fic advent: december 15 for ovariesofsteel
Title: Lips Like Sugar
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Burke/Cristina
Summary: Written for the prompt domestication is the enemy of romance. We'll say it's after my version of the season three finale (in which Burke never left and the wedding went through. Let's go with it going through at a courthouse too rather than in the big Shonda-gets-to-play-dress-up-with-actors-and-actresses-event). Cristina gets caught doing something that she shouldn't be.
“What are you doing?”
His eyebrow is arched high on his forehead as he stands frozen by the front door of their apartment. Burke starts to take a step forward and stumbles over his briefcase, dropped in surprise upon entering their home. Of course, he had right. Who was she to be doing those kinds of those things in their home.
She’s practically betraying him.
Cristina looks up in surprise, not expecting him home so early. She opens her mouth to answer, but no words come out. He wasn’t supposed to be home yet and she most definitely never wanted him catching her in this position.
Burke finally manages to take another few steps forward, though he’s still in shock of the scene playing out before him, “What are you doing?” he repeats, because it’s the only words he can formulate.
“I just-“ she stammers, “I-“ there’s a loud pop behind her and she jumps, spinning around to shut off the burner, “it’s nothing.”
“You’re cooking?” he asks, wondering if he shouldn’t call Shepherd for a neuro consult. After he reclaims his kitchen, that is. No matter what, no matter how much she teased him for being the wife, the kitchen was his domain and she knew it.
He only hoped that his sauté pan could be saved.
“I’m not cooking,” she insists, dropping the spatula, “I was just…making…well, I was trying to..” Cristina had thought that the fact she was wearing his Tulane shirt and nothing else (unless you count the gloss on her lips that he never seems to be able to resist) would distract him from the fact that she was failing miserably at trying to make the paella he was withholding after an argument about not being spicy enough.
Of course, it probably didn’t help that she called him a mama’s boy for his refusal to change the recipe.
“Then exactly what is it that you’re doing?”
Finally irritated by the fact that he doesn’t care that she’s standing in front of him half naked, she gathers herself from surprise, “I’m making dinner,” she mutters and turns away from him.
When she turns, he catches a glimpse of her ass just beneath the hem of the t-shirt he finally recognizes as his own. He’d be angry that she’s attempting to cook in his favorite t-shirt, but now he’s slightly turned on. He takes another couple steps forward, rests a hand against her hip, “Is it edible?”
Annoyed, Cristina brushes his hand away from her hip, “Leave me alone.”
He chuckles slightly, grasps her hips roughly and pulls her back against him, “I have no such intentions.”
Now he notices what she’s wearing. Cristina thrusts her hips backward, grinds against him and she grins when she feels that he’s already getting hard, “You’re not getting any,” she manages to say with a straight face, not that he’s paying attention to her expression right now anyway.
“I doubt you’ll get any either,” he murmurs, his left hand slipping around to her abdomen and then slipping beneath the edge of the shirt. His fingers brush slightly against her, “it doesn’t smell edible.”
Cristina pushes his hand away, “Shut up. I was talking about sex. You’re eating this whether you like it or not.”
A smug grin flashes across his face and he persists, this time turning her away from the stove and pulling her body into his, “You’re right,” he answers in a low voice, “I am. And I’ll love it as much as you do.”
She falters slightly and opens her mouth to argue but finds his lips against hers instead. His kiss is so ravenous it catches her off guard. Five minutes ago he looked at her like she was fucking another man in their bed, now he’s trying to fuck her. Honestly, she wasn’t in the mood for it right then, she was still hungry, but his fingers were persisting, teasing her clit and plunging inside her, and there was insinuation that his lips would be exactly where she loves them if she lets him have his way.
Food can wait. She guesses.
The countertop is cold against her ass but she has little time to dwell on it. His hands curve around her thighs, spread them wide as he drops to his knees before her. It has never more apparent than now that her previous threat was empty as she presses her hips forward into his mouth, grasps tightly at the back of his head and holds him against her. He laps eagerly, traces his tongue around her clit, enjoying every whispered curse falling from her lips.
Cristina’s hips move against his mouth eagerly as she seeks release, begs breathlessly for him to press his fingers inside her, to bring her off. It quickly becomes apparent that he has no intention of doing any of those things at her behest, but only as he sees appropriate. With her free hand she braces herself against the cabinet doors, fingernails scraping against the hard wood. Even if he won’t do what she wants him to, he’s damn good at what he’s doing now and it quickly becomes her undoing.
She falls apart before him, legs quaking over his shoulders and he quickly works at the buckle of his belt, the buttons on his pants. He rises, pushing his pants from his hips and not bothering to take his time with his shirt. Burke pulls her from the countertop, turns her and bends her over it with a roughness that turns both of them on even more than they already are.
There’s no easing into it as they sometimes do, no whispered reaffirmations of love or the like. This is more of a fantasy that’s been begging to be played out for years- it’s just that neither one of them realized it. Burke takes a fistful of ebony curls into his hand, tugs as he thrusts into her, bucks his hips wildly against hers. Cristina’s whimpers turn to full blown cries, pain overwhelming pleasure only slightly. She pulls her hips away from his, daring him to fuck her harder, testing his limits.
He does not disappoint.
Burke wraps one arm around her petite hip, pulls her back against him as he slams into her, tugs her hair again but harder this time. He groans when he feels her walls start to quiver around his still rigid length. She’s crying out his name and making it nearly impossible not to come. He leans over her, breathes heavily against her ear, “Touch yourself.”
Cristina does so immediately, rubbing her swollen clit, pinching it between her fingers. She’s so wet, her thighs are sticky and he’s pounding into her at such a delicious angle that it’s impossible not to come then, her knees buckling. Burke holds her up with one strong arm, grunts against her shoulder as he spasms inside her, comes on the heels of her orgasm.
Even after they come down from their high, he holds her, his length brushing the inside of her thigh. His shirt is damp with sweat and his pants are still hanging at his knees and the vague scent of burnt vegetables lingers in the air and yet the moment is perfect. Burke brushes her hair from her neck and kisses gently.
He turns her head ever so slightly and catches her lips with his, kisses her gently- a stark contrast to their rough interlude only moments before. His fingertips trace slowly against her side and he feels her smile against his lips.
“Is this what I get for trying to cook?” She murmurs in a thoroughly sated tone.
Burke grins, turns her so she can face him, “No, this is what you get if you swear never to come into my kitchen again.”
-fin
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Burke/Cristina
Summary: Written for the prompt domestication is the enemy of romance. We'll say it's after my version of the season three finale (in which Burke never left and the wedding went through. Let's go with it going through at a courthouse too rather than in the big Shonda-gets-to-play-dress-up-with-actors-and-actresses-event). Cristina gets caught doing something that she shouldn't be.
“What are you doing?”
His eyebrow is arched high on his forehead as he stands frozen by the front door of their apartment. Burke starts to take a step forward and stumbles over his briefcase, dropped in surprise upon entering their home. Of course, he had right. Who was she to be doing those kinds of those things in their home.
She’s practically betraying him.
Cristina looks up in surprise, not expecting him home so early. She opens her mouth to answer, but no words come out. He wasn’t supposed to be home yet and she most definitely never wanted him catching her in this position.
Burke finally manages to take another few steps forward, though he’s still in shock of the scene playing out before him, “What are you doing?” he repeats, because it’s the only words he can formulate.
“I just-“ she stammers, “I-“ there’s a loud pop behind her and she jumps, spinning around to shut off the burner, “it’s nothing.”
“You’re cooking?” he asks, wondering if he shouldn’t call Shepherd for a neuro consult. After he reclaims his kitchen, that is. No matter what, no matter how much she teased him for being the wife, the kitchen was his domain and she knew it.
He only hoped that his sauté pan could be saved.
“I’m not cooking,” she insists, dropping the spatula, “I was just…making…well, I was trying to..” Cristina had thought that the fact she was wearing his Tulane shirt and nothing else (unless you count the gloss on her lips that he never seems to be able to resist) would distract him from the fact that she was failing miserably at trying to make the paella he was withholding after an argument about not being spicy enough.
Of course, it probably didn’t help that she called him a mama’s boy for his refusal to change the recipe.
“Then exactly what is it that you’re doing?”
Finally irritated by the fact that he doesn’t care that she’s standing in front of him half naked, she gathers herself from surprise, “I’m making dinner,” she mutters and turns away from him.
When she turns, he catches a glimpse of her ass just beneath the hem of the t-shirt he finally recognizes as his own. He’d be angry that she’s attempting to cook in his favorite t-shirt, but now he’s slightly turned on. He takes another couple steps forward, rests a hand against her hip, “Is it edible?”
Annoyed, Cristina brushes his hand away from her hip, “Leave me alone.”
He chuckles slightly, grasps her hips roughly and pulls her back against him, “I have no such intentions.”
Now he notices what she’s wearing. Cristina thrusts her hips backward, grinds against him and she grins when she feels that he’s already getting hard, “You’re not getting any,” she manages to say with a straight face, not that he’s paying attention to her expression right now anyway.
“I doubt you’ll get any either,” he murmurs, his left hand slipping around to her abdomen and then slipping beneath the edge of the shirt. His fingers brush slightly against her, “it doesn’t smell edible.”
Cristina pushes his hand away, “Shut up. I was talking about sex. You’re eating this whether you like it or not.”
A smug grin flashes across his face and he persists, this time turning her away from the stove and pulling her body into his, “You’re right,” he answers in a low voice, “I am. And I’ll love it as much as you do.”
She falters slightly and opens her mouth to argue but finds his lips against hers instead. His kiss is so ravenous it catches her off guard. Five minutes ago he looked at her like she was fucking another man in their bed, now he’s trying to fuck her. Honestly, she wasn’t in the mood for it right then, she was still hungry, but his fingers were persisting, teasing her clit and plunging inside her, and there was insinuation that his lips would be exactly where she loves them if she lets him have his way.
Food can wait. She guesses.
The countertop is cold against her ass but she has little time to dwell on it. His hands curve around her thighs, spread them wide as he drops to his knees before her. It has never more apparent than now that her previous threat was empty as she presses her hips forward into his mouth, grasps tightly at the back of his head and holds him against her. He laps eagerly, traces his tongue around her clit, enjoying every whispered curse falling from her lips.
Cristina’s hips move against his mouth eagerly as she seeks release, begs breathlessly for him to press his fingers inside her, to bring her off. It quickly becomes apparent that he has no intention of doing any of those things at her behest, but only as he sees appropriate. With her free hand she braces herself against the cabinet doors, fingernails scraping against the hard wood. Even if he won’t do what she wants him to, he’s damn good at what he’s doing now and it quickly becomes her undoing.
She falls apart before him, legs quaking over his shoulders and he quickly works at the buckle of his belt, the buttons on his pants. He rises, pushing his pants from his hips and not bothering to take his time with his shirt. Burke pulls her from the countertop, turns her and bends her over it with a roughness that turns both of them on even more than they already are.
There’s no easing into it as they sometimes do, no whispered reaffirmations of love or the like. This is more of a fantasy that’s been begging to be played out for years- it’s just that neither one of them realized it. Burke takes a fistful of ebony curls into his hand, tugs as he thrusts into her, bucks his hips wildly against hers. Cristina’s whimpers turn to full blown cries, pain overwhelming pleasure only slightly. She pulls her hips away from his, daring him to fuck her harder, testing his limits.
He does not disappoint.
Burke wraps one arm around her petite hip, pulls her back against him as he slams into her, tugs her hair again but harder this time. He groans when he feels her walls start to quiver around his still rigid length. She’s crying out his name and making it nearly impossible not to come. He leans over her, breathes heavily against her ear, “Touch yourself.”
Cristina does so immediately, rubbing her swollen clit, pinching it between her fingers. She’s so wet, her thighs are sticky and he’s pounding into her at such a delicious angle that it’s impossible not to come then, her knees buckling. Burke holds her up with one strong arm, grunts against her shoulder as he spasms inside her, comes on the heels of her orgasm.
Even after they come down from their high, he holds her, his length brushing the inside of her thigh. His shirt is damp with sweat and his pants are still hanging at his knees and the vague scent of burnt vegetables lingers in the air and yet the moment is perfect. Burke brushes her hair from her neck and kisses gently.
He turns her head ever so slightly and catches her lips with his, kisses her gently- a stark contrast to their rough interlude only moments before. His fingertips trace slowly against her side and he feels her smile against his lips.
“Is this what I get for trying to cook?” She murmurs in a thoroughly sated tone.
Burke grins, turns her so she can face him, “No, this is what you get if you swear never to come into my kitchen again.”
-fin