#merder

[attachmentbarbiee]

[fionasapplepie]

derek shepherd - control

————————

Derek grabbed a fistful of hair, drawing your head up to watch him as he defiled you. He’s been craving this for week, months— day after day there’s an event he can’t control that’s led to time spent away from you.

His teeth left red hickeys as he dragged his lips across your collarbone, marking you up on purpose. Telling everyone youre his and his only.

“God, fuck—“ he moaned as his hips starting giving shorter, deeper strokes. Your lips let out a string of soft, short whines as he hit the spot every last thrust. “All I’ve wanted is to fuck you,” he moaned as his hand left your hair and steadied onto and gripped your hips.

But suddenly, there was a beep.

Derek picked up the pager, and stared at it, still thrusting inside of you.

“If you gotta go Der, it’s okay,” you moaned out, bummed. All you’ve been thinking about is being used by him and you’ve both been so busy.

He ignored you, simply continuing his pace.

“Der, really—“

His hand clamped over your mouth. “It’s not dire. I’m in control. I’m going to finish fucking you first,” he growled into your ear, keeping the hand over your mouth as you continued to moan and whine helplessly.

His pace, became faster and shorter, holding onto your shoulders for support. As your walls tightened around his cock, he moaned out your name before thrusting in one last time, releasing inside of you.

Still dazed, you laid on the on-call bed half naked with his cum dripping out of you.

He hopped out of the bed, redressing himself quickly.

“I’m not letting a pager control me,” he said harshly before kissing you one last time, leaving the sex linger in the air.

[my-ny]

Grey's text posts pt. 18

[slf-cntrl]

THE ERA

i don't care what anyone says.

nothing (not even jackson and april) will ever top this era.

[gleafer]

REPOST BECAUSE MONDAYS ARE THE WORST:

Crowley dreams of MERDER

[sulietsexual]

"I'm not gonna get down on one knee, I'm not gonna ask a question. I love you Meredith Grey, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Derek & Meredith [Grey's Anatomy] Requested by Anonymous

[mywritesaremylove]

Shock to the System

Mark Sloan x Female Trauma Surgeon (OC) Post Season 5 of Grey's Anatomy

Mark Sloan wasn’t a believer in fate. He was a believer in lucky timing, a killer smile, and the power of a great suit.

And today? Today was definitely lucky.

The woman at the coffee cart was alone, tapping a manicured finger on her phone while waiting on what looked like the most unnecessarily complicated order he’d ever heard. Cinnamon? Oat milk? A caramel drizzle?

He grinned.

She had long blonde hair tucked half-heartedly into a claw clip, a soft, oversized sweater hanging off one shoulder, and legs for days beneath fitted slacks. She looked like a lifestyle blogger wandered onto the Seattle Grace campus by accident.

Definitely not a surgeon.

Which meant she was fair game.

Mark stepped up beside her, turning on the charm. “You know, if your coffee takes longer than an appendectomy to make, that’s how you know it’s not really coffee.”

She didn’t even look up. “Or maybe it’s just how you know it’ll be good.”

His grin widened.

“I’m Mark.”

That got her attention. She lifted her head and pinned him with wide blue eyes that sparkled like mischief and caffeine. “Oh,” she said sweetly. “One of those.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Those?”

“You know.” She waved her hand lazily. “The ‘I’m Mark’ types. Strong jaw, smug smile, charming in a you-know-you-are way. Probably a doctor. Plastic surgeon? Definitely not pediatrics.”

Mark actually laughed. “Wow. That was… a disturbingly accurate personality autopsy.”

“I watch a lot of Dateline,” she replied breezily, accepting her drink with a smile. “Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Mark. Enjoy your lukewarm, personality-free drip coffee.”

She walked off without a second glance, sipping like she won the war.

Mark stood there, stunned into something dangerously close to impressed.

When he walked into the attendings' lounge forty minutes later, Mark was still thinking about her. Her voice. Her sass. Her mouth. What that mouth would look like saying his name—under very different circumstances.

Then Owen Hunt came in behind him and said, “Dr. Sloan, this is Dr. Cameron Blake, our new trauma attending.”

Mark turned.

There she was.

The coffee cart woman.

In scrubs. Hair pulled back properly. Badge clipped to her top. Looking tiny next to Hunt, but standing with the confidence of someone who’d held a heart in her hands and told death to wait its turn.

Mark blinked. “You’re Dr. Blake?”

She smiled slowly, like she knew exactly what was happening in his head.

“I am. And you must be Dr. Mark.”

Owen looked between them. “You two know each other?”

Cameron—Dr. Blake—sipped her coffee with that same smug satisfaction. “Briefly. He made fun of my order. I destroyed his ego. It was very bonding.”

Mark opened his mouth, but Hunt clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Play nice. She’s got trauma experience from Mercy West, Hopkins, and two years with Doctors Without Borders.”

Then he left them alone, because Owen had the social skills of a brick.

Mark turned to her, arms crossed. “You could’ve told me you were a surgeon.”

“You could’ve not assumed I wasn’t.”

“Touche.”

He leaned against the counter, studying her. She was shorter than he’d realized, but she carried herself like someone who didn’t need height to be commanding. She had this deceptive sweetness to her face—big eyes, soft voice, a smile that made people underestimate her right before she metaphorically (or literally) elbowed them in the ribs.

It was a thing. And now it was his thing.

“So, trauma?” he asked.

“Yep. Bleeding, guts, adrenaline. All the good stuff.”

“I usually try to put people back together without the guts.”

“Let me guess—boobs and butts?”

“Faces too,” he said, mock-offended. “I’m an artist, not a perv.”

She laughed, and it was a real laugh. Not polite. Not condescending. Just surprised and warm.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Sloan.”

Over the next week, Mark tried to get her out of his head—and failed spectacularly.

She was everywhere. In the pit, calling trauma codes with blood on her gloves and fire in her voice. In the attendings’ lounge, stealing the last clean mug and grinning at him like it was a game. In the OR board, somehow already on everyone’s radar for being good.

Bailey liked her. Hunt respected her. Callie said, “She’s a chaos gremlin and I adore her.”

Meredith, of course, said, “She’s like if Izzie had Cristina’s backbone.”

And that was the thing—she was soft and sharp, pretty and ruthless, warm and smart enough to see through every line Mark tried.

She didn’t avoid him. But she didn’t fall for his usual flirt-and-flatter routine either.

And that just made him want her more.

It finally came to a head on a Thursday.

They were in an elevator, post-trauma, both covered in blood. He had a tear in his scrub top. She had a smear across her cheek she hadn’t noticed.

Mark looked over at her and said, “You’ve got something…”

She turned her cheek toward him automatically.

Instead of wiping it with a sleeve, he used his thumb, brushing the streak gently. Too gently. It lingered a second longer than it needed to.

Cameron blinked.

“…Thanks,” she said.

He didn’t move back.

“You’re dangerous, Dr. Blake.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You pretend to be all sunshine and cinnamon. But you’ve got knives in your smile.”

“And yet you keep showing up.”

“Maybe I like the danger.”

The elevator doors opened. She didn’t move.

Then she leaned closer, just an inch. Close enough that he could smell her—coffee, shampoo, and adrenaline.

“I’m not interested in being another name in your phone, Mark.”

“What if I said I want to learn your coffee order instead?”

She stepped out of the elevator, walking backward.

“Then I’d say I hope you like cinnamon oat milk with a caramel drizzle.”

She winked.

Mark stood there in the elevator, watching the doors close between them with the slow grin of a man who’d just found his favorite challenge.

[kngdnspell]

like father like son