Cycling 5/?
Title: Cycling
Author: darsfebruary
Rating: R
Summary: In which Hahn wakes up, and other stuff.
Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy and its characters and locations are the property of ABC and Shonda Rhimes. No copyright infringement intended.
Guess what? Tense change. I think it's just the nature of this series.
Part 1: http://community.livejournal.com/ga_fanfic/1196249.html#cutid1
Part 2: http://community.livejournal.com/ga_fanfic/1203549.html#cutid1
Part 3: http://community.livejournal.com/ga_fanfic/1213081.html#cutid1
Part 4: http://community.livejournal.com/ga_fanfic/1230495.html#cutid1
Callie Torres is, believe it or not, an early riser. She got into the habit one summer when, without a job or internship and wanting to avoid getting roped into her mother’s social events, she’d rise at dawn and drive into the foothills for a climb before the heat of the day descended like a stifling wool blanket. Sometimes she’d convince a friend to come along, sometimes she’d risk it and go at alone. And although she hardly ever climbs anymore, she likes to think of herself in that context. At her strongest. Her head clear. Holding to a rockface with all her focus, all her willpower.
And so, despite the glasses of tequila fine enough to sip, despite the late hour at which Erica finally left her to the couch and turned off the streaming blues station, despite the fact that it’s Saturday and she doesn’t need to go in to work, Callie is awake before 9. And perhaps because the tequila was so fine, and the blues so good, she feels not hung over, not tired, not even a little confused or out of place on the massive cream sofa in Hahn’s living room, wearing another woman’s college ringer. She feels refreshed - strong and at peace. She feels like her younger self. The pre-med school, pre-Seattle, pre-George self. The best version of herself.
Erica Hahn is certainly an early riser. But when your guest is drinking tequila and you’ve opened a bottle of red, when the tannin and easy conversation and blues makes your eyelids heavy, and there’s a beautiful girl breathing lightly on your couch down the hall, when all of these events conspire to keep you in bed, flirting with a pleasant dream, in bed is where you stay.
And when the mattress dips just a little at the foot of the bed, when someone crawls up next to you, trying to keep quiet, you don’t question it. You don’t wonder why or who or how. You breathe in the fresh scent of your pillow and delight in the feel of the clean cotton sheet hugging your shoulders. You let yourself return to the dream.
When that who is whispering your name, when you realize you’re not in some gossamer dream world but in bed, in your bed, you open your eyes. You see the woman stretching out next to you in the Johns Hopkins shirt that’s so worn through it’s barely a tissue floating over her caramel skin.
“Callie?” The gravel in your voice is even more pronounced in the morning.
“Morning.”
You roll off your stomach and automatically search out a set of glaring red digits. Your eyes aren’t quite focused yet. “What time is it?”
“Not sure.”
“Did you get paged?”
“Nope.”
“Did I get paged?”
“Nu-uh.”
You relax back into your pillow, satisfied that you’re not sleeping through some poor family’s cardiac crisis. You give yourself a moment to just take in the morning, the bed, the whirring fan overhead, the warm body splayed out across from you.
“I guess I got you into bed after all.”
Her smirks look even more devious in the morning. “Looks like.”
“How was the couch?”
“Good.”
“Good.”
It may be the remnants of sleep or your half-lucidity, or it may be that she really is shifting closer. You force your morning brain to make some calculations. There was a foot and a half of sheet between us but now there’s only six inches which equals closer.
“It was good," she repeats, and drops an octave. "But this is better."
She’s hovering above you - definitely, definitely closer - and there’s a devilish glimmer in her eye.
“Callie…” you warn her.
“Shut up before I lose my nerve.”
You do. You shut up. Because her mouth is on yours and her hand is running up the white underside of your arm. She’s smiling into your mouth. You can feel the corners of her mouth curling up. The kiss is light and sweet, and when she breaks it you wonder, when was the last time I was kissed like that? You can’t recall. Callie’s perched above you, her hands on either side of your pillow, and when you look down to take it all in, you find yourself staring straight down the stretched-out neck of your tee, down to where her dark, perfect nipples are flirting with the cotton.
“Oh God,” you croak before you can check yourself. Callie, whose eyes haven’t left your face, follows your gaze. The silence hangs between you.
“Huh,” she mutters.
And that’s when you know you’ve made a misstep. You’ve made it too real for her. This isn’t just some post-sleepover teen girl experimentation. Yes, you’re really a woman, and yes she’s really in your bed, turning you on.
She sits up.
“Callie,” you start to apologize, to pave the road down which she can back out at full speed. You start to sit up, to regain some sense of perspective. But something solid - Callie’s hand - is spread across the middle of your chest and pushing you back down.
“Don’t.”
This is the problem with orthopedists. They are so damn strong. You stop fighting against her palm.
“Now, stay.”
She’s giving you commands like a freaking puppy and you know you’re not yourself this morning, because if you were yourself, you’d be up and out of there and not doing as she says and waiting for your praise like a whipped dog.
You guess she understands that she’s running the show because she peels her palm from the center of your tank top. She doesn’t hesitate. She finds the hem of her tee with both hands and pulls it over her head. She tosses it aside. It lands half off the mattress and hangs there for a second before falling off to puddle on the floor in a heap of finality.
“There,” she says.
That’s it. You’re no one’s puppy. You’re sitting up and your hand is behind her neck, pulling her to you. And then she’s sliding her knee over and sitting in the crook between your pelvis and thighs. But you only feel the heavy, insanely erotic pressure as she settles her weight there, pinning you to the mattress. You don’t see it. You don’t see anything.
***
There are certain problems inherit with unplanned makeout sessions in bed. Namely, sheets. Namely, you are under one, getting increasingly more tangled, and Callie is not.
“I’m stuck,” you finally sputter out as she relinquishes your lips to go to work on an earlobe.
She lets your earlobe slip from between her lips for a moment. “I know.” She takes it up again, then blazes a trail down your neck to your clavicle. You try to center yourself and test your extremities. The sheet is snaked around your ankle and plastering your legs down.
“This is not a metaphor, Callie.”
“Hmmm” she buzzes into your throat.
“I’m stuck in the sheet.”
“I. Said.” She punctuates her words with a long, wet kiss against your pulse point, “I. Know.” Callie seems quite at ease with your restricted movement. In fact, she may be relishing it. At the rate she’s going, she’s going to give you a hickey. Hickeys are not very professional. Action must be taken.
“Callie,” you put one hand on her shoulder. Without breaking her contact with your neck, she finds your wrist with her free hand and pins it above your head, where your fingers twitch helplessly. She is not making this easy for you.
“Okay, that’s it.” Summoning your resolve, you use your leg muscles, rock solid from your prolonged bout of sexually repressed cycling, to propel your lower body out of the warm pocket you’ve been molded into. You swing your left leg over and Callie is effectively caught off guard because her tongue is no longer circling on your neck and she’s flat on her back like a stunned turtle, your positions reversed.
The woman below you is pulsing with heat. You can feel it emanating from her skin. And this day could get very complicated - even more complicated - very quickly, if you let it. “You’re very good at that,” you tell her, trying to keep your tone steady.
She relaxes into her new position, her breasts balancing in perfect rounded peeks above her rib cage. “I knew you were a top.”
“What?”
“Isn’t that what it’s called? I read this thing online -“
“Yes, that’s what it’s called.”
“Well, I knew you were one.”
“I’m not a top.”
“I beg to differ.” She pushes her knee up into your crotch for emphasis and your mind momentarily blanks. Momentarily.
“Okay, we have to stop.”
“What?! Just when you’re getting all sexily aggressive?”
You push the big, floppy bangs out of her eyes. “Yes.”
“Is this the, um, what do they call it….lesbian bed death?”
“Oh my god. What website were you reading?”
“Wikipedia?”
“You wikipedia-ed ‘Lesbian Sex’?”
“Maybe.”
“This is not lesbian bed death, okay, this is just…..a pause.”
“We’re pausing?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one, you’re giving me a hickey...”
“I know!”
“…And we’re not in high school. For two -“
“No, I want to debate number one.”
“You don’t get to debate these. For two, you are starving.”
“No I’m not.” At that, Callie’s stomach makes a deep gurgling rumble. “Okay, I’m a little hungry.”
“Number three is, there’s no number three. But the first two reasons are good enough. So we’re going to put on some clothes - don’t give me that look - and go get some food. And coffee. I need coffee.” At that, you peel yourself off of her before you can second-guess yourself.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Miss Bossy Bossy. You have a hot chick in your bed and you’re talking about coffee!”
“Oh trust me,” you tell her, bending over her tangled, sprawled form in your bed, and planting the kiss of all lingering kisses on her swollen lips, “I know what I’m doing.”
You leave her wordless in bed and peel off your tank as you make your way to the master bath. Now that’s how you top a woman.
This is the first scene that breaks with the the Grey's canon in a big way (you know, besides the fact that I've made Hahn kinda lesbolicious from the get-go), and I'm a little more unsure of it, so any and all feedback will help bolster my self-doubting self!
Author: darsfebruary
Rating: R
Summary: In which Hahn wakes up, and other stuff.
Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy and its characters and locations are the property of ABC and Shonda Rhimes. No copyright infringement intended.
Guess what? Tense change. I think it's just the nature of this series.
Part 1: http://community.livejournal.com/ga_fanfic/1196249.html#cutid1
Part 2: http://community.livejournal.com/ga_fanfic/1203549.html#cutid1
Part 3: http://community.livejournal.com/ga_fanfic/1213081.html#cutid1
Part 4: http://community.livejournal.com/ga_fanfic/1230495.html#cutid1
Callie Torres is, believe it or not, an early riser. She got into the habit one summer when, without a job or internship and wanting to avoid getting roped into her mother’s social events, she’d rise at dawn and drive into the foothills for a climb before the heat of the day descended like a stifling wool blanket. Sometimes she’d convince a friend to come along, sometimes she’d risk it and go at alone. And although she hardly ever climbs anymore, she likes to think of herself in that context. At her strongest. Her head clear. Holding to a rockface with all her focus, all her willpower.
And so, despite the glasses of tequila fine enough to sip, despite the late hour at which Erica finally left her to the couch and turned off the streaming blues station, despite the fact that it’s Saturday and she doesn’t need to go in to work, Callie is awake before 9. And perhaps because the tequila was so fine, and the blues so good, she feels not hung over, not tired, not even a little confused or out of place on the massive cream sofa in Hahn’s living room, wearing another woman’s college ringer. She feels refreshed - strong and at peace. She feels like her younger self. The pre-med school, pre-Seattle, pre-George self. The best version of herself.
Erica Hahn is certainly an early riser. But when your guest is drinking tequila and you’ve opened a bottle of red, when the tannin and easy conversation and blues makes your eyelids heavy, and there’s a beautiful girl breathing lightly on your couch down the hall, when all of these events conspire to keep you in bed, flirting with a pleasant dream, in bed is where you stay.
And when the mattress dips just a little at the foot of the bed, when someone crawls up next to you, trying to keep quiet, you don’t question it. You don’t wonder why or who or how. You breathe in the fresh scent of your pillow and delight in the feel of the clean cotton sheet hugging your shoulders. You let yourself return to the dream.
When that who is whispering your name, when you realize you’re not in some gossamer dream world but in bed, in your bed, you open your eyes. You see the woman stretching out next to you in the Johns Hopkins shirt that’s so worn through it’s barely a tissue floating over her caramel skin.
“Callie?” The gravel in your voice is even more pronounced in the morning.
“Morning.”
You roll off your stomach and automatically search out a set of glaring red digits. Your eyes aren’t quite focused yet. “What time is it?”
“Not sure.”
“Did you get paged?”
“Nope.”
“Did I get paged?”
“Nu-uh.”
You relax back into your pillow, satisfied that you’re not sleeping through some poor family’s cardiac crisis. You give yourself a moment to just take in the morning, the bed, the whirring fan overhead, the warm body splayed out across from you.
“I guess I got you into bed after all.”
Her smirks look even more devious in the morning. “Looks like.”
“How was the couch?”
“Good.”
“Good.”
It may be the remnants of sleep or your half-lucidity, or it may be that she really is shifting closer. You force your morning brain to make some calculations. There was a foot and a half of sheet between us but now there’s only six inches which equals closer.
“It was good," she repeats, and drops an octave. "But this is better."
She’s hovering above you - definitely, definitely closer - and there’s a devilish glimmer in her eye.
“Callie…” you warn her.
“Shut up before I lose my nerve.”
You do. You shut up. Because her mouth is on yours and her hand is running up the white underside of your arm. She’s smiling into your mouth. You can feel the corners of her mouth curling up. The kiss is light and sweet, and when she breaks it you wonder, when was the last time I was kissed like that? You can’t recall. Callie’s perched above you, her hands on either side of your pillow, and when you look down to take it all in, you find yourself staring straight down the stretched-out neck of your tee, down to where her dark, perfect nipples are flirting with the cotton.
“Oh God,” you croak before you can check yourself. Callie, whose eyes haven’t left your face, follows your gaze. The silence hangs between you.
“Huh,” she mutters.
And that’s when you know you’ve made a misstep. You’ve made it too real for her. This isn’t just some post-sleepover teen girl experimentation. Yes, you’re really a woman, and yes she’s really in your bed, turning you on.
She sits up.
“Callie,” you start to apologize, to pave the road down which she can back out at full speed. You start to sit up, to regain some sense of perspective. But something solid - Callie’s hand - is spread across the middle of your chest and pushing you back down.
“Don’t.”
This is the problem with orthopedists. They are so damn strong. You stop fighting against her palm.
“Now, stay.”
She’s giving you commands like a freaking puppy and you know you’re not yourself this morning, because if you were yourself, you’d be up and out of there and not doing as she says and waiting for your praise like a whipped dog.
You guess she understands that she’s running the show because she peels her palm from the center of your tank top. She doesn’t hesitate. She finds the hem of her tee with both hands and pulls it over her head. She tosses it aside. It lands half off the mattress and hangs there for a second before falling off to puddle on the floor in a heap of finality.
“There,” she says.
That’s it. You’re no one’s puppy. You’re sitting up and your hand is behind her neck, pulling her to you. And then she’s sliding her knee over and sitting in the crook between your pelvis and thighs. But you only feel the heavy, insanely erotic pressure as she settles her weight there, pinning you to the mattress. You don’t see it. You don’t see anything.
***
There are certain problems inherit with unplanned makeout sessions in bed. Namely, sheets. Namely, you are under one, getting increasingly more tangled, and Callie is not.
“I’m stuck,” you finally sputter out as she relinquishes your lips to go to work on an earlobe.
She lets your earlobe slip from between her lips for a moment. “I know.” She takes it up again, then blazes a trail down your neck to your clavicle. You try to center yourself and test your extremities. The sheet is snaked around your ankle and plastering your legs down.
“This is not a metaphor, Callie.”
“Hmmm” she buzzes into your throat.
“I’m stuck in the sheet.”
“I. Said.” She punctuates her words with a long, wet kiss against your pulse point, “I. Know.” Callie seems quite at ease with your restricted movement. In fact, she may be relishing it. At the rate she’s going, she’s going to give you a hickey. Hickeys are not very professional. Action must be taken.
“Callie,” you put one hand on her shoulder. Without breaking her contact with your neck, she finds your wrist with her free hand and pins it above your head, where your fingers twitch helplessly. She is not making this easy for you.
“Okay, that’s it.” Summoning your resolve, you use your leg muscles, rock solid from your prolonged bout of sexually repressed cycling, to propel your lower body out of the warm pocket you’ve been molded into. You swing your left leg over and Callie is effectively caught off guard because her tongue is no longer circling on your neck and she’s flat on her back like a stunned turtle, your positions reversed.
The woman below you is pulsing with heat. You can feel it emanating from her skin. And this day could get very complicated - even more complicated - very quickly, if you let it. “You’re very good at that,” you tell her, trying to keep your tone steady.
She relaxes into her new position, her breasts balancing in perfect rounded peeks above her rib cage. “I knew you were a top.”
“What?”
“Isn’t that what it’s called? I read this thing online -“
“Yes, that’s what it’s called.”
“Well, I knew you were one.”
“I’m not a top.”
“I beg to differ.” She pushes her knee up into your crotch for emphasis and your mind momentarily blanks. Momentarily.
“Okay, we have to stop.”
“What?! Just when you’re getting all sexily aggressive?”
You push the big, floppy bangs out of her eyes. “Yes.”
“Is this the, um, what do they call it….lesbian bed death?”
“Oh my god. What website were you reading?”
“Wikipedia?”
“You wikipedia-ed ‘Lesbian Sex’?”
“Maybe.”
“This is not lesbian bed death, okay, this is just…..a pause.”
“We’re pausing?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one, you’re giving me a hickey...”
“I know!”
“…And we’re not in high school. For two -“
“No, I want to debate number one.”
“You don’t get to debate these. For two, you are starving.”
“No I’m not.” At that, Callie’s stomach makes a deep gurgling rumble. “Okay, I’m a little hungry.”
“Number three is, there’s no number three. But the first two reasons are good enough. So we’re going to put on some clothes - don’t give me that look - and go get some food. And coffee. I need coffee.” At that, you peel yourself off of her before you can second-guess yourself.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Miss Bossy Bossy. You have a hot chick in your bed and you’re talking about coffee!”
“Oh trust me,” you tell her, bending over her tangled, sprawled form in your bed, and planting the kiss of all lingering kisses on her swollen lips, “I know what I’m doing.”
You leave her wordless in bed and peel off your tank as you make your way to the master bath. Now that’s how you top a woman.
This is the first scene that breaks with the the Grey's canon in a big way (you know, besides the fact that I've made Hahn kinda lesbolicious from the get-go), and I'm a little more unsure of it, so any and all feedback will help bolster my self-doubting self!