[grey's/prp crossover] fic | In The Self-Destruct Mode (Alex/Amelia)
Title: In The Self-Destruct Mode
Fandom: Grey’s Anatomy/Private Practice (crossover)
Characters/Pairing: Alex/Amelia
Word Count: 1900
Rating: R (sex, drug use)
♥: Pinch hit secret santa fic for uponyourshore
Prompt: High on your own supply, from the Grey’s Anatomy Kink Meme
Summary: A trailer on a hill with his princess. Torn to shreds. The memory makes him feel physically ill.
The sweeping driveway has been artfully lit with fairy lights that blink intermittently. He stares at them from the passenger seat of a car that belongs to someone else and waits for the moment that they burn holes in his night vision. The spotty canvas they create is infinitely more desirable to him than this party to end all parties will ever be.
His designated driver for the evening swings the car into regimented line with the vehicles already assembled. He thinks there might be a light on in every single room of the monstrous new McMansion, and can’t help but cringe at the giant fuck you it must seem like to anyone who’s ever campaigned about saving electricity.
He shrugs into the cool night air and lets the wind fill his insides. There was a time when he called this place home.
A trailer on a hill with his princess. Torn to shreds. The memory makes him feel physically ill.
An elbow snakes its way through his and attempts to drag him forward. He reacts suddenly. Just this side of vicious, as he wrenches his arm free once more and stands his ground. Motions for them all to continue on without him. The half bottle of scotch he’d polished off in the shower is doing a number on his blood stream. The buzz brings with it a welcome reprieve.
He doesn’t compute the fact that he’s well and truly ventured off the well-lit path until his foot twists in a deep hole left by a scavenging animal. If his crash to the earth appears ungainly, then it doesn’t matter. He figures there is no one around to witness his inevitable descent into the gutter; metaphorical or otherwise, the end result is a destination he’s always expected.
He almost hopes for a bear to wander past and think he might make a tasty midnight snack. Put him out of his misery once and for all.
He hears a noise then, panics momentarily as he realises he’s not ready for a face-off with a bear at all. Endless self-pity or otherwise, he is far too much of a coward for death. At least, so he thinks… But the sound is more deliberate than that of an animal. A sharp, slow clapping that gets closer as his heartbeat tapers down to something just this side of imminent failure.
“Very nicely done.” The slow clap continues.
A figure emerges out of the shadows. All black angles and sharp lines in the half moon-light.
“Fuck you.” Eloquence has never really been his style after all.
“So, your mouth is as dirty as your ass.” Head cocked a little to the left. “Good to know, good to know…” She sneers at him from beneath black hair.
Black on black on endless, inky black.
She’s got a bottle of something hanging loosely between two fingers. And as she swings it to her lips the moon passes through it, clear. Vodka. He laughs humourlessly. She seems like a vodka girl, after all. All business, no play.
Not like tequila. Or champagne.
“If you expect me to haul you up then you'd you be wrong…”
He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but help from her, from anyone, is certainly not it.
“Fuck you.” He’s fast running out of options. And there’s a fair chance his ankle is like, legitimately fractured. So the longer he can stay right where he is, the better for all concerned.
She sinks down onto the rain damp grass beside him. Tilts her head back and stares up at where he imagines the stars should hang.
“Amelia,” she offers as she slings the bottle in his direction.
He pretends to himself for a beat or three that he’s not going to take it.
It’s the expensive stuff, he notes. And he hopes, as he swallows freely, that she stole the bottle from inside. She wraps her fingers around the heavy base before he’s finished and drags it away. Liquid spills down his chin and splashes at the front of his jacket.
She speaks to him through lips and teeth rounded against the rim of the bottle. Doesn’t miss a drop and he wonders how much practice she’s had at it, conversations spelled out around booze and oblivion. She seems well versed in the art after all.
“So, you got a name?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head for added clarity. “Not tonight, I don’t.”
He’s feeling particularly morbid. Blames the party build-up and his own abomination of a life for the fact.
“Hmmm,” He can see that she’s shifted to face him but he refuses to acquiesce. Keeps his attention on the sway of the trees, front and centre. “In that case, mind if I call you Ralph?”
“You can call me whatever the fuck you like.”
“Charming, Ralph. No really, very charming.”
“I’m a charming kinda guy, what can I say?”
“Want to have sex?”
He sits up at that. Relinquishes his determined vow of not speaking to her. Remembers then; Amelia. Shepherd he guesses. The black sheep little sister.
He can tap that.
“Here?”
“No, on my brother’s king sized water-bed.” She sounds serious even though he doubts that she is. “Yes, here. Right here. In the dirt. Where we both belong.”
“You don’t know where I belong.”
There are fingers in his hair then. Fisted and shoving him back down. “Oh,” she laughs, a light melody that dances across his collar-bones, “I know alllll about you…. Ralph.”
She’s fiddling with something. Distracted as she keeps speaking. He can’t make out her movements in the hazy dark. Cloud cover and his own blood alcohol content combining to narrow his peripheral vision.
“I know your personal life sucks actual ass.” He stills beneath her icy fingertips as they work their way insistently beneath his shirt. Dragging the bunched material up to somewhere just below his chin. “I know your professional life is not all that far behind it, Mr. No Peads. Fellowship For You…” Her tongue punctuates her words as she presses against him, hot and heavy. There’s something in her mouth. In his mouth. And she’s murmuring at him then to swallow it, swallow it, swallow it…
So he does.
“Mmmm, good boy.”
His heart feels like he’s running a marathon. And he panics suddenly. Imagines flat-lining right there in the grass. He struggles against her, both hands on her shoulders and she leans her weight on him, refuses to let him up.
“Shhhhh…” She smiling at him. Wild-eyed. And he’s instantly hard beneath her, and simultaneously furious with himself for being so fucking predictable in the face of such obvious crazy.
“Trust me,” she murmurs, hot air rushing low across his ear drum, “I’m a doctor.”
His chest feels like it’s on fire. Fingered flames lapping at his insides. He wants to tell her that he kind of has a heart condition and that maybe this isn’t the best idea but the capacity to care about any of it is rapidly fading out. Giving way to the kind of disentangled bliss he has only ever imagined experiencing.
Her head is pressed against his rib-cage. He can feel it bounce against him with every hammered beat of his pulse.
He feels alive in a way he has never managed previously.
Sliding a hand between them, she shifts as he pushes insistently at her underwear. His fingers feel disconnected from the rest of his body. A heady numbness that has dulled all his grated edges. She writhes where she lays, groans against his skin and sinks her teeth into the soft flesh above his nipple.
He thinks he’s probably high. The one thing he swore he’d never, ever be. And the stunning ease with which it has occurred makes him wonder how it hasn’t happened sooner. The sharp ache that had taken up residence in his left foot has evaporated in a cloud of pink air and yellow sun. He wants to know what it was that she gave him but the ability to form words, to ask questions, to sufficiently attend to answers, it has long since escaped him.
He realises she’s naked like he realises everything else that is happening to him. Notes the truth and lets it slide right past. Off and over the edge. He wonders how long ‘til he follows them all down. An abyss that has no beginning.
No end.
Flying forever between the two extremes. He thinks he could like it here.
“Amelia…” The word tingles at his tongue. The inside of his mouth.
Electric.
“Shhhhhh…” Her teeth, sharp, against the inside of his thigh. He bucks his hips, an involuntary movement. Feels the muscles along his spine contract as he arches, the scrape of his hair through the decaying leaf matter. Everything louder and softer and further away and yet, oh, so very close.
Turning his head to the side, he can see the discarded bottle of booze just out of reach of his fingertips. There’s a shallow puddle of clear liquid still pooled against the glass where it’s tipped. He thinks he could do some pretty fucking amazing things with that bottle right now.
If only he could reach it.
If only he could move far enough to hook his fingers around the rim.
If only…
Her lips wrap around his cock then and he forgets all about the abandoned bottle of quality vodka, slowly leaking into the grass.
There’s water falling on his face. Insistent. Like it’s being poured from a jug. Swiping at it with his hand does little to lessen the effect.
He’s on his back. Mouth open. A feeling, like drowning, heavy in his bones.
She’s curled into his side. Infinitely smaller than he remembers her being initially. Her fingers fisted into the sleeve of his shirt, eyes closed. Not moving. He shoves two fingers against the pulse point in her neck and when the dull thud vibrates beneath his skin he thinks he might cry with relief.
Figures the rain will provide all the cover he could hope to need and then some.
He shakes her shoulder gently. Gets a murmured whimper in response, child-like. He feels sick suddenly. Of himself. Of her.
Of it all.
He shakes her again. More forcefully this time. She’s shivering. And her lips are almost white. She’s still naked, wearing the night time like a cloak. Rain water runs in rivulets across her bruised skin.
He reaches across her. Ignites a sharp agony in his ankle that he’d rather not think about. Her jacket is neatly folded to their left. A sight incongruous to the manic way in which the rest of their clothing had been removed. Discarded.
He drags it towards her. Shakes it loose as he uses the damp material to cover her as best he can.
A plastic bag slips from a pocket then. Its contents both feather light and anvil heavy in his hand all at once.
She re-settles. Burrows further into his side and beneath him with a sigh.
And he’s telling himself no even as his fingers are slipping and sliding, desperate, against the clear plastic. Shaking, from the cold and from a thousand other things.
He thinks he doesn’t want to do it.
But he’s knows he’s going to in the end all the same…
Fandom: Grey’s Anatomy/Private Practice (crossover)
Characters/Pairing: Alex/Amelia
Word Count: 1900
Rating: R (sex, drug use)
♥: Pinch hit secret santa fic for uponyourshore
Prompt: High on your own supply, from the Grey’s Anatomy Kink Meme
Summary: A trailer on a hill with his princess. Torn to shreds. The memory makes him feel physically ill.
The sweeping driveway has been artfully lit with fairy lights that blink intermittently. He stares at them from the passenger seat of a car that belongs to someone else and waits for the moment that they burn holes in his night vision. The spotty canvas they create is infinitely more desirable to him than this party to end all parties will ever be.
His designated driver for the evening swings the car into regimented line with the vehicles already assembled. He thinks there might be a light on in every single room of the monstrous new McMansion, and can’t help but cringe at the giant fuck you it must seem like to anyone who’s ever campaigned about saving electricity.
He shrugs into the cool night air and lets the wind fill his insides. There was a time when he called this place home.
A trailer on a hill with his princess. Torn to shreds. The memory makes him feel physically ill.
An elbow snakes its way through his and attempts to drag him forward. He reacts suddenly. Just this side of vicious, as he wrenches his arm free once more and stands his ground. Motions for them all to continue on without him. The half bottle of scotch he’d polished off in the shower is doing a number on his blood stream. The buzz brings with it a welcome reprieve.
He doesn’t compute the fact that he’s well and truly ventured off the well-lit path until his foot twists in a deep hole left by a scavenging animal. If his crash to the earth appears ungainly, then it doesn’t matter. He figures there is no one around to witness his inevitable descent into the gutter; metaphorical or otherwise, the end result is a destination he’s always expected.
He almost hopes for a bear to wander past and think he might make a tasty midnight snack. Put him out of his misery once and for all.
He hears a noise then, panics momentarily as he realises he’s not ready for a face-off with a bear at all. Endless self-pity or otherwise, he is far too much of a coward for death. At least, so he thinks… But the sound is more deliberate than that of an animal. A sharp, slow clapping that gets closer as his heartbeat tapers down to something just this side of imminent failure.
“Very nicely done.” The slow clap continues.
A figure emerges out of the shadows. All black angles and sharp lines in the half moon-light.
“Fuck you.” Eloquence has never really been his style after all.
“So, your mouth is as dirty as your ass.” Head cocked a little to the left. “Good to know, good to know…” She sneers at him from beneath black hair.
Black on black on endless, inky black.
She’s got a bottle of something hanging loosely between two fingers. And as she swings it to her lips the moon passes through it, clear. Vodka. He laughs humourlessly. She seems like a vodka girl, after all. All business, no play.
Not like tequila. Or champagne.
“If you expect me to haul you up then you'd you be wrong…”
He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but help from her, from anyone, is certainly not it.
“Fuck you.” He’s fast running out of options. And there’s a fair chance his ankle is like, legitimately fractured. So the longer he can stay right where he is, the better for all concerned.
She sinks down onto the rain damp grass beside him. Tilts her head back and stares up at where he imagines the stars should hang.
“Amelia,” she offers as she slings the bottle in his direction.
He pretends to himself for a beat or three that he’s not going to take it.
It’s the expensive stuff, he notes. And he hopes, as he swallows freely, that she stole the bottle from inside. She wraps her fingers around the heavy base before he’s finished and drags it away. Liquid spills down his chin and splashes at the front of his jacket.
She speaks to him through lips and teeth rounded against the rim of the bottle. Doesn’t miss a drop and he wonders how much practice she’s had at it, conversations spelled out around booze and oblivion. She seems well versed in the art after all.
“So, you got a name?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head for added clarity. “Not tonight, I don’t.”
He’s feeling particularly morbid. Blames the party build-up and his own abomination of a life for the fact.
“Hmmm,” He can see that she’s shifted to face him but he refuses to acquiesce. Keeps his attention on the sway of the trees, front and centre. “In that case, mind if I call you Ralph?”
“You can call me whatever the fuck you like.”
“Charming, Ralph. No really, very charming.”
“I’m a charming kinda guy, what can I say?”
“Want to have sex?”
He sits up at that. Relinquishes his determined vow of not speaking to her. Remembers then; Amelia. Shepherd he guesses. The black sheep little sister.
He can tap that.
“Here?”
“No, on my brother’s king sized water-bed.” She sounds serious even though he doubts that she is. “Yes, here. Right here. In the dirt. Where we both belong.”
“You don’t know where I belong.”
There are fingers in his hair then. Fisted and shoving him back down. “Oh,” she laughs, a light melody that dances across his collar-bones, “I know alllll about you…. Ralph.”
She’s fiddling with something. Distracted as she keeps speaking. He can’t make out her movements in the hazy dark. Cloud cover and his own blood alcohol content combining to narrow his peripheral vision.
“I know your personal life sucks actual ass.” He stills beneath her icy fingertips as they work their way insistently beneath his shirt. Dragging the bunched material up to somewhere just below his chin. “I know your professional life is not all that far behind it, Mr. No Peads. Fellowship For You…” Her tongue punctuates her words as she presses against him, hot and heavy. There’s something in her mouth. In his mouth. And she’s murmuring at him then to swallow it, swallow it, swallow it…
So he does.
“Mmmm, good boy.”
His heart feels like he’s running a marathon. And he panics suddenly. Imagines flat-lining right there in the grass. He struggles against her, both hands on her shoulders and she leans her weight on him, refuses to let him up.
“Shhhhh…” She smiling at him. Wild-eyed. And he’s instantly hard beneath her, and simultaneously furious with himself for being so fucking predictable in the face of such obvious crazy.
“Trust me,” she murmurs, hot air rushing low across his ear drum, “I’m a doctor.”
His chest feels like it’s on fire. Fingered flames lapping at his insides. He wants to tell her that he kind of has a heart condition and that maybe this isn’t the best idea but the capacity to care about any of it is rapidly fading out. Giving way to the kind of disentangled bliss he has only ever imagined experiencing.
Her head is pressed against his rib-cage. He can feel it bounce against him with every hammered beat of his pulse.
He feels alive in a way he has never managed previously.
Sliding a hand between them, she shifts as he pushes insistently at her underwear. His fingers feel disconnected from the rest of his body. A heady numbness that has dulled all his grated edges. She writhes where she lays, groans against his skin and sinks her teeth into the soft flesh above his nipple.
He thinks he’s probably high. The one thing he swore he’d never, ever be. And the stunning ease with which it has occurred makes him wonder how it hasn’t happened sooner. The sharp ache that had taken up residence in his left foot has evaporated in a cloud of pink air and yellow sun. He wants to know what it was that she gave him but the ability to form words, to ask questions, to sufficiently attend to answers, it has long since escaped him.
He realises she’s naked like he realises everything else that is happening to him. Notes the truth and lets it slide right past. Off and over the edge. He wonders how long ‘til he follows them all down. An abyss that has no beginning.
No end.
Flying forever between the two extremes. He thinks he could like it here.
“Amelia…” The word tingles at his tongue. The inside of his mouth.
Electric.
“Shhhhhh…” Her teeth, sharp, against the inside of his thigh. He bucks his hips, an involuntary movement. Feels the muscles along his spine contract as he arches, the scrape of his hair through the decaying leaf matter. Everything louder and softer and further away and yet, oh, so very close.
Turning his head to the side, he can see the discarded bottle of booze just out of reach of his fingertips. There’s a shallow puddle of clear liquid still pooled against the glass where it’s tipped. He thinks he could do some pretty fucking amazing things with that bottle right now.
If only he could reach it.
If only he could move far enough to hook his fingers around the rim.
If only…
Her lips wrap around his cock then and he forgets all about the abandoned bottle of quality vodka, slowly leaking into the grass.
There’s water falling on his face. Insistent. Like it’s being poured from a jug. Swiping at it with his hand does little to lessen the effect.
He’s on his back. Mouth open. A feeling, like drowning, heavy in his bones.
She’s curled into his side. Infinitely smaller than he remembers her being initially. Her fingers fisted into the sleeve of his shirt, eyes closed. Not moving. He shoves two fingers against the pulse point in her neck and when the dull thud vibrates beneath his skin he thinks he might cry with relief.
Figures the rain will provide all the cover he could hope to need and then some.
He shakes her shoulder gently. Gets a murmured whimper in response, child-like. He feels sick suddenly. Of himself. Of her.
Of it all.
He shakes her again. More forcefully this time. She’s shivering. And her lips are almost white. She’s still naked, wearing the night time like a cloak. Rain water runs in rivulets across her bruised skin.
He reaches across her. Ignites a sharp agony in his ankle that he’d rather not think about. Her jacket is neatly folded to their left. A sight incongruous to the manic way in which the rest of their clothing had been removed. Discarded.
He drags it towards her. Shakes it loose as he uses the damp material to cover her as best he can.
A plastic bag slips from a pocket then. Its contents both feather light and anvil heavy in his hand all at once.
She re-settles. Burrows further into his side and beneath him with a sigh.
And he’s telling himself no even as his fingers are slipping and sliding, desperate, against the clear plastic. Shaking, from the cold and from a thousand other things.
He thinks he doesn’t want to do it.
But he’s knows he’s going to in the end all the same…