gloss on the dressing table and gave my reflection a passing glance. "Whoever you are...", I muttered, "...you picked the worst time."

Before peeking through the peephole, I pressed the intercom. "Yes? Who is it?" My voice came out sharper than I's meant, but impatience was already etched on my face.

Silence. Just a few seconds of it — and then, a knock. A dull, steady rhythm against the door. My heart lurched. I knew that knock.

Part of me wanted to stay put. I shouldn't open. But my hand moved almost on its own to the handle. It hovered there for a heartbeat, then turned. Slowly, I pulled the door open.

And there he was.

Mark.

Leaning against the frame as if he'd known I'd answer, his piercing green eyes swept over me — from my heels, up the line of my dress, to my face.

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Wow", he murmured finally, his voice rough, arrogantly confident. "Baby, you look…damn good."

Heat flushed up my neck. Fuck. Exactly what I'd been trying to avoid. I wanted to stay tough, distant, untouchable. I wanted him to see that his last comment still echoed in my head. Yet just his gaze — the way he stood there, casual but close — made my pulse spike.

"Save the compliments, Meachum", I said as coolly as I could, arms crossing my chest. The gesture felt more like a shield than defiance.

Still, my eyes betrayed me. I scanned him in return: black jeans, a dark shirt stretched across broad shoulders, and that three-day stubble that made him look even more dangerous.

I hated how good he looked. I hated the flutter in my stomach. Most of all, I hated that he knew.

"Come on", he said, his voice low and easy. "Still mad?" His crooked grin said he already knew the answer.

I inhaled sharply, pressing my lips into a thin line. "Mad?" My laugh was bitter, humorless. "Mark, what you said was beneath contempt."

His brows twitched — a flicker of recognition, or maybe guilt. But I saw in his eyes he remembered.

"You're only good for in-between", I repeated, my voice trembling with suppressed anger. "Do you know how that sounds? Like I'm just a placeholder, your emergency option when nothing better's around."

I wanted to appear strong, to make it seem like it hadn't cut so deep. But it had. His words had been a small, sharp blade, flashing up in my mind in quiet moments, when I was alone. And he knew that too.

Mark raised his hands — part surrender, part performance. "Okay, okay", he said, a note of contrition threading through his charm. "That was shitty of me. I admit it."

His lips curved into that typical cheeky grin. "But…I can make it up to you."

I snorted, shaking my head, half mocking, half weary. "You really think you can fix everything with a few nice words? Forget it, asshole. I don't have time for this."

Without waiting for a reply, I turned back into the hallway, my heels tapping softly on the parquet as tension strung between us like a live wire. I knew he wouldn't do me the courtesy of leaving.

Sure enough, a few seconds later came the quiet, determined click of the front door. He'd locked it behind him without even asking. Typical Mark.

I drew a deep breath and retreated to the bathroom. My reflection stared back at me, cheeks still flushed — not just with anger, but from the nearness of him, those eyes that pierced straight through me. I reached for my lip gloss as if nothing had happened.

But I felt it. That presence. Even silent, he filled a room like no one else.

His footsteps approached until he appeared in the doorway, leaning just as he had at the apartment door — one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed, that maddeningly self-assured grin on his face.

A flash of memory flickered — how often he'd stood exactly like that, at my door, in my apartment, radiating an aura of control. How many times I'd weakened, despite swearing I wouldn't.

"You know what your problem is?", he said at last, voice amused, as though he'd caught me stealing glances. "You want to be pissed. But you can't keep it up for long."

Damn him. Maybe he was right. But I'd never admit it aloud.

I set the gloss down on the shelf a little harder than necessary, the soft click of plastic on glass releasing a tiny spark of tension.

I ran both hands through my hair, shaking it loose as though I could shake off my thoughts, and fixed my gaze on the mirror.

But I didn't just see myself. He was there too, reflected behind me, scrutinizing me with that relentless intensity that made my throat go dry. His gaze drifted down my back, over the fine fabric tracing every line, lower, far too low…

I caught the narrowing of his eyes as they lingered on my ass.

My heart kicked up. I forced myself to act unfazed, lifting my chin, tucking a stray strand behind my ear, arching an eyebrow. "Stop staring at me like that."

The corner of his mouth twitched into a dangerous grin. "Why? You like it when I do."

I laughed — dry, brittle — and turned halfway toward him. "Keep dreaming. I could just as easily laugh at you. You're standing there like some arrogant bouncer who thinks he's in charge."

He pushed off the frame, arms dropping to his sides, and took a slow, deliberate step forward. "Arrogant?” he echoed, almost amused. "No. Confident fits better."

I crossed my arms again and leaned against the sink, meeting his eyes through the mirror. "Confidence is fine. Arrogance?" I snorted. "You're world champion at that."

Mark chuckled, that deep, warm laugh that got under my skin far too easily. "And yet…" He let the words hang, closing the space between us until I could smell him — wood, spice, unmistakably Mark. "…yet you let me in every fucking time."

I dug my nails lightly into my arms to keep the façade intact. "Because I'm too nice", I said, sharper than I felt.

He bent closer until his breath brushed my ear. "Or because you want it just as much as I do."

A shiver traced my skin, but I didn't look away. It was a power game, and we both knew it.

Then his hands were on me — warm, firm, certain — sliding onto my hips from behind.

I held my breath as he closed in, his chest a solid heat against my back.

Our eyes locked in the mirror — my tense, slightly flustered expression against his confident, provocative grin.

"See?", he murmured, his voice vibrating against my skin. "This is right where you belong."

God, he knew exactly where to strike. His hands felt too familiar, too sure, as if they'd always been there.

I tensed, mind warring with sensation, but forced a mocking smile. "If you think I belong to you...", I murmured, biting off each word, "...you're living in the wrong reality."

He didn't answer. Just laughed softly, a deep, electric sound skimming over my skin.

He leaned closer, nose brushing my hair, inhaling deeply as though to memorize me.

I swallowed hard, eyes locked on my reflection — but the tremor in my fingers betrayed me.

"What exactly are you planning to do in that dress, hm?" His voice was a low murmur, a vibration right at my ear. "Whose head are you trying to turn?"

I snorted, tilting my head just enough to glance at him. "None of your business." My voice sounded steady, but my heart was beating far too fast.

His grin widened. "Come on, baby. You can tell me."

With the smallest movement, he drew me back until his body was fully aligned with mine. I felt every contour of his muscles, every inch of warmth radiating from him — even his almost hard length pressing, inevitable and deliberate, through the thin satin of my dress.

My breath shortened as I struggled to keep my composure.

"I…" My lips pressed together. Don't give him the truth. "I’m meeting my girls." The words tumbled out faster than I'd planned — a failed attempt at control.

Mark laughed quietly, deeper this time, vibrating against my spine. "With your girls." He rolled the word across his tongue as if it were a joke. "You know what's a shame? That you look like this…and it's not all for me."

My chest rose and fell. Inside, a silent battle raged — the will to stay strong versus the urge to simply give in.

And of course, he saw it.

Slowly, as if to remove any chance of escape, he reached up and swept my hair from my right shoulder to the front. The gesture was intimate, unhurried, and it left the side of my neck bare and vulnerable. My skin tingled.

His lips found the exposed skin immediately. A kiss — soft yet demanding — landed just beneath my ear.

I inhaled sharply, eyes falling closed despite myself.

His hand tightened on my hip, anchoring me against him as his mouth continued, kisses deepening, each one a little warmer, a little more insistent.

They burned themselves into me like a promise while my mind screamed to push him away, to say something cutting. But my body was already betraying me.

His lips moved lower, softer then firmer, leaving tingling trails.

His grip on my hip stayed firm as his other hand began to wander slowly over my side — from the curve of my ribs down across my waist, so lightly my breath hitched with each pass — until he reached the hem of my dress, right where the slit began.

I gasped when he stopped. His fingers toyed with the fabric, lifting it just slightly, testing the edge of permission. It wasn't brash — it was controlled, deliberate, torturously slow.

I bit my lower lip without thinking.

In the mirror, I caught his eyes locked on my face, watching every flicker of my reaction.

"Mark…" My voice barely made it past my throat, a whisper caught between warning and plea. I wanted it sharp, but it sounded like surrender.

He chuckled softly, darkly, against my ear. "That's exactly what I meant", he murmured.

But he didn't stop. Of course not. If anything, his mouth grew bolder, more demanding.

I felt the wet trace of his tongue glide over the most sensitive spot of my neck, and my whole body shuddered involuntarily.

My knees felt weak. Without deciding to, I leaned back — finding his chest behind me, solid, unshakable, warm.

My head tilted to the side, offering him more, and a soft sigh slipped past my lips.

"Fuck…", he breathed, his voice hoarse, almost like a confession, as he pulled me tighter.

And then his mouth found one spot and stayed. Pressure — hot, demanding, so intense it stole my breath. Then he drew my skin between his lips. Long enough for me to realize exactly what he was doing.

A mark. Possessive. Unapologetic.

I gasped, a soundless protest dissolving into a tremor of heat that rolled through my body. My fingers clawed at the sink for balance, eyes squeezed shut.

It was shameless. And that was exactly the point. Every breath I let out confirmed to him how perfectly he'd found my weak spot.

He didn't release me until he was satisfied. When he finally let go, the rush of air made the spot throb even more. A deep red bloom, hot and unmistakable.

Before pulling away completely, his teeth grazed the sensitized skin — a final flick that sent a shiver down my spine.

I opened my eyes just in time to see him in the mirror. That grin again — arrogant, burning, victorious.

"Now everyone knows you're not available anymore", he whispered, voice low and dangerously calm.

Almost ceremoniously, his hand smoothed the slit of my dress back down, sealing the gesture, then he stepped back. The loss of his warmth hit me like a gust of cold air.

I immediately raised my hand to my neck, pressing my fingers over the hot spot as if I could erase it — or check that it was real.

In the mirror, it stared back at me: dark, fresh, inescapable.

I was marked. Marked by Mark. Perfect.

My stomach tightened, a knot of anger and something else I refused to name. Anger at him for taking the liberty, anger at myself for letting him.

"That is… that…" I forced the words out, my voice hard as my fingers brushed the fresh bruise. "Are you out of your mind?"

Mark didn't look the slightest bit guilty. He stood two steps back, wearing that infuriating grin, eyes sparkling with amusement as if he'd just won a game I'd never agreed to play.

"Looks good on you", he said lightly, almost mockingly, as if he'd handed me jewelry.

I spun around, hands on my hips, heart hammering, anger sharp on my tongue.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?", I snapped. "This is not okay, Meachum. Not like this. You don't get to walk in here and leave a mark on me like some animal staking its territory."

His expression barely shifted. The grin stayed. "Oh, come on", he said, amused. "You sound angrier than you look."

It only stoked the fire in me — at him, at me, at how easily he could still pull me under.

I stepped toward him, heels clicking on tile, eyes locked on his. "You hurt me", I said, each word cutting. "Not just with what you said last time. Now too. Disrespectful."

He shrugged, maddeningly casual. "I thought you didn't want any more drama." His voice held that insolent smile.

I lost it for a moment. My palm landed flat against his chest — not painful, but a command.

"Enough", I hissed. "This…whatever this is…it's over."

His eyes lit up — not with anger, but something hotter. In a heartbeat he caught my hand. Firmly. Pulled me in. His other hand slid to my back, pressing me against him.

A startled sound escaped me — a moan tangled between protest and desire.

He didn't hesitate. His mouth found mine suddenly, a kiss that left me breathless. It wasn't tentative. It was deep, demanding, as if he meant to erase every objection with a single breath.

His hand at my waist yanked me close until I could feel his heartbeat hammering against mine.

My own palm slid down his chest instinctively, tracing the ridges of his shirt while his tongue claimed my mouth.

For a moment, there was only us — the flicker of the light in the mirror, the sound of our breaths, the whisper of my dress as I leaned into him.

The kiss felt like conquest, but also like coming home. A place we had returned to too many times, though neither of us would ever say it aloud.

Yes — I was marked. Not just on my neck. Marked by Mark, straight through to my heart.