fic: [grey's] cloud up your mind with old valentines {burke/cristina}
Title: Cloud Up Your Mind With Old Valentines
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Burke/Cristina
Rating: R
Word Count: 300
Author's Note: I actually have no memory of writing this last night. For that drabble123 challenge I completely forgot about. Post S7 finale.
Summary: Alabama was never going to solve any of her problems.
He fucks her like he’s trying to punish her.
Pushes until her elbows give out underneath her and then pushes harder still. It makes her ache all the way from her jaw - mouth open and stretched wide and her lipstick smeared along his sheets, white, white sheets that are ruined the color of red wine and she keeps biting at them, her knuckles pale and tired as they twist in them - to the arches of her feet, curled toes and the fight for leverage.
It’s not a very pretty picture, later, with mascara tracked down her cheeks and her legs wobbling, cold tile under her feet. She touches the tips of her fingers to the corner of her mouth and he watches from the bedroom, in the dark, sheets up to his waist; she doesn’t know what this place looks like with the lights on.
She doesn’t know what he looks like with the lights on. Anymore.
“You don’t get to be mad at me.”
(Except he does.
Except she’s the one who flew cross-country to kiss him in the doorway of his apartment, to push her way in, and he doesn’t get to ask about the husband he knows about and the baby he doesn’t, a ring thrown in her purse next to a crumpled up liquor store receipt and an appointment back in Seattle she intends to keep.
And he left her, yes, at the altar even, but she’s the one who came here.
She’s the one who turned out the lights.)
“Come back to bed,” he says.
The gesture, the extended hand and the sheets pulled back on one side of the bed, is far too intimate.
She freezes.
(He doesn’t get to be mad at her.
She’s mad enough at herself for the both of them.)
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Burke/Cristina
Rating: R
Word Count: 300
Author's Note: I actually have no memory of writing this last night. For that drabble123 challenge I completely forgot about. Post S7 finale.
Summary: Alabama was never going to solve any of her problems.
He fucks her like he’s trying to punish her.
Pushes until her elbows give out underneath her and then pushes harder still. It makes her ache all the way from her jaw - mouth open and stretched wide and her lipstick smeared along his sheets, white, white sheets that are ruined the color of red wine and she keeps biting at them, her knuckles pale and tired as they twist in them - to the arches of her feet, curled toes and the fight for leverage.
It’s not a very pretty picture, later, with mascara tracked down her cheeks and her legs wobbling, cold tile under her feet. She touches the tips of her fingers to the corner of her mouth and he watches from the bedroom, in the dark, sheets up to his waist; she doesn’t know what this place looks like with the lights on.
She doesn’t know what he looks like with the lights on. Anymore.
“You don’t get to be mad at me.”
(Except he does.
Except she’s the one who flew cross-country to kiss him in the doorway of his apartment, to push her way in, and he doesn’t get to ask about the husband he knows about and the baby he doesn’t, a ring thrown in her purse next to a crumpled up liquor store receipt and an appointment back in Seattle she intends to keep.
And he left her, yes, at the altar even, but she’s the one who came here.
She’s the one who turned out the lights.)
“Come back to bed,” he says.
The gesture, the extended hand and the sheets pulled back on one side of the bed, is far too intimate.
She freezes.
(He doesn’t get to be mad at her.
She’s mad enough at herself for the both of them.)