(no subject)
in absentia
Grey's Anatomy
Izzie/Denny. Sort of. R.
622 words
A/N: Thanks to mcee, as always.
When Izzie's skin is warmer than the water and the bubbles have all but dissipated, she steps out of the tub carefully, dries off and pads naked across the hall, her feet slapping on the hardwood. The house is dark and cool and almost eerily quiet around her, just the creaks of it settling, the intermittent ticking of the pipes like a cooling engine. The sweater--Denny's sweater; she'd known it was for him from the first stitch, from when she'd gone to buy the yarn, wanting something warm and soft for him, something richly-colored and expensive-feeling--is laid out on her unmade bed, and she runs her fingers over the chest and down the sleeves like he's already in it.
She's overwarm from her bath, light-headed and heavy-limbed, and as she pulls the sweater on, she thinks how someday she'll nab it from the end of the bed (the bed, not their bed; she won't let herself think that) and it'll smell like Denny when she puts it on, like how he smells when he hasn't been in the hospital for weeks on end, like his soap and his aftershave and his skin. She tries to imagine him clean-shaven and can't (he is, it seems, perpetually stubbly), but the thought of his smooth cheek makes her fingertips tingle.
The sweater brushes the tops of her thighs, the sleeves nearly covering her hands, and she worries suddenly that it's too big, but even if it is she can't imagine he'll complain, or even mention it. She sits on her bed, smoothing lotion onto her legs and thinking that maybe it's a little cruel of her to be doing this at all when just yesterday she asked him what he thought a woman looked sexiest in, blushing even as she denied it was for research purposes.
"Her boyfriend's shirt," he grinned. "And bare legs. Right out of the shower."
Masturbation is usually quick and dirty, because when you're averaging four hours of sleep a night, being too still for too long invites slumber, and Izzie's woken up more than once with her hand down her sweats. But she imagines Denny would be slow and careful, would take the time to learn her, so she eases back onto her pillows, cants one leg out and draws the other halfway up.
Her hands feel nothing like his--his are larger, stronger, the pads of his fingers slightly rough--but when she closes her eyes she almost can't tell the difference, and it becomes his hand on her thigh, his fingers parting the slick curls between her legs. She imagines him a few years in the future, greying at the temples, the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth deeper, and his scar, long since healed, paler pink and shinysmooth under her fingers. She imagines him healthy, and happy; she imagines the sweater, softly frayed at the collar and sleeves, and has to stop there or she'll start crying again.
She thinks of his voice, of how he says her name when they're alone, how his thumb stroking the back of her hand gets her hotter than it has any right to, how she knows by now which smiles he reserves just for her. Her fingers push in and her hips curve up to meet them, the sheets whispering when she digs her heel into the mattress.
Her clit throbs and her breath catches high in her chest when her fingers press just right, and she comes with a bitten-off moan, her arm thrown over her eyes. She leaves it there while she rides out the aftershocks, blocking out everything but the rush of her blood in her ears and the lingering memory of his smile.
Grey's Anatomy
Izzie/Denny. Sort of. R.
622 words
A/N: Thanks to mcee, as always.
When Izzie's skin is warmer than the water and the bubbles have all but dissipated, she steps out of the tub carefully, dries off and pads naked across the hall, her feet slapping on the hardwood. The house is dark and cool and almost eerily quiet around her, just the creaks of it settling, the intermittent ticking of the pipes like a cooling engine. The sweater--Denny's sweater; she'd known it was for him from the first stitch, from when she'd gone to buy the yarn, wanting something warm and soft for him, something richly-colored and expensive-feeling--is laid out on her unmade bed, and she runs her fingers over the chest and down the sleeves like he's already in it.
She's overwarm from her bath, light-headed and heavy-limbed, and as she pulls the sweater on, she thinks how someday she'll nab it from the end of the bed (the bed, not their bed; she won't let herself think that) and it'll smell like Denny when she puts it on, like how he smells when he hasn't been in the hospital for weeks on end, like his soap and his aftershave and his skin. She tries to imagine him clean-shaven and can't (he is, it seems, perpetually stubbly), but the thought of his smooth cheek makes her fingertips tingle.
The sweater brushes the tops of her thighs, the sleeves nearly covering her hands, and she worries suddenly that it's too big, but even if it is she can't imagine he'll complain, or even mention it. She sits on her bed, smoothing lotion onto her legs and thinking that maybe it's a little cruel of her to be doing this at all when just yesterday she asked him what he thought a woman looked sexiest in, blushing even as she denied it was for research purposes.
"Her boyfriend's shirt," he grinned. "And bare legs. Right out of the shower."
Masturbation is usually quick and dirty, because when you're averaging four hours of sleep a night, being too still for too long invites slumber, and Izzie's woken up more than once with her hand down her sweats. But she imagines Denny would be slow and careful, would take the time to learn her, so she eases back onto her pillows, cants one leg out and draws the other halfway up.
Her hands feel nothing like his--his are larger, stronger, the pads of his fingers slightly rough--but when she closes her eyes she almost can't tell the difference, and it becomes his hand on her thigh, his fingers parting the slick curls between her legs. She imagines him a few years in the future, greying at the temples, the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth deeper, and his scar, long since healed, paler pink and shinysmooth under her fingers. She imagines him healthy, and happy; she imagines the sweater, softly frayed at the collar and sleeves, and has to stop there or she'll start crying again.
She thinks of his voice, of how he says her name when they're alone, how his thumb stroking the back of her hand gets her hotter than it has any right to, how she knows by now which smiles he reserves just for her. Her fingers push in and her hips curve up to meet them, the sheets whispering when she digs her heel into the mattress.
Her clit throbs and her breath catches high in her chest when her fingers press just right, and she comes with a bitten-off moan, her arm thrown over her eyes. She leaves it there while she rides out the aftershocks, blocking out everything but the rush of her blood in her ears and the lingering memory of his smile.