grey's anatomy fanfiction, mark/addison - the words, unsaid.

[recycledstars]

The Words, Unsaid
Author's Notes: For the Grey's Anatomy kink meme, for maddisonislove's prompt Addison/Mark, "I just want to feel wanted". If this looks familiar to you, I started it for another prompt for another Grey's Anatomy meme and never finished it but I a) can't remember which one and b) can't remember who left the original prompt, which I'm pretty sure was the song lyrics at the top. No matter. If it was yours - hope you like it. Otherwise, I think it fulfils the kink meme prompt too. Needlessly to say, explicit sexual content abounds. It's actually a bit... porny, for me. I think. Hope that doesn't mean it's horrible. Enjoy!


You never would have guessed that one day, you would become the person you are. It's 10 o'clock on a Friday night and you're standing in front of the mirror, staring at a stranger. A glass of wine is dangling from her hand. It's the end of the bottle. You tilt your head to one side and she does too. Quizzical. It's not you, it's just so not Addison Forbes Montgomery-Shepherd. Your cell is on the sink, keeping its silence. You called a few people after a few glasses of wine, but no one answered. Tonight is one of the few times in your life you have felt truly alone, at least since Derek.

Derek.

It's wearing you down and it isn't working. You can't remember the last time you had sex, can't remember the last time you had a real conversation, can't remember the last time he looked at you, really looked at you. You were angry, but that was a long time ago now, months. There's nothing now, no feeling: there should be feeling in a marriage. You loved him once, you suppose you still do, but the sting of it has gone. You think perhaps it's force of habit. And he's difficult to love of late, he's picked surgery over you one too many times, he's always too tired, he pushes you away, constantly. You're tired of being told no, you're tired full stop. He takes you for granted, but you take him as a given so you forgive him for that.

Finally you turn away from the mirror and busy yourself in a drawer, pawing for the a particular shade of lipstick you know you have hidden somewhere. You paint your face, reapply your make up for something to do. Besides, you've left most of your lipstick clinging to your wine glass. You look good, objectively. You don't feel good. Derek doesn't think so is what runs through your mind. He doesn't notice or he doesn't care or he doesn't think so. He's doing your head in. You've never felt unattractive, not since you left high school, not until now.

You decide to go out. Manhattan is a small island, surely you'll run into someone. Even if you don't, you'd be better off alone in a crowd than alone in the house. There's a bottle of sleeping pills behind the mirror and you know you've had too much to drink, but you're considering popping them one by one until you sleep forever. Your darkness scares you. You've discovered of late that there's more of it than you ever realised.

You leave the light on upstairs and slip your feet into Louboutins in shadows at the foot of the stairs. You're noticing details tonight - that's the aloneness creeping in on you - the clack of your heels on the floor, the jangle of your keys as you feel around in your purse to make sure you've got everything, the echo of the door closing in the empty house behind you.

You decide to walk instead of taking a cab, but that lasts about two blocks before you realise how ridiculous the heels are and just how much you've had to drink. After some consideration, you find yourself in front of a bar you used to love five years ago, when Savvy still had time for girl's nights. They mix a mean margarita, but you order a single malt.

You're standing because you couldn't find a seat, elbow leaning against the bar top when his fingers close around it. You jump and nearly upset the scotch.

"Addison," he says, apologetic, "I didn't mean to surprise you."

You would normally narrow your eyes at him, say something, banter. That's what you and Mark do. Tonight you're too tired. You sigh, "Hi."

"Well aren't you the life of the party?" he remarks, holding out a recently vacated stool as you slide into it.

"Sorry," you punctuate your words with a swig.

"What's going on with you?" Mark looks concerned and sits beside you, leaning in a little close so he can hear you over the noise.

"Nothing," you answer, and it's the honest to God truth, which is part of the problem. He doesn't buy it, so you continue before he has a change to interject, "Who are you here with?"

"No one," he admits, "James and the girls came out for drinks after we finished up at the practice, but they all had longer term plans."

"So now you're trawling for women," you observe rather than ask, a hint of exasperation creeping into your voice.

He looks affronted, "I sense judgement."

"No," you hurry to correct yourself, "Well, maybe a little," you flash him a smile to appease him, "Only the usual amount."

"You're in a mood tonight," he nudges you with his elbow, "Seriously Addison, what's wrong?"

"Nothing and everything. For one, here I am on a Friday night out alone, while my husband is God knows where."

"The hospital," Mark says, quickly, "He's never anywhere else."

"Really?" you sigh again, "Are you sure he's not off with some blonde?"

"That would be more my type," he cracks a joke, "Me being a gentleman and all. And besides, you've seen his time sheets, he'd have a hard time fitting an affair in."

"You'd tell me wouldn't you?" you ask suddenly, the thought of not knowing is what kills you, the thought of Mark keeping it secret. "I mean, I know he's your best friend and I know he'd probably tell you, but I'd want to know."

"Of course," he says, a hand curling around your wrist to calm you, "I'd never ... I'd never keep that a secret from you."

You meet his eyes, sense something underneath that statement, but decide not to pry. Mark is Mark, he's an open book with some pages missing and those pages, he's never going to share.

"So," he moves his hand away suddenly, "Trouble in paradise."

"I think we're beyond paradise at the point."

"I did warn you both of that possibility when you decided to get married."

"I thought you wanted us to get married so you could sleep with all my single friends."

"Well, I was being selfless. Putting my own needs aside."

You smile genuinely at the exchange.

"Seriously though," his tone changes, "I know things haven't been easy on you, with him working so much."

"I don't know," you trace the rim of your glass, "I should be worried about you. I know I'm his wife but you're the love of his life."

"I do ok," he says, taking a sip of his own drink, "We haven't been that close in a long time."

"He's still your best friend though," you observe.

"And your husband," he points out.

"Technically."

"That bad huh?"

"Is there something wrong with me Mark?" you turn to face him, search his eyes for a clue, "Am I unattractive? Am I desirable?"

You realise you've moved in too close, invaded his personal space in the middle of your tirade.

He answers in a low voice that hums through your body, "Addison."

His tone is a warning.

"What?" you press him, catching a hint of something he's trying to hide from you.

"I can't answer that," he pulls away.

"Why?" you demand, more offended than you would have been if you were sober, "You fuck just about anything else with two X-chromosomes."

He stares at you, shakes his head a little then gets in your face with his next words, "I don't want to fuck you. I want to take you home, take off all your clothes, kiss you, eat you out until you beg me to stop. And then I want to taste your stomach, hold you by the hips so you can't go anywhere, spread you with my fingers and feel myself inside you for a minute and then I want to fuck you so hard my neighbours complain about the noise. You're special Addison, and you're desirable. So yes, of course I want to fuck you but..."

You kiss him. He's there, saying all the right things, so you press both palms flat against his cheeks to trap his face and stop him mid-sentence with your mouth.

He pushes at your shoulders, manages to disengage his limbs from yours and opens his mouth a few times, like he's looking for the words.

"What?" you're about to cry, "You said..."

"You're married," he manages to say, finally. "To Derek."

It makes you feel especially guilty now, Mark Sloan telling you off.

"But you," you gesture with your hands, "You."

"Yeah me," he exhales, the impossibility of the situation evident.

You put a hand on his thigh and lean over, looking up at him, "Mark."

"Addison," he growls at you, "Don't ask me to say no again."

You stand up and lean your hands against his shoulders, bending to whisper in his ear, lips against his skin, "I was never asking you to say no."

He turns on the bar stool so you're standing between his knees and looks up at you for a long time. Your face is hot, your body is hot. He reaches for your hands, thumbs moving in circles against your wrists. Your blood pulses beneath his fingers. The pause is longer than you anticipated, but neither of you rushes the moment.

You like the feeling of being suspended, caught in time. You wait for his reaction, wait to see what he'll do next, and enjoy the suspense. Then it hits you, and his hands are electric and you want them everywhere. He pulls your mouth to his. Your body shifts until you're straddling one of his legs, and his hands are holding your waist. You gasp against his mouth, eyes closed. His tongue shifts against yours. Finally, finally, the burning in your chest says you need more air so you pull back, run a hand through your hair and your tongue over your lips. They remember the pressure of the kiss, tingle beneath the wetness. You sink your teeth into your lower lip thoughtfully.

He's still staring at you.

"What?" you ask, brushing your fingers against his five o'clock shadow and breathing over his mouth.

"I don't fucking know," he kisses you again, hands tracing the seam of your dress, over the curves of your body. He finishes holding your jaw, tracing patterns against bone. "Do you want to keep doing this?" he asks you.

You dig your nails into his hand lightly, "Yes."

"Then we should go somewhere more private," he whispers, kissing your chin, "It's a small island."

You rock your hips against his leg. "Mark," you say earnestly, looking him dead in the eye. "Take me home, take off all my clothes, and fuck me so hard your neighbours complain about the noise."

He stands, drops a wad of bills on the bar top and leads you through the crowd by the hand. Outside, the air is cold. You stand with your coat hanging over your shoulders and shift your weight from one heel to the other. Your breath rises in a mist between his face and yours, but he doesn't kiss you.

"That was stupid," he says, waiting to hail a cab.

"No one saw us," you tell him.

"But if they did," he starts.

"If you don't want to do this," you begin to have doubts as he flags down a cab, "I can go home."

He holds open the door for you, waiting until he's sitting beside you with his hand on your knee, fingers sliding against your stockings, and then he says, "Of course I want to do this."
You turn to face him, and then his mouth is on yours so you don't get a chance to respond. His hand slides below your skirt and he traces the inside of your thigh. You bite his lip and open one eye, defiant, but he takes that as encouragement and moves his other hand to your breast. You want to protest, but you're drunk and it feels good, so good, so you let your head fall back against the leather of the seat and his hand squeeze at the satin of your dress and his mouth trail along the exposed skin of your shoulder. The hand beneath your dress retreats and you moan and you can't be inside fast enough when you finally, finally reach his building.

He stands too close as you wait for the elevator, his body pressed against your back. You hit the button, impatient.

"Can you feel that?" his teeth capture your ear lobe and you grind your teeth, because you can and it drives you crazy, thinking it's because of you.

You push him against the wall of his elevator and palm your way down the front of his body. You manage to negotiate the zip just as you reach his floor. He pulls you down the hall, pushes you against his door, face first, so your palms are flat and your body is curved into his. His hand slides along your thigh and his teeth graze your shoulder. He's fumbling for keys, so you wrestle against his grip, try to turn around. He holds you where he wants you, gripping at your hips and you let your face fall against the door, this can't possibly live up to the anticipation. He catches your wrist and he gets the door open, helping you regain your balance. You lean back against the wall and he steals a kiss, your heel drags along the seam of his pants.

He grins at you.

You smile back.

"It's nice," you manage, finally, because he's looking at you like he expects something, "To be wanted."

"That's all anyone wants," he says gruffly, which is his way of offering wisdom, "To be wanted."

You turn the tone light again, smirking at him and clutching at his shoulders, "I want you."

He lifts you and your wrap your legs around him, losing one high heel on the wooden floors. His fingernails dig into your arms.

When you reach the bed, he throws you backwards and you shriek, but then he's not wearing any pants and he's on top of you, so you kiss him and let your fingers trace the muscles of his stomach. He smells incredible, and you lick his neck, pushing back until your positions are reversed and you can climb on top of him.

"Fuck," he says like a prayer.

He's buried beneath your skirt, hands on your thighs, mouth resting on your stomach. You don't say anything, don't know what you would say, try not to think, just try to focus on the sensation. He tugs at your underwear so you rearrange yourself awkwardly, pull them and your stockings off yourself. He takes the opportunity to push you onto your back, your hands find the sheets of his unmade bed - he can be such a bachelor sometimes - while his push your legs apart. You jump as he breathes against your thigh, move your hips as he nips at the skin. You're embarrassed and you want to tell him to stop, but his hands quite firmly pin you down, even as you squirm. You stare at the back of his head, move your fingers along his hairline, urging and encouraging his mouth to where you want it. Instead he pauses, exhales. You nearly curse, but he cuts you off, mid-yelp, mouth eagerly pressed against your clit. You concentrate on the warmth and the slick of it, scratch your nails through his hair. His tongue is deft, probably from practice but you're certainly not complaining at this point because he's doing something else with his fingers and you feel the tension in your body rise to breaking point. And then he stops, bastard, and you moan in discontent. He runs his fingers along your inner thigh and smirks, "If you want it, you'll have to ask for it."

You narrow your eyes at him when he looks up, "I don't do that."

"What?"

"You know," you're just embarrassed now, "Talk like that."

"Oh," he catches on, "You mean you don't want to have to tell me," he pushes two fingers inside you, "How much you want my mouth on your cunt, how much harder," he demonstrates, which is kind of him, "You want me to finger fuck you, how close you are to coming all over my hand."

"Mark," you object, but weakly, because it's kind of hot.

"That's ok," he continues, not at all phased by your reprimand, his tongue meets his fingers between your folds, "I know all of that."

You whimper, just a little.

"I just need a little encouragement," he tongues your clit lazily, "Is all."

You squirm beneath him and moan a little. He rewards you with more mouth-to-appropriate-anatomical-region time. "You're getting the hang of it," he remarks, far, far too casually.

"Please," you lean your head back to look at the ceiling, tossing your hair out of your face, and throw a few oh God and yes, yes, yeses in for good measure.

He finds a pace and a rhythm you enjoy and sticks with it, which is something you appreciate. You don't always need harder, faster, sometimes you just need more. He curls his fingers, flicks is tongue in the opposite direction and that's it, you feel a blush creeping down your chest and your cheeks are hot and you shudder around his fingers with a shriek and several mentions of his name.

He pulls back, and waits. You open your eyes and stare at his ceiling, still faintly uncomfortable, worrying what he thinks of you, what he'll think of you tomorrow, but feeling relaxed. Your heart rate settles in your chest and he smiles up at you.

"Addison," he sits up, tucks your hair behind your ears. You recognise something in his face, but you can't pick it. Later you will realise it's love and when you do it will scare you. He lets his hands fall, sliding down your back and dragging the zip of your dress with them. "You're so fucking beautiful," he moves to pull away the top of your dress.

You're still, paralysed by the moment. He kisses your mouth, soft, and then your collarbone, as he unhooks your bra and throws it across the room. And then your neck, as he palms your breasts, teeth sharp against your skin. You move suddenly, press his mouth harder against your neck and he bites you. You let your fingernails dig into his skin, wanting to make at least one thing clear to him - you don't want to be loved, you want to be fucked. The fact that this is Mark, and that you trust him implicitly, is an aside. His mouth moves your left nipple, one hand reaching down and pinching at your right. "Fuck," you say.

He manoeuvres a hand between your legs, smearing your thighs, thumbing at your clit, but you push him off, push him backwards and straddle him. You mouth is close to his but you don't kiss. "What do you want?" you ask, as though his erection wasn't answer enough. You run your palm along his length.

"I want to fuck you," he says, honest and unromantic, and there's an edge in his eyes you didn't notice before, like he might have something to prove.

You sit back on your knees and let your nails scratch down his chest, take him in your mouth for one long moment then sit up, "Ok."

He fumbles for a condom, puts it on and you turn your back from him, hands coming up to hug yourself. After a pause, his fingers close over yours and he drops a kiss to the back of your shoulder.

"You ok?" he asks with rough concern.

"Yeah," you say, and his light kiss becomes a bite. His hands are on your breasts again, he takes one nipple between thumb and forefinger and squeezes a little too hard to be comfortable. You cry out, but you enjoy the sharp pain.

He pulls away, unsure, but you reach for his hand and reposition it, "This is fine." Still no response.

"Mark, I like it."

His teeth assault your shoulder again, a smaller bite this time, sharper.

He abandons your breasts and slides his hands down your back, pushing you forward so you're on your knees. You scramble to comply, he bends to place a kiss in the middle of your back. He spreads you with his fingers and you arch your back. There's another thing you like, he's not too gentle, not since you told him you didn't want him to be. He's inside you with a rough push and he holds you by the hips, thrusting with force. It nearly hurts. You're quiet for a minute, but then he works his hand around between your legs and presses a finger against your clit.

You groan and lean upwards. He pulls you by the hair until you're almost kneeling and takes advantage of better access with his hand. You lean back against his chest, one hand clutching at your own breast. You play with the nipple, he rubs circles against your clit and manages to keep fucking you, although the thrusts have slowed. You tilt your head to one side and he bites your neck again and you move your hips against his hand. Swearing, you come again, harder this time, and fall against the mattress on your wrists.

He falls on top of you, kisses your back again, then slowly increases his tempo. Sweat causes your hair to stick to your brow, and breathlessly you lie against his pillows, body contorted at an uncomfortable angle, thighs twitching as he fucks you. You mumble encouragement, reach one hand up behind you to stroke his thigh and hum in appreciation when he reaches orgasm.

You grin at him, sleepily and shyly, when he pulls out and you can twist to face him. He rubs a hand over your face, but moves to clean up almost immediately, so you roll away and focus on how your palms feel against his sheets. He does return to bed, and he reaches over and rubs your shoulder when he does, but he doesn't give you the post-coital hug you could use right now.

You reach up and squeeze his hand.

"I should get going," you hear yourself say.

"Yeah," he responds, neutral, "You don't have to."

"No, I do."

"Fine," he corrects himself, in a voice full of more emotion you've ever heard from Mark Sloan before, "I wish you didn't have to."

You turn to face him, surprised. He gives you a sad smile, and uses your entangled fingers to pull you to him. He palms the side of your face, kisses you, fiercely and with intent, like he's trying to memorise your mouth.

He thumbs your cheek and there's a tenderness in the moment that surprises you all over again.

"See you Monday," he pulls his hand away and the walls are back up. His tone is hard.

"Yeah," you offer, lamely, and take the sheet with you as you gather your clothes from the floor. He rolls over and doesn't watch you leave. You pull your clothes on in the living room and return to your empty house, movements a little too quick, a little too full of shame.

That's the first time.

You're sitting at your desk Saturday morning, re-reading the same sentence for the tenth time. You close your eyes, raise a hand to your neck to squeeze the tense muscles, head pounding. Your fingers re-trace the path of his mouth against your neck and your breath comes quicker for a second. You shake it off, take a long drag from your coffee and try to get back to work. It's going to be a long week if you're already having sex flashbacks. You'll run out of turtlenecks by Monday. You make a note to do laundry.

You try not to think about it, not thinking is all you have at this point, but he's left you marked, so it stares at you all week and when Friday rolls around, your red wine breath is fogging the mirror as you press up close to stare at your skin. The bruises are faded. You call him, ask him if he wants to make some new ones. (Don't think, don't think.)

The second time you want words, you want to say something (anything) but instead nothing comes off your tongue into the air and fills the room. The silence settles between you, heavy, and you listen to the rain and the cars on the street and the people with their normal lives and your fingers dig into his skin until you find his heartbeat. It's blood and breath and your eyes slip closed in the dark of your kitchen, legs spread, hands pressing into the cold marble of the counter. Maybe he wants words too, but there are none so you kiss him and kiss him and kiss him for all the things you can't say.