the touch of your lips (it's a shock not a kiss) {grey's - alex/meredith)
Title: The Touch Of Your Lips (It's A Shock Not A Kiss)
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Alex/Meredith
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 980
Author's Note: mrsvc is to blame because the first thing she said after Thursday's ep was 'couch porn'.
Summary: Alternate ending/filler for 6.19 - Sympathy For The Parents. When she kisses him, presses her lips lightly against his and curls her fingers into his shirt, it’s because she isn’t thinking.
. . .
When she kisses him, presses her lips lightly against his and curls her fingers into his shirt, it’s because she isn’t thinking.
She’s drowsy, eyes burning from being open so long, exposed to the flashing colors from the television, on low in the background, in the midst of the darkness in the rest of the house. Derek had already gone to bed; she’d promised to be up in awhile, and then promptly forgot to move or maybe lost the will too. Her body had leaned progressively closer towards Alex’s and his leg was warm against hers.
A cheerful reporter chatters on about a car crashing into a trailer when she turns into him, so that she’s mostly on her side and her forehead just rests against his shoulder. His fingers brush against her leg, almost like an accident, but she shifts towards them, so that his hand is trapped against her, and then she leans up to kiss him like an afterthought.
It devolves into sloppy kissing, due entirely to the situation. The angle is all wrong and half his attention is fixed in the direction of the other room, the stairway shrouded in near darkness. She brings her hand around to the back of his neck, sliding up into short hair and pulling him down closer, nipping at his lower lip in an attempt to draw his attention elsewhere. When that doesn’t quite work she throws one leg over his hips, pressing her chest flush against his.
“Mer,” he says, wary, confirming that he’s the one who’s more awake and aware of the two of them. He’s thinking. He’s going to question this because he knows she would want him to -
(“Just think about what you’re doing,” she’d yelled it, flying off the handle in the middle of his bedroom. His sheets were a rumpled mess and the pillow on the right side still bore the imprint of her sister’s head.
He tosses his laundry at the closet, half of it bare, save for a few lone hangers. “Because you’ve always been so good at that.”
“You’re dragging other people into your mess. You’re not thinking about the consequences.”
“What’s the point?”)
-- because someone has to be the sane one here, now that they can’t hide behind the excuse of tequila induced chaos. Her mistakes are supposed to burn going down.
“You’re divorced,” she murmurs against his mouth, both as a reassurance (it’s uneeded; the only one he’s screwing over here is her sister, and Lexie spent much of the day smiling at and chatting up his brother, this close to hitting on him, so it’s a fair trade) and because it’ll piss him off. It reads as failure, gets the blood pumping in his veins, and she rocks her hips a little, for good measure.
He waits until he’s palming her breast through her shirt to remind her, “And you’re - ”
“Alex.” She pulls back far enough that she can let her hand skid down his chest, his stomach, to the fly of his jeans and pulls.
(“You know you’re nothing like your father, right?”
“You’re nothing like your mother.”
And maybe that’s true and maybe that’s not. Maybe she would be a good mother, but maybe she’s still the whore. Maybe she’s still the one who cheats on the good man lying in her bed upstairs; maybe it’s in her blood, this quest to find someone who gets her.
It doesn’t have to be someone who loves her. Just someone who understands her in some form outside of blatant communication, of explanation and faulty analysis.
They’re not exactly like they’re parents, maybe not even close, but there are some things that you can’t get away from and genes will always get you in the end.)
He’s hard and her fingers dance over his cock for a moment, watching the way he swallows a low groan, holding his hips still and his hands steady as he undoes the buttons of her shirt (it has to go back on, after all of this is said and done, and it wouldn’t do for Derek to notice a few of them are missing) and pushes it open.
“Okay,” she breathes and climbs off of him, making quick work of getting her own jeans and underwear off. She’s wet between her legs, adrenaline running through her body and making up for the energy that wasn’t there a few minutes ago, and he’s half smirking at her as she positions herself just right, lining their bodies up. She nods, her hands on his shoulders and his on her hips, her ass, and then he pushes in.
Meredith bites her lip, hard, but a moan slips through anyways. His exhaled “god” matches her in volume.
She figures out his rhythm, slips a hand between them when she feels he’s close, fingers against her clit just right, her mouth against his neck. She twists her hips and he thrusts into her, quick in and out, and the warmth in her belly evolves into her clenching and flexing around him as she comes with her teeth at the skin where his neck meets his shoulder. His fingers dig into her hips seconds later.
(“Not on your life.”
“Oh come on.” He cocks an eyebrow in her direction. “You’ve suddenly decided you have higher standards.”
“You’re an ass.”
“So they tell me.”)
When her breathing shifts back to something resembling normal, she slips off of him, coming to sit next to him. She draws her knees up to her chest, still in her bra and her open shirt, and he stands to pull his jeans back up. It’s out of necessity, the threat of Derek coming down the stairs ever present.
“Well that was one way to make this day better,” he mutters as he settles next to her.
She buries a laugh in his shoulder.
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Alex/Meredith
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 980
Author's Note: mrsvc is to blame because the first thing she said after Thursday's ep was 'couch porn'.
Summary: Alternate ending/filler for 6.19 - Sympathy For The Parents. When she kisses him, presses her lips lightly against his and curls her fingers into his shirt, it’s because she isn’t thinking.
. . .
When she kisses him, presses her lips lightly against his and curls her fingers into his shirt, it’s because she isn’t thinking.
She’s drowsy, eyes burning from being open so long, exposed to the flashing colors from the television, on low in the background, in the midst of the darkness in the rest of the house. Derek had already gone to bed; she’d promised to be up in awhile, and then promptly forgot to move or maybe lost the will too. Her body had leaned progressively closer towards Alex’s and his leg was warm against hers.
A cheerful reporter chatters on about a car crashing into a trailer when she turns into him, so that she’s mostly on her side and her forehead just rests against his shoulder. His fingers brush against her leg, almost like an accident, but she shifts towards them, so that his hand is trapped against her, and then she leans up to kiss him like an afterthought.
It devolves into sloppy kissing, due entirely to the situation. The angle is all wrong and half his attention is fixed in the direction of the other room, the stairway shrouded in near darkness. She brings her hand around to the back of his neck, sliding up into short hair and pulling him down closer, nipping at his lower lip in an attempt to draw his attention elsewhere. When that doesn’t quite work she throws one leg over his hips, pressing her chest flush against his.
“Mer,” he says, wary, confirming that he’s the one who’s more awake and aware of the two of them. He’s thinking. He’s going to question this because he knows she would want him to -
(“Just think about what you’re doing,” she’d yelled it, flying off the handle in the middle of his bedroom. His sheets were a rumpled mess and the pillow on the right side still bore the imprint of her sister’s head.
He tosses his laundry at the closet, half of it bare, save for a few lone hangers. “Because you’ve always been so good at that.”
“You’re dragging other people into your mess. You’re not thinking about the consequences.”
“What’s the point?”)
-- because someone has to be the sane one here, now that they can’t hide behind the excuse of tequila induced chaos. Her mistakes are supposed to burn going down.
“You’re divorced,” she murmurs against his mouth, both as a reassurance (it’s uneeded; the only one he’s screwing over here is her sister, and Lexie spent much of the day smiling at and chatting up his brother, this close to hitting on him, so it’s a fair trade) and because it’ll piss him off. It reads as failure, gets the blood pumping in his veins, and she rocks her hips a little, for good measure.
He waits until he’s palming her breast through her shirt to remind her, “And you’re - ”
“Alex.” She pulls back far enough that she can let her hand skid down his chest, his stomach, to the fly of his jeans and pulls.
(“You know you’re nothing like your father, right?”
“You’re nothing like your mother.”
And maybe that’s true and maybe that’s not. Maybe she would be a good mother, but maybe she’s still the whore. Maybe she’s still the one who cheats on the good man lying in her bed upstairs; maybe it’s in her blood, this quest to find someone who gets her.
It doesn’t have to be someone who loves her. Just someone who understands her in some form outside of blatant communication, of explanation and faulty analysis.
They’re not exactly like they’re parents, maybe not even close, but there are some things that you can’t get away from and genes will always get you in the end.)
He’s hard and her fingers dance over his cock for a moment, watching the way he swallows a low groan, holding his hips still and his hands steady as he undoes the buttons of her shirt (it has to go back on, after all of this is said and done, and it wouldn’t do for Derek to notice a few of them are missing) and pushes it open.
“Okay,” she breathes and climbs off of him, making quick work of getting her own jeans and underwear off. She’s wet between her legs, adrenaline running through her body and making up for the energy that wasn’t there a few minutes ago, and he’s half smirking at her as she positions herself just right, lining their bodies up. She nods, her hands on his shoulders and his on her hips, her ass, and then he pushes in.
Meredith bites her lip, hard, but a moan slips through anyways. His exhaled “god” matches her in volume.
She figures out his rhythm, slips a hand between them when she feels he’s close, fingers against her clit just right, her mouth against his neck. She twists her hips and he thrusts into her, quick in and out, and the warmth in her belly evolves into her clenching and flexing around him as she comes with her teeth at the skin where his neck meets his shoulder. His fingers dig into her hips seconds later.
(“Not on your life.”
“Oh come on.” He cocks an eyebrow in her direction. “You’ve suddenly decided you have higher standards.”
“You’re an ass.”
“So they tell me.”)
When her breathing shifts back to something resembling normal, she slips off of him, coming to sit next to him. She draws her knees up to her chest, still in her bra and her open shirt, and he stands to pull his jeans back up. It’s out of necessity, the threat of Derek coming down the stairs ever present.
“Well that was one way to make this day better,” he mutters as he settles next to her.
She buries a laugh in his shoulder.