This was written for author labil as a part of the LiveJournal alphabet fic prompt meme. The prompt was "P is for Possessive," and I think I went a bit overboard. Oh well, free smut for everyone! On a funny note, all of the pick-up tactics in this are real things that I have seen used. Scary, I know.

Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. This writing is for entertainment purposes only and is not for profit.

Even from across the always-bustling E.R., Mark Sloan immediately recognizes the look on the young man's face. He's speaking to the doctor who is suturing his arm with a cool smirk; his eyebrows are drawn together in a laid-back expression. He's spitting game. Mark knows this without a doubt; he's spat too much of his own game not to.

Under any normal circumstance, he would have silently given this stranger, another guy trying to get some, his sign of approval: an imperceptible nod and a mental wave of good luck in his conquest. But this is definitely not a normal circumstance.

Because the doctor tending to him just happens to be Lexie.

Mark's no territorial pisser, but again, it's Lexie.

His jaw and both fists clench in an involuntary reaction. He's already forgotten exactly what he came down to The Pit for, but he's stuck watching this guy hit on Lexie. His feet are cemented to the floor, unable to tear his gaze away from the gurney with the drawn-back curtain. A hot streak of anger courses through him and he glares, even though the receiver is oblivious. The kid's eyes are fixed quite intently on Lexie, alternating between her eyes and the front of her scrub shirt.


He really is a kid, too, younger than Mark. Closer to Lexie's age than he is. That alone worries Mark to a point where his stomach churns and he wants to intervene, but thinks better of it at the last second. He's already started one too many scenes at the hospital since he first came to Seattle. Another won't help one bit.

Mark wouldn't be so apprehensive if the kid flirting with Lexie was homely. But this young man is charmingly attractive. All blond curls and sparkling blue eyes, tan skin and pearly whites and single diamond earring. Probably a surfer, Mark scoffs to himself. What else would this dreamy little douchebag be?

Lexie's about halfway done stitching the gash on his right forearm. Come to think of it, the kid probably wanted to impress Lexie so much that he requested nothing to numb his arm before she started to suture. At least Mark knows that that, if nothing else, would come back to bite the little brat in the ass tonight. He's pointing to it with the other hand's index finger, a very proud smile crawling across his face, revealing two perfectly-placed dimples. Mark lets out a blast of air through his nostrils. He's adorable.

Now he's talking animatedly to Lexie with wild, excited eyes. Mark can't hear him and he can't read lips, but he can tell by his expression that he's telling some heroic tale about how he got the cut. Probably making up a story about a bar fight. Or a motorcycle accident. No, definitely a freak shark attack. He can imagine it now, in his insufferable stoner voice: "Because I am a surfer. Yeah, it's cool, it's how I roll. I'm pretty damn good too. Maybe I can take you out on my board sometime. You'd look hot in a bodysuit, you know. Totally."

Mark sneers bitterly at the thought. A very unpleasant prickly feeling swells in his gut and he swears that it isn't jealousy. He has no reason at all to be jealous of this little punk. Lexie is his and his alone, and she wants to be his alone.

He tells himself this three times.

He can't see Lexie's reaction to the kid's anecdote, but he's sure that she's listening politely and smiling back at her new friend, continuing the conversation for the sake of manners. That's just the kind of girl she is and part of Mark wishes that she'll just shut him down right then and there. But she never will.

Lexie finishes the sutures (and Mark has to admire her work despite the not-jealousy). As she's bandaging the kid's arm, he sighs and places the other arm behind his head. After a second, he flexes his bicep. In a subtle change, just like that, she swell of his muscle is showing. Mark laughs darkly. A gigolo flex if there ever was one. It's inconspicuous to everyone except Mark, who happens very in-tune with its use. This kid's encroaching on territory that he definitely does not want to encroach on.

That particular technique would work on Lexie, too, if he even stood a chance. She's a sucker for muscles. Mark can feel phantoms of her fingers tracing his arms along his biceps, can clearly picture the devilish and pleased smile that would form on her face. Then she would kiss him softly, allowing it to grow deeper and hungrier as the moments trickled by.

The memory and sense makes Mark seethe, wishing bitterly that Lexie's attention was focused on him and not on her eager patient. It's still not jealousy, definitely not jealousy. There's nothing to be jealous of. Mark swallows the feeling whole.

They're all done, now. The young man stands and inspects his bandaged arm before saying a two-syllable phrase (probably a "thank you") with a pleasant grin. Then, cautiously, he asks Lexie a question. Mark can tell this by the wary look in his eye, as he's assuming that this sexy girl must have a boyfriend and is very correct in that assumption.

Nonetheless, Lexie nods and pulls a pen and a piece of paper from the pocket of her labcoat and offers it to him. With his good hand, he scribbles something onto it before pressing it back into her palm wearing a crooked smile. He takes a few steps away from her and Lexie straightens and turns, in profile to Mark. The kid looks over his shoulder and beams, showing those goddamn dimples again. He utters two more syllables that can be nothing other than "call me." He winks before he walks away with the swagger of a true showoff.

Mark glowers with all his might, face heating and heartbeat pounding. His upper lip curls. He hates feeling insecure about anything but he hates the kid who just put the moves on Lexie even more.

Lexie stares at the scrap of paper with an embarrassed half-smile as she chuckles it off as nothing. Color creeps up her cheeks in the same way as it does when Mark's hands slip beneath her shirt or when they're in an embrace and he presses his hips tight against hers.

Before she has a chance to notice him, Mark, fuming silently, slinks away. He can't let her see how angry he is, especially at something that's not her fault in the first place. She would feel terrible and end up beating herself up about it, and that's the last thing he wants.

But he also doesn't want to let this go. He can't let her pull someone other than him into the nearest supply closet with him watching, not even out of sight (because god knows all he needs is for that to happen again). He's learned his lesson now and won't let her slip away in the same too-easy manner.

She's his. And he's going to remind her.

(somewhere, it registers that this might turn into a complex one day or that it already is a complex, but he ignores it – he's only worried about one thing right now)


The next time they encounter one another is about an hour later, in the hallway. Heading in opposite directions, Lexie's shoulder bumps into his arm and she flashes him a small smile, chestnut eyes glimmering. Instead of smiling back, Mark firmly grips her wrist, fingers easy encircling the joint. Then, without a word, he smoothly pulls her out of the hallway traffic and into the conveniently placed and unoccupied on-call room.

Lexie loves on-call room time as much as any other Seattle Grace surgeon. But this time, she has to complain. "Not now," she says reluctantly, trying futilely to free herself from his grasp. "I've been in the Pit all day, and I now I have a chance to scrub in on a craniotomy so I can't do this n-"

Her objection gets cut off by his lips against hers, so intense and forceful that she has no choice but to acquiesce. She melts against him like putty. His kisses just have that kind of effect on her. His fingers tangle in the dark hair at the nape of her neck.

She kisses him until it hurts her, until the feeling of lips and teeth and tongue mingling makes her forget how to breathe and it's like her lungs are on fire. It's totally worth it, though, as she squeezes his shoulders and presses against him for more. She gasps as they part, the air hitting her chest like daggers. Head swimming dizzily, she can form no coherent arguments; she can only breathe, "Okay, fine."

And he's wearing this smirk, his normal smirk with just a little more darkness in his steely blue eyes than usual. It both unsettles and intrigues Lexie at the same time. He still hasn't said a single word to her when he lifts her up and carries her for those few strides to the bed. Placing her on the mattress, he yanks his shirt off before climbing on and moving over her in a possessive and predatory way, lips crashing with hers again as Lexie's fingers interlock behind his neck.

Against his lips, she has to giggle at his relentless attack. Her hands skirt down his sides before her palms settle in the middle of his back. His mouth abandons hers in favor of her jaw, and then her ear. He remains there, so close that a whisper would have been deafening. Her heart hammers in her chest.

His voice is a low rumble in her ear. "You're mine."

As if she could forget.

His words are powerful and deliberate with such a potency to them that makes her shut her eyes tight and shiver violently. The physical vibration that accompanies his voice raises goosebumps from her neck to her chest. The half-lidded expressionless gaze he gives her when their eyes meet drives her crazy, heat building at her core and radiating to ever inch of her body.

He breaks that precious eye contact to push her shirt over her head, moving close to the newly-bare skin of her stomach and inhaling slowly, relishing in the twitches that the muscles beneath respond with. Arching and reaching back as he pulls her shirt completely off, Lexie rests her hands behind her head, smiling crookedly with a tiny sigh.

Mark licks up the column of her throat and then he's kissing her again, harder, desperately, and she clutches at him and shudders that the friction created by their bare skin rubbing together. It was a wonderful feeling, exquisite. It's about now when she realizes that if she had been wearing a bodice, he probably would have ripped it off.

He repeats himself in a whisper, the phrase tumbling from his smirking mouth as it travels in a line from her clavicle, between her breasts, down her belly, and to the waistline of her scrubs. He pauses now and then to suck or nip lightly. Occasionally he gives a true bite; she cries out and her breath comes in short bursts; it slips her mind that she's holding it.

Mark watches with smug satisfaction as tiny red marks, aspiring bruises, appear on her porcelain skin wherever his mouth and teeth have spent extra time. They're his claim marks, reminders that will be present for a few days but will last a lifetime.

Wasting no more time, he makes quick work of her bra; unceremonious, just wanting her breasts to be exposed as hastily as possible. As soon as her bra hits the floor his hands are on her breasts and she moans as his rough palms drag across her nipples. She says his name urgently when he takes one in his mouth, and she arches and her chest rises higher and higher as he lazily circles it with his tongue. He switches to the other, and then back to the first again, never just long enough and the hot coals between her legs become all but unbearable.

Lexie's become so hazily distracted by his mouth on her breasts that she barely notices the cold air hitting her legs as he's somehow managed to reach back single-handedly remove her pants. She's in no state to debate the logic of the impossible task, though, so she just goes with it.

His hands replace his mouth, cupping and kneading her breasts as lips and tongue amble torturously to her navel and then below. "So good," she whispers harshly, swallowing, throat rough. She doesn't need see Mark to know that he's wearing an almost-criminal grin.

When he reaches her hips, he pries apart her thighs, which were subconsciously and instinctively closed. He touches her softly through her underwear and the gasps sharply. His light touch against the soft cotton sends electric sparks into her, like water dripping from his fingertips. Her toes curl and uncurl and she needs it and needs him.

He spends years sliding her underwear down her legs and around her feet, with a little less control than he had with her shirt. He looks up and she's looking at him too, with dark eyes, clouded and all pupil, and he loves that he can do this to her and thinks about how the blond asswipe from earlier today probably never could. It gratifies him more than anything else could right now.

Mark holds her against the mattress, helpless, as he cups her between the thighs. Lexie gasps through parted lips as he finally begins to concentrate all of his attention on her sex, and suddenly everything is pressure and sensation and fingers and tongue and mouth and incredible. She cries out a bit too loudly but she doesn't care; she holds his head in her hands, fingernails scraping and hopefully not gouging his scalp.

There's something about being finger- and tonguefucked by Mark Sloan in an on-call room that shouldn't be magical but is.

He keeps moving and changing and switching, relentless, and the storm builds, churning in her stomach and affecting every sense and part. Orgasm is inevitable eventually, and her moans are becoming more and more desperate, sweat breaking out over her entire body. She writhes but he holds her still, squeezing her hips where he's holding her.

Coming is like a surprise party that she already knows about, something good that she's anticipating but catches her totally off-guard anyway. And when it happens it happens hard, something inside of her breaking and beginning a chain reaction. Muscles she doesn't even know she had clench and relax as the explosion sets on and she crashes over the edge.

She howls his name (whenever she comes it's never a moan or a sigh, it never has been, even that first time at the Archfield – that was the first time she called him by his first name), and there must be something goddamn good in the air because she's instantly drunk, articulating senselessly as she comes down. She relaxes and allows her back to rest against the bed again, taking deep breaths, spent.

Then, Mark rolls off the bed and stands beside it, looking down at her smugly. She smiles languidly at him, looping her arms around his neck as he bends over and kisses her.

Suddenly, a post-sexual epiphany hits her and, once again, she sees that it's them. Where they are, there are no craniotomies, no glamorous redheads, and no cute blond surfer boys. There's only him and her. Hers and his. Theirs. It's all that mattered, all that matters, and all that will ever matter. It makes her chest swell and skin tingle with pinpricks of revelation.

Part of it being them alone means that she has to give back. So, she reaches for him and unties drawstring of his scrub bottoms before squeezing his hard piece through the material. He bucks into her hand and a sigh and strained verbalization, a thick-voiced "fuck," escapes his mouth.

Any doctor looking for a nap within the next hour or so would be wise to use one of the other on-call rooms.