(no subject)
My femslash09 fic:
Title: sick of social graces
Author: tinyklutzygirl
Recipient: mammothluv
Fandom: Grey’s Anatomy
Pairing: Meredith/Addison
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Word Count: 1380
Disclaimer: Property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC.
Warnings: Spoilers through season 2/beginning of season 3.
Notes:/ Thank you to my wonderful, wonderful beta, serenitymeimei! <333 you!
Summary: And God, it feels good, feels normal, to be this Meredith again, the mistake-making Meredith And God, it feels good, feels normal, to be this Meredith again, the mistake-making Meredith.
It’s Derek’s fault, actually, that this is happening.
Derek’s fault that she’s sitting here in this dingy, dirty little dive bar (going to Joe’s had never even been an option on the table, she realizes later), staring blankly at the trio of shot glasses on the table, caramel-colored residue from the Cuervo staining their bottoms. Because she can’t stare in front of her. If she looks up, if she glances up, right this instant, she will see the same flash of devil red that has brought her here, and then she will get confused, again, and blame Derek. Again.
“No matter how many times you think his name, he’s not going to magically appear and save the day, Grey.”
And then it is real again.
Derek had done something small, something inconsequential, like still not divorcing Addison, and Cristina had rolled her eyes and told her to fucking just get over McDreamy already, and then she had overheard them, had pulled Meredith aside, and told her, in what Meredith can still only assume was a flash of pure insanity, that it would never get any easier, and Derek would continue to ignore her. That she knew from experience.
And now she is here, in this bar where her thighs are sticking to her seat, and Addison is buying her more tequila and running her completely out of place Jimmy Choo-covered toe up the inside of her leg, and it is kind of the best thing she’s felt in a while.
Which is why she is nodding her head in agreement and letting her fingers slide up Addison’s wrist to her arm, because this is who she is. Meredith Grey, the girl who lets people get her drunk, and then has completely no control over her baser hormones. Because on a normal day, without alcohol (and there haven’t been so many of those recently, because Izzie’s been switching between crying and staring blankly at the wall, and Meredith only knows how to solve problems with bottles), she doesn’t sit in dark, secret bars with her sort-of-ex-boyfriend’s soon-to-be ex-wife, losing herself in warm, tingly, girltouching sensations.
And it should be Derek who’s making her feel this way, but it’s not, because his promises are starting to sound empty and Finn had plans, and Derek is still married, technically, to the woman whose fingers are suddenly twined with hers. And God, it feels good, feels normal, to be this Meredith again, the mistake-making Meredith, because it makes sense that their animosity and jealous tension is going to end up with the two of them fucking in some cheap motel. It has to be a motel, because Addison’s still living in that fucking trailer, and Meredith definitely can’t make this colossal, inevitable mistake where anyone can see her.
Meredith doesn’t have time to think about it anymore, because the tequila’s stopped coming and Addison’s sliding one of her perfectly manicured hands onto the intern’s lower back and it’s sending waves of heat all through her.
And now there’s no stopping them, no stopping Addison’s lips hot on her pulse point in the parking lot, and fuck, they might not actually make it further than the car, like teenagers, like this has to happen now or it never will, and they’ll just go back to glaring at each other in hallways and pretending Addison didn’t find Meredith’s panties in Derek’s pocket.
Except that it is happening. Addison’s mouth is still on her skin like fire, and her hands are fumbling for her keys and Meredith is trying to stand up straight, but it’s just not working, so she’s gripping Addison’s side like an awkward lifeline, and it should really not take this fucking long to open a car door. She wants to ask what’s taking so long, but she’s pretty sure that any actual words will break whatever this is between them, and the combination of alcohol in her system and Addison’s fingers resting lazily between her shirt and the top of her jeans means that this absolutely cannot stop.
When then the door is finally, finally open, Meredith kind of falls into the passenger seat, her bare shoulder blades pressing into the leather seat, Addison’s body pressing into her, and it feels so fucking good, because there is a tongue sliding along her collarbone and a hand cupping her deliciously through her jeans, and her hips arch up into the touch, needing more. And then she whimpers almost childishly, because the hand is gone, and suddenly they’re pulling out of the parking lot so fast there’s screeching.
And Addison probably shouldn’t even be driving at all, in the state she’s in, except that she is, and she only has one hand on the steering wheel, because the other one is gripping Meredith’s thigh, like Meredith will escape if she doesn’t, so Meredith just shuts her eyes and revels in the fact that there is a hand dangerously close to where she wants it to be.
The motel is exactly what she expected, with the skeezy guy up front, leering at the way she leans drunkenly into Addison when he gives them their key, and she’s honestly surprised he doesn’t bother to ask to join them, because it’s two a.m. and it’s happened to her before. Before she was the girl in the bar and Derek was the perfect guy with the secret wife whose hand is dipping below the waistband of her jeans in an elevator in a no-name motel off of a Seattle highway.
And of course they’re in an elevator, because everything important happens to her in elevators, lately, so it doesn’t surprise her when Addison pulls the stop button and shoves her against the wall, kissing her roughly. It doesn’t surprise her when her lip starts to bleed a little, because this is how it was bound to happen to them, and her body is aching and tingling everywhere, and while she knows part of that is the alcohol, part of that is also the fact that Addison’s wonderfully long fingers need to be inside her right fucking now, or she might explode.
So when she slides her hand up the inside of Addison’s thigh, pushing that damn pencil skirt higher as she goes, she knows the older woman finally gets it, because she hears the loudness of her own zipper, feels fingers slipsliding across her, feels a thumb circling her clit, and then, fuck, then, there are fingers inside her, thrusting, and her body is shaking.
And then Addison is making this noise like she’s enjoying it, like she’s enjoying the fact that her fingers are traveling paths Derek’s have, like she’s fucking entitled, and that’s when Meredith lets her own hand drift higher, and now it’s Addison who can’t stand up right, and she falls into Meredith. She’s too tall, and it should be awkward, the way they don’t really fit together, but their hands never stop, Addison’s breath coming quick and hard, and she knows the other woman is close, the same way she knows the next time Addison scrapes her nail lightly over her clit, she’ll be pushed over the edge. Which she does, and she is.
Addison’s body shudders, and Meredith feels her muscles clench around her fingers, and then it’s over. It’s over, and there’s no cuddling, no soft words in her ears, no heavy weight of a man’s body falling asleep half on top of hers. It’s just Addison, straightening out her skirt, smoothing it down, running a hand through that red hair. It’s her, staring at the floor while she zips her jeans back up, before finally glancing up, body sated but still tipsy, at her attending.
“Go home, Grey.”
And Meredith will, even though it’s three in the morning now, even though it’s dark and she’s still drunk and she’ll have to call a cab, even though she has to be at work in three hours and she’s two floors away from a bed.
They won’t talk about it at the hospital, because that would mean it meant something, would mean there’d be something to discuss. But it was just drunk sex, and she doesn’t want to - can’t - make the mistake of caring about drunk sex with a Shepherd again.
Title: sick of social graces
Author: tinyklutzygirl
Recipient: mammothluv
Fandom: Grey’s Anatomy
Pairing: Meredith/Addison
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Word Count: 1380
Disclaimer: Property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC.
Warnings: Spoilers through season 2/beginning of season 3.
Notes:/ Thank you to my wonderful, wonderful beta, serenitymeimei! <333 you!
Summary: And God, it feels good, feels normal, to be this Meredith again, the mistake-making Meredith And God, it feels good, feels normal, to be this Meredith again, the mistake-making Meredith.
It’s Derek’s fault, actually, that this is happening.
Derek’s fault that she’s sitting here in this dingy, dirty little dive bar (going to Joe’s had never even been an option on the table, she realizes later), staring blankly at the trio of shot glasses on the table, caramel-colored residue from the Cuervo staining their bottoms. Because she can’t stare in front of her. If she looks up, if she glances up, right this instant, she will see the same flash of devil red that has brought her here, and then she will get confused, again, and blame Derek. Again.
“No matter how many times you think his name, he’s not going to magically appear and save the day, Grey.”
And then it is real again.
Derek had done something small, something inconsequential, like still not divorcing Addison, and Cristina had rolled her eyes and told her to fucking just get over McDreamy already, and then she had overheard them, had pulled Meredith aside, and told her, in what Meredith can still only assume was a flash of pure insanity, that it would never get any easier, and Derek would continue to ignore her. That she knew from experience.
And now she is here, in this bar where her thighs are sticking to her seat, and Addison is buying her more tequila and running her completely out of place Jimmy Choo-covered toe up the inside of her leg, and it is kind of the best thing she’s felt in a while.
Which is why she is nodding her head in agreement and letting her fingers slide up Addison’s wrist to her arm, because this is who she is. Meredith Grey, the girl who lets people get her drunk, and then has completely no control over her baser hormones. Because on a normal day, without alcohol (and there haven’t been so many of those recently, because Izzie’s been switching between crying and staring blankly at the wall, and Meredith only knows how to solve problems with bottles), she doesn’t sit in dark, secret bars with her sort-of-ex-boyfriend’s soon-to-be ex-wife, losing herself in warm, tingly, girltouching sensations.
And it should be Derek who’s making her feel this way, but it’s not, because his promises are starting to sound empty and Finn had plans, and Derek is still married, technically, to the woman whose fingers are suddenly twined with hers. And God, it feels good, feels normal, to be this Meredith again, the mistake-making Meredith, because it makes sense that their animosity and jealous tension is going to end up with the two of them fucking in some cheap motel. It has to be a motel, because Addison’s still living in that fucking trailer, and Meredith definitely can’t make this colossal, inevitable mistake where anyone can see her.
Meredith doesn’t have time to think about it anymore, because the tequila’s stopped coming and Addison’s sliding one of her perfectly manicured hands onto the intern’s lower back and it’s sending waves of heat all through her.
And now there’s no stopping them, no stopping Addison’s lips hot on her pulse point in the parking lot, and fuck, they might not actually make it further than the car, like teenagers, like this has to happen now or it never will, and they’ll just go back to glaring at each other in hallways and pretending Addison didn’t find Meredith’s panties in Derek’s pocket.
Except that it is happening. Addison’s mouth is still on her skin like fire, and her hands are fumbling for her keys and Meredith is trying to stand up straight, but it’s just not working, so she’s gripping Addison’s side like an awkward lifeline, and it should really not take this fucking long to open a car door. She wants to ask what’s taking so long, but she’s pretty sure that any actual words will break whatever this is between them, and the combination of alcohol in her system and Addison’s fingers resting lazily between her shirt and the top of her jeans means that this absolutely cannot stop.
When then the door is finally, finally open, Meredith kind of falls into the passenger seat, her bare shoulder blades pressing into the leather seat, Addison’s body pressing into her, and it feels so fucking good, because there is a tongue sliding along her collarbone and a hand cupping her deliciously through her jeans, and her hips arch up into the touch, needing more. And then she whimpers almost childishly, because the hand is gone, and suddenly they’re pulling out of the parking lot so fast there’s screeching.
And Addison probably shouldn’t even be driving at all, in the state she’s in, except that she is, and she only has one hand on the steering wheel, because the other one is gripping Meredith’s thigh, like Meredith will escape if she doesn’t, so Meredith just shuts her eyes and revels in the fact that there is a hand dangerously close to where she wants it to be.
The motel is exactly what she expected, with the skeezy guy up front, leering at the way she leans drunkenly into Addison when he gives them their key, and she’s honestly surprised he doesn’t bother to ask to join them, because it’s two a.m. and it’s happened to her before. Before she was the girl in the bar and Derek was the perfect guy with the secret wife whose hand is dipping below the waistband of her jeans in an elevator in a no-name motel off of a Seattle highway.
And of course they’re in an elevator, because everything important happens to her in elevators, lately, so it doesn’t surprise her when Addison pulls the stop button and shoves her against the wall, kissing her roughly. It doesn’t surprise her when her lip starts to bleed a little, because this is how it was bound to happen to them, and her body is aching and tingling everywhere, and while she knows part of that is the alcohol, part of that is also the fact that Addison’s wonderfully long fingers need to be inside her right fucking now, or she might explode.
So when she slides her hand up the inside of Addison’s thigh, pushing that damn pencil skirt higher as she goes, she knows the older woman finally gets it, because she hears the loudness of her own zipper, feels fingers slipsliding across her, feels a thumb circling her clit, and then, fuck, then, there are fingers inside her, thrusting, and her body is shaking.
And then Addison is making this noise like she’s enjoying it, like she’s enjoying the fact that her fingers are traveling paths Derek’s have, like she’s fucking entitled, and that’s when Meredith lets her own hand drift higher, and now it’s Addison who can’t stand up right, and she falls into Meredith. She’s too tall, and it should be awkward, the way they don’t really fit together, but their hands never stop, Addison’s breath coming quick and hard, and she knows the other woman is close, the same way she knows the next time Addison scrapes her nail lightly over her clit, she’ll be pushed over the edge. Which she does, and she is.
Addison’s body shudders, and Meredith feels her muscles clench around her fingers, and then it’s over. It’s over, and there’s no cuddling, no soft words in her ears, no heavy weight of a man’s body falling asleep half on top of hers. It’s just Addison, straightening out her skirt, smoothing it down, running a hand through that red hair. It’s her, staring at the floor while she zips her jeans back up, before finally glancing up, body sated but still tipsy, at her attending.
“Go home, Grey.”
And Meredith will, even though it’s three in the morning now, even though it’s dark and she’s still drunk and she’ll have to call a cab, even though she has to be at work in three hours and she’s two floors away from a bed.
They won’t talk about it at the hospital, because that would mean it meant something, would mean there’d be something to discuss. But it was just drunk sex, and she doesn’t want to - can’t - make the mistake of caring about drunk sex with a Shepherd again.