drive reduction {grey's - alex/cristina}
Title: Drive Reduction
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Alex/Cristina
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,778
Author's Note: This was written for rounds_of_kink. Except, you know me, 43% of it (yeah, that's the actual percent) is dialogue/plot.
Summary: Meredith stages an intervention. Drinking and chaos ensues and Cristina discovers that, no, Alex never does shut up. And neither does she.
Meredith stages an intervention.
It sounds funnier than it actually is. In the end, words are exchanged, Meredith voluntarily puts herself in the doghouse with Derek, and then doesn’t so much as give Cristina a choice as make it for her.
Cristina doesn’t mind quite as much as she probably should. Probably because it was the choice she would’ve made anyways and in some twisted way this is easier when it’s not her idea.
She tells Owen they need a break, and then Meredith announces that this most definitely calls for tequila and drags Alex into the equation; before she knows it, the clock is ticking past ten and the three of them are in the back booth at Joe’s where no one can bother them.
There are empty shot glasses lined up, hers and Meredith’s, while Alex nurses his second beer - when the hell he became the good one she’ll never know, or care - and every now and then she’ll shift her gaze to the doors, to the bar, half waiting for Owen to show up to either plead with her or glare from afar. Neither option would probably end very well for him, if Meredith’s threats were any indication. Between her tiny ineffectual fists and the fact that she’d offered up Alex’s services -
(“When did I get involved in this?”
“You said you’d kick Derek’s ass for me, didn’t you? Voluntarily.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m her person. By extension, you will also kick Owen’s.”
“You’ve got some twisted fucking logic, Mer.”)
-- he was probably doomed. She found she didn’t mind that so much either.
It might have partially been the alcohol talking.
“Derek’s going to kill me,” Meredith says, as if that’s just now really hitting her. Her hand’s been rubbing against her temple like she’s got some sort of pre-hangover headache going, which is probably just the product of a too long day, and Alex shifts in his seat, rolls his eyes. His legs are straight out in front of him, feet flat against the wood on their side of the booth so that he’s essentially between the two of them. Every time she moves her legs, she brushes his, and it’s frustrating in the oddest way.
“Dump him,” Cristina replies, because that’s the theme of the night, and downs what’s left in her glass.
“Post-it,” Meredith counters. They could probably create a drinking game out of that word, one shot every time she uses it as an excuse. They’d probably be just as drunk as they are now.
“Yeah, yeah,” Alex shakes his head, “we’ve heard it before.”
“Seriously, Meredith, that’s got to stop,” Cristina throws in her agreement, receiving a look of solidarity from Alex that she gladly returns. “We know. It’s framed on the wall. Can’t really miss it.”
“Still not an excuse,” Alex chimes in.
“Not after the hundredth time.”
Meredith crosses her arms, looks between the two of them like she’s not really one hundred percent sure who she’s supposed to be glaring at right now. “Are you two done?”
“You’re the one who dragged me into this,” Alex points out, before she can. “Otherwise I would’ve just gone to bed.”
“You know how sad that just sounded right?” And just like that she turns on him. She has a feeling everyone’s going to get their turn before the night’s over. “I thought you were fulfilling Lexie’s need for sex injuries.”
Meredith’s eyes widen. “What now?”
“You don’t want to know,” he grounds out, leveling a glare in her direction. Meredith opens her mouth, as if to refute that, but he’s not done. “You really want to hear things about your half-sister’s sex life.”
“You’re right; I don’t want to know.”
“How often does that come out of your mouth?” Cristina says, meaning the first part, then turns her attention to Alex. “You should be celebrating. By going to get us more tequila. And joining in.”
“You want it, you get it.” He raises his beer. “I’m fine here.”
As if deciding to ignore his existence entirely, Meredith turns conspiratorially towards Cristina. “Is he avoiding the bar because Lexie’s up there?” It’s like she’s had a sudden epiphany. “Did you two break up?”
“In order to break up, we would’ve had to have been together. So, no.”
“They broke up,” Cristina concludes.
“Shut up.”
“And then he lost his mojo if his comebacks are any indication,” she adds. “Seriously Evil Spawn, get it together.”
“Shit,” Meredith exhales, not even a full beat after Cristina’s finished. Following her gaze, she finds Derek standing by the door, hands in his pockets, and staring straight back at Meredith. The implications of the move are clear, and Meredith’s shoulders visibly sag. Alex’s jaw tightens and it’s sort of race between him and Cristina, as to who says it first - except Meredith calls a false start before they even get their feet off of the ground. “Okay, this doesn’t have to be a thing.”
“Wait,” Cristina leans forward, “you’re leaving? With him. He just got here. We just got here.”
“Like an hour ago,” Alex replies and if the clock wasn’t behind her she’d probably double-check his math. But she doesn’t. Because she’s focused on Meredith and, more importantly, what happens when Meredith leaves. Drinking alone is just sad and she’s not so sure drinking alone with Alex is the best idea either.
“Shut up.”
“Now whose comebacks are weak?”
She ignores him, dismissing him with a flick of her wrist and a wrinkle of her nose that she hopes properly conveys her annoyance.
“No, it’s an olive branch,” Meredith tells her, nudging them back on topic, though that part was probably just coincidental. “It’s facing problems head on. It’s…” her pause is too long to be good, “being a grown up.”
“I don’t think there’s a way you could make that sound more terrifying, I really don’t.”
“Might as well be realistic.” And then Meredith’s rising and slinging her bag over her shoulder, steady on her feet despite the drinking and the trepidation that Cristina knows she would be feeling in the same situation. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
Cristina watches her cross the bar, stopping a foot short of Derek. She watches their lips move, the shrug of Meredith’s shoulders, the nod of Derek’s head in response, and as they leave Meredith grabs hold of his hand.
It’s a moment. Probably. For them.
For her part? Cristina’s tired of moments. She’s tired of fights and compromises and feelings. She’s tired of all of it. She wants to be done with it.
“I don’t envy her.”
“Yeah, you do.”
She frowns. More accurately, her frown deepens. “I don’t think so.”
“She’s sleeping with the Chief of Surgery. You envy her.”
“Are you calling me a slut?”
He is unflinching, as always. “I’m calling you highly motivated.”
Cristina mulls that over, her fingers tapping absentmindedly against the tabletop. She can feel him watching her, gauging her reaction, but she doesn’t look up and she’s got far too much alcohol in her to be all that bothered even if the lines between the two explanations are a little blurry.
In the end, she decides on, “Better.”
He manages a smile, with his lips around the bottle.
She needs more tequila.
-
It’s anyone’s guess what time it is when she sticks her key in the lock, but she’s still too drunk and he’s still too sober. He drove and the car is parked in the lot of her complex and she didn’t ask him to come up and he didn’t ask her permission either.
She doesn’t know when it was decided that they were going to sleep together but she thinks it’s been in the cards for quite a while as far as tonight’s concerned. Meredith leaving stands out as a turning point; it’s all downhill from there.
“You’re going to need to keep quiet,” the door opens finally, swings on its hinges and reveals an empty living room. Four people used to live here. Now there’s two. He makes a third when she pulls him in by the collar of his jacket and presses her lips to his, fast and needy. His hand falls to her hip, fingers pressing into the denim and the skin there, digging when she pulls back to close the door, turn the lock; she hisses and the door shuts with a soft thud that’s more audible than she’d like.
Significant eye contact doesn’t work with him, she learns. “I didn’t do it.”
“This can just as easily end with you on the other side of that,” she points out, whispered, and he smirks knowingly. Like he can already tell that her threat is patently false. She wants this as much as he does, as ill-advised as it is.
“Whatever.”
She shrugs off her jacket, starts pushing at his but he catches her hands, pushing them away and doing it himself while simultaneously closing the space between them once again. He throws it in the direction of hers on the couch and she’s about to lead them elsewhere when a door opens.
“Cristina?” Callie’s voice is thick with sleep and a mild amount of confusion; Cristina breaks the kiss so fast that she catches his lip between her teeth on the way down, just a little too hard. “I thought you were - okay then.”
Alex actually nods his head in her direction, exactly like the frat boy they used to refer to him as when they all first met, and greets, “Torres.”
Callie frowns at him, bleary-eyed. Cristina will glare later.
“You really are like a rite of passage,” the other woman says, with a shake of her head, making a beeline for the kitchen. She grabs a glass from the cabinet.
“You mean him, right?”
“She means me,” Alex confirms, with an odd sort of confidence that Cristina can’t explain and doesn’t want to. Whatever sordid details she doesn’t know about his sex life are probably better that way.
Callie doesn’t really bother to agree or disagree and, though Cristina’s hard pressed to feel at all embarrassed about this, she’d still rather not stand around and discuss it. She’d rather they just get on with it. Grabbing his wrist, she pulls him towards her bedroom.
He’s up against the door as soon as she gets it closed, her doing, and he laughs before she swallows the sound.
“I said shut up.”
“She’s awake already.” His hands are up her shirt and he draws circles along the silky fabric of her bra, her nipples already hard peaks under his fingertips. “Might as well give her a show.”
“Oh, do you want to open the door too? Give her the full on experience?” Her hand brushes the bulge in his jeans. He groans and she figures that at least is unavoidable. “Does your ego need that much stroking?”
He smiles wickedly. She rolls her eyes and feels the sudden need to think about her words before she says them. “I don’t think she’d mind the replay.”
Which is when she gets both that Alex slept with Callie and why Arizona was acting so annoyed by his very presence a few months back. She’s going to save that conversation up for another day.
One in which she cares about something other than why they’re still wearing clothes. Speaking of.
“Take off your pants,” she says, taking a step back and pulling her shirt over her head. He doesn’t argue, gets them off in far less time than it would’ve taken if it was a combined, fumbled effort between the two of them and by the time they’ve landed in a pile on the floor, she’s laid out on the bed in nothing but her bra and underwear.
“Nice,” he says, appraisingly, and then he’s on top of her. He slips a leg between hers, his cock hot and hard against her, and she reconsiders not undressing fully considering his current state. “Now all we need is someone else to walk in on us.”
“Owen’s got a key,” she murmurs, only half-comprehending what she’s even saying, and then kisses him again. She drags her nails over his scalp, through the short hair there, and one of his hands finds its way down the line of her body, cupping her ass. As an afterthought, she says, “And I thought I told you to stop talking.”
“Since when do I do what I’m told?”
She presses her hands against his chest, firm. “Switch.”
He elects to listen to that, rolling off of her and onto his back. She gets to her knees, slips her underwear off in the process, and then straddles his lap. When she shifts against him, he groans, and then his hands are tangled in her hair and her tongue is slipping into his mouth.
“Oh, so you do listen,” she says, like she’s impressed, pulling back for air. He uses that opportunity to slip a hand between them, to press his thumb against her clit, and she bucks against him. It’s a shitty angle for him but it’s great for her, and she figures he’ll get his soon.
“When it’s beneficial for me.” His reply coincides with the soft moan she gives and she thinks that’s intentional. He pulls his hand away for a moment, then returns with two fingers inside of her, and she bites down on his shoulder.
“Not yet it isn’t,” she breathes against him, her lip between her teeth now, and he pumps his fingers faster inside of her. There’s amusement to be found in his features, with every noise she makes, and it’s so very different from sex with Owen - him on top, thrusting into her, a set of motions and means to an end. This isn’t routine but it’s not gentle exploration either. It’s the same as they are anywhere else - he presses buttons until he gets the desired result.
Usually she pushes back.
Like now.
She’s close and she figures, despite his current concentration, he’s right there with her by the throaty groans he makes every time she moves against him. She reaches a hand down, groping until her fingers wrap around his cock. There’s a low, fairly appreciative noise that he makes when she does, and it’s her turn to smile. “Time to get a move on, Karev,” she hisses into his ear, and guides him into her.
Someone gasps. Maybe her. Maybe him. Maybe the both of them. He makes like he’s going to switch their positions again, but she keeps her knees against his sides and holds her ground. Fights for control.
He thrusts up and she meets him, keeping a slur of nonsense words at bay, and settling for a far-too breathy, “Better.”
“Fuck yeah,” he grinds out, and she digs her nails into his shoulders, hard muscle, as she rocks her hips and he moves inside of her. She arches her back, and there is a silent agreement on her lips but words finally seem to be failing them both.
When she comes, he keeps moving as she flexes and shudders around him, and the tiny part of her mind that’s still working has the good sense to hold on to him, her head thrown back and her eyes shut tight.
“Yang,” he murmurs, a second later, and she looks down at him, feeling him still inside of her, and realizes what he wants. She nods, feeling a little boneless, and he rolls them, keeping them connected. And then he drives into her.
It doesn’t take much but the change of angle to get him off. Her hands slide along his arms and she lets him have free reign, straight up until he comes with one hand braced on the bed, the other along her hip.
When he pulls out, rolls off of her and back onto the bed, she sighs, closes her eyes and her legs, doesn’t bother giving the clock a second glance. There’s nothing but silence permeating the air for a straight minute - a rarity considering the cacophony of moans and pointless chatter that’s been going on pretty much since they got here - and she can hear bare feet padding along the floor in the other room, Callie still up. She chooses not to think about what her roommate heard. She chooses to think that she won’t have to hear about what Callie heard tomorrow from some entirely disconnected third party.
“Like I said,” his voice almost comes as a surprise from next to her, his hands folded behind his head, flat on his back, “highly motivated.”
“Don’t you ever shut up?”
“I think we already answered that.”
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Characters/Pairings: Alex/Cristina
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,778
Author's Note: This was written for rounds_of_kink. Except, you know me, 43% of it (yeah, that's the actual percent) is dialogue/plot.
Summary: Meredith stages an intervention. Drinking and chaos ensues and Cristina discovers that, no, Alex never does shut up. And neither does she.
Meredith stages an intervention.
It sounds funnier than it actually is. In the end, words are exchanged, Meredith voluntarily puts herself in the doghouse with Derek, and then doesn’t so much as give Cristina a choice as make it for her.
Cristina doesn’t mind quite as much as she probably should. Probably because it was the choice she would’ve made anyways and in some twisted way this is easier when it’s not her idea.
She tells Owen they need a break, and then Meredith announces that this most definitely calls for tequila and drags Alex into the equation; before she knows it, the clock is ticking past ten and the three of them are in the back booth at Joe’s where no one can bother them.
There are empty shot glasses lined up, hers and Meredith’s, while Alex nurses his second beer - when the hell he became the good one she’ll never know, or care - and every now and then she’ll shift her gaze to the doors, to the bar, half waiting for Owen to show up to either plead with her or glare from afar. Neither option would probably end very well for him, if Meredith’s threats were any indication. Between her tiny ineffectual fists and the fact that she’d offered up Alex’s services -
(“When did I get involved in this?”
“You said you’d kick Derek’s ass for me, didn’t you? Voluntarily.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m her person. By extension, you will also kick Owen’s.”
“You’ve got some twisted fucking logic, Mer.”)
-- he was probably doomed. She found she didn’t mind that so much either.
It might have partially been the alcohol talking.
“Derek’s going to kill me,” Meredith says, as if that’s just now really hitting her. Her hand’s been rubbing against her temple like she’s got some sort of pre-hangover headache going, which is probably just the product of a too long day, and Alex shifts in his seat, rolls his eyes. His legs are straight out in front of him, feet flat against the wood on their side of the booth so that he’s essentially between the two of them. Every time she moves her legs, she brushes his, and it’s frustrating in the oddest way.
“Dump him,” Cristina replies, because that’s the theme of the night, and downs what’s left in her glass.
“Post-it,” Meredith counters. They could probably create a drinking game out of that word, one shot every time she uses it as an excuse. They’d probably be just as drunk as they are now.
“Yeah, yeah,” Alex shakes his head, “we’ve heard it before.”
“Seriously, Meredith, that’s got to stop,” Cristina throws in her agreement, receiving a look of solidarity from Alex that she gladly returns. “We know. It’s framed on the wall. Can’t really miss it.”
“Still not an excuse,” Alex chimes in.
“Not after the hundredth time.”
Meredith crosses her arms, looks between the two of them like she’s not really one hundred percent sure who she’s supposed to be glaring at right now. “Are you two done?”
“You’re the one who dragged me into this,” Alex points out, before she can. “Otherwise I would’ve just gone to bed.”
“You know how sad that just sounded right?” And just like that she turns on him. She has a feeling everyone’s going to get their turn before the night’s over. “I thought you were fulfilling Lexie’s need for sex injuries.”
Meredith’s eyes widen. “What now?”
“You don’t want to know,” he grounds out, leveling a glare in her direction. Meredith opens her mouth, as if to refute that, but he’s not done. “You really want to hear things about your half-sister’s sex life.”
“You’re right; I don’t want to know.”
“How often does that come out of your mouth?” Cristina says, meaning the first part, then turns her attention to Alex. “You should be celebrating. By going to get us more tequila. And joining in.”
“You want it, you get it.” He raises his beer. “I’m fine here.”
As if deciding to ignore his existence entirely, Meredith turns conspiratorially towards Cristina. “Is he avoiding the bar because Lexie’s up there?” It’s like she’s had a sudden epiphany. “Did you two break up?”
“In order to break up, we would’ve had to have been together. So, no.”
“They broke up,” Cristina concludes.
“Shut up.”
“And then he lost his mojo if his comebacks are any indication,” she adds. “Seriously Evil Spawn, get it together.”
“Shit,” Meredith exhales, not even a full beat after Cristina’s finished. Following her gaze, she finds Derek standing by the door, hands in his pockets, and staring straight back at Meredith. The implications of the move are clear, and Meredith’s shoulders visibly sag. Alex’s jaw tightens and it’s sort of race between him and Cristina, as to who says it first - except Meredith calls a false start before they even get their feet off of the ground. “Okay, this doesn’t have to be a thing.”
“Wait,” Cristina leans forward, “you’re leaving? With him. He just got here. We just got here.”
“Like an hour ago,” Alex replies and if the clock wasn’t behind her she’d probably double-check his math. But she doesn’t. Because she’s focused on Meredith and, more importantly, what happens when Meredith leaves. Drinking alone is just sad and she’s not so sure drinking alone with Alex is the best idea either.
“Shut up.”
“Now whose comebacks are weak?”
She ignores him, dismissing him with a flick of her wrist and a wrinkle of her nose that she hopes properly conveys her annoyance.
“No, it’s an olive branch,” Meredith tells her, nudging them back on topic, though that part was probably just coincidental. “It’s facing problems head on. It’s…” her pause is too long to be good, “being a grown up.”
“I don’t think there’s a way you could make that sound more terrifying, I really don’t.”
“Might as well be realistic.” And then Meredith’s rising and slinging her bag over her shoulder, steady on her feet despite the drinking and the trepidation that Cristina knows she would be feeling in the same situation. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
Cristina watches her cross the bar, stopping a foot short of Derek. She watches their lips move, the shrug of Meredith’s shoulders, the nod of Derek’s head in response, and as they leave Meredith grabs hold of his hand.
It’s a moment. Probably. For them.
For her part? Cristina’s tired of moments. She’s tired of fights and compromises and feelings. She’s tired of all of it. She wants to be done with it.
“I don’t envy her.”
“Yeah, you do.”
She frowns. More accurately, her frown deepens. “I don’t think so.”
“She’s sleeping with the Chief of Surgery. You envy her.”
“Are you calling me a slut?”
He is unflinching, as always. “I’m calling you highly motivated.”
Cristina mulls that over, her fingers tapping absentmindedly against the tabletop. She can feel him watching her, gauging her reaction, but she doesn’t look up and she’s got far too much alcohol in her to be all that bothered even if the lines between the two explanations are a little blurry.
In the end, she decides on, “Better.”
He manages a smile, with his lips around the bottle.
She needs more tequila.
-
It’s anyone’s guess what time it is when she sticks her key in the lock, but she’s still too drunk and he’s still too sober. He drove and the car is parked in the lot of her complex and she didn’t ask him to come up and he didn’t ask her permission either.
She doesn’t know when it was decided that they were going to sleep together but she thinks it’s been in the cards for quite a while as far as tonight’s concerned. Meredith leaving stands out as a turning point; it’s all downhill from there.
“You’re going to need to keep quiet,” the door opens finally, swings on its hinges and reveals an empty living room. Four people used to live here. Now there’s two. He makes a third when she pulls him in by the collar of his jacket and presses her lips to his, fast and needy. His hand falls to her hip, fingers pressing into the denim and the skin there, digging when she pulls back to close the door, turn the lock; she hisses and the door shuts with a soft thud that’s more audible than she’d like.
Significant eye contact doesn’t work with him, she learns. “I didn’t do it.”
“This can just as easily end with you on the other side of that,” she points out, whispered, and he smirks knowingly. Like he can already tell that her threat is patently false. She wants this as much as he does, as ill-advised as it is.
“Whatever.”
She shrugs off her jacket, starts pushing at his but he catches her hands, pushing them away and doing it himself while simultaneously closing the space between them once again. He throws it in the direction of hers on the couch and she’s about to lead them elsewhere when a door opens.
“Cristina?” Callie’s voice is thick with sleep and a mild amount of confusion; Cristina breaks the kiss so fast that she catches his lip between her teeth on the way down, just a little too hard. “I thought you were - okay then.”
Alex actually nods his head in her direction, exactly like the frat boy they used to refer to him as when they all first met, and greets, “Torres.”
Callie frowns at him, bleary-eyed. Cristina will glare later.
“You really are like a rite of passage,” the other woman says, with a shake of her head, making a beeline for the kitchen. She grabs a glass from the cabinet.
“You mean him, right?”
“She means me,” Alex confirms, with an odd sort of confidence that Cristina can’t explain and doesn’t want to. Whatever sordid details she doesn’t know about his sex life are probably better that way.
Callie doesn’t really bother to agree or disagree and, though Cristina’s hard pressed to feel at all embarrassed about this, she’d still rather not stand around and discuss it. She’d rather they just get on with it. Grabbing his wrist, she pulls him towards her bedroom.
He’s up against the door as soon as she gets it closed, her doing, and he laughs before she swallows the sound.
“I said shut up.”
“She’s awake already.” His hands are up her shirt and he draws circles along the silky fabric of her bra, her nipples already hard peaks under his fingertips. “Might as well give her a show.”
“Oh, do you want to open the door too? Give her the full on experience?” Her hand brushes the bulge in his jeans. He groans and she figures that at least is unavoidable. “Does your ego need that much stroking?”
He smiles wickedly. She rolls her eyes and feels the sudden need to think about her words before she says them. “I don’t think she’d mind the replay.”
Which is when she gets both that Alex slept with Callie and why Arizona was acting so annoyed by his very presence a few months back. She’s going to save that conversation up for another day.
One in which she cares about something other than why they’re still wearing clothes. Speaking of.
“Take off your pants,” she says, taking a step back and pulling her shirt over her head. He doesn’t argue, gets them off in far less time than it would’ve taken if it was a combined, fumbled effort between the two of them and by the time they’ve landed in a pile on the floor, she’s laid out on the bed in nothing but her bra and underwear.
“Nice,” he says, appraisingly, and then he’s on top of her. He slips a leg between hers, his cock hot and hard against her, and she reconsiders not undressing fully considering his current state. “Now all we need is someone else to walk in on us.”
“Owen’s got a key,” she murmurs, only half-comprehending what she’s even saying, and then kisses him again. She drags her nails over his scalp, through the short hair there, and one of his hands finds its way down the line of her body, cupping her ass. As an afterthought, she says, “And I thought I told you to stop talking.”
“Since when do I do what I’m told?”
She presses her hands against his chest, firm. “Switch.”
He elects to listen to that, rolling off of her and onto his back. She gets to her knees, slips her underwear off in the process, and then straddles his lap. When she shifts against him, he groans, and then his hands are tangled in her hair and her tongue is slipping into his mouth.
“Oh, so you do listen,” she says, like she’s impressed, pulling back for air. He uses that opportunity to slip a hand between them, to press his thumb against her clit, and she bucks against him. It’s a shitty angle for him but it’s great for her, and she figures he’ll get his soon.
“When it’s beneficial for me.” His reply coincides with the soft moan she gives and she thinks that’s intentional. He pulls his hand away for a moment, then returns with two fingers inside of her, and she bites down on his shoulder.
“Not yet it isn’t,” she breathes against him, her lip between her teeth now, and he pumps his fingers faster inside of her. There’s amusement to be found in his features, with every noise she makes, and it’s so very different from sex with Owen - him on top, thrusting into her, a set of motions and means to an end. This isn’t routine but it’s not gentle exploration either. It’s the same as they are anywhere else - he presses buttons until he gets the desired result.
Usually she pushes back.
Like now.
She’s close and she figures, despite his current concentration, he’s right there with her by the throaty groans he makes every time she moves against him. She reaches a hand down, groping until her fingers wrap around his cock. There’s a low, fairly appreciative noise that he makes when she does, and it’s her turn to smile. “Time to get a move on, Karev,” she hisses into his ear, and guides him into her.
Someone gasps. Maybe her. Maybe him. Maybe the both of them. He makes like he’s going to switch their positions again, but she keeps her knees against his sides and holds her ground. Fights for control.
He thrusts up and she meets him, keeping a slur of nonsense words at bay, and settling for a far-too breathy, “Better.”
“Fuck yeah,” he grinds out, and she digs her nails into his shoulders, hard muscle, as she rocks her hips and he moves inside of her. She arches her back, and there is a silent agreement on her lips but words finally seem to be failing them both.
When she comes, he keeps moving as she flexes and shudders around him, and the tiny part of her mind that’s still working has the good sense to hold on to him, her head thrown back and her eyes shut tight.
“Yang,” he murmurs, a second later, and she looks down at him, feeling him still inside of her, and realizes what he wants. She nods, feeling a little boneless, and he rolls them, keeping them connected. And then he drives into her.
It doesn’t take much but the change of angle to get him off. Her hands slide along his arms and she lets him have free reign, straight up until he comes with one hand braced on the bed, the other along her hip.
When he pulls out, rolls off of her and back onto the bed, she sighs, closes her eyes and her legs, doesn’t bother giving the clock a second glance. There’s nothing but silence permeating the air for a straight minute - a rarity considering the cacophony of moans and pointless chatter that’s been going on pretty much since they got here - and she can hear bare feet padding along the floor in the other room, Callie still up. She chooses not to think about what her roommate heard. She chooses to think that she won’t have to hear about what Callie heard tomorrow from some entirely disconnected third party.
“Like I said,” his voice almost comes as a surprise from next to her, his hands folded behind his head, flat on his back, “highly motivated.”
“Don’t you ever shut up?”
“I think we already answered that.”