[tvd/ga] advent fic | I Can Show You The World (Katherine/Cristina/Meredith/Alex)
Title: I Can Show You The World
Fandom/s: The Vampire Diaries/Grey's Anatomy
Characters: Katherine(/Meredith/Cristina + Alex)
Word Count: 750
Rating: R (sex)
♥: For ovariesofsteel So, Alex wormed his way into this, too! I didn't think you'd mind. Also, oh my goodness, I'm not really sure where it came from, tbh! It's a little... left-field! I HOPE YOU LOVE IT!!
Summary: She watches her impromptu hosts share shots of tequila straight from the bottle as the night spins madly on around them.
She swirls heavily laced eggnog in a lazy counter clockwise motion in the base of her mug. Has never truly understood the appeal of the holiday drink, to be honest, but admits to enjoying the soft buzz that it brings nonetheless.
She's sipping at it slowly. Watching her impromptu hosts share shots of tequila straight from the bottle as the night spins madly on around them. Oblivious.
There's a brooding stranger at the bar who lifts his gaze every second beat to watch them. His stare, hollowed out and familiar in a way that rattles at her loosened bones, shares with it more secrets than she thinks he could ever guess he possesses. They know each other, the brooding stranger and the tequila sharing women, there is an easy energy that fills the otherwise empty spaces between them.
She longs, suddenly, to fill those spaces with herself. To be a part of something real, if only for a fleeting beat.
Blames the holidays for her dreary sentimentality and tips back her drink in defiant retaliation.
The bar had been slow to fill initially, before a crescendo of sorts had been reached that once again petered out when the clock struck its inevitable midnight. She gathers from the whispered winds that they're surgeons. That they spend their days saving lives.
And the irony is not lost on her.
She grins, wide. Accepts the bottle of liquor when it's offered and savours the taste of them that lingers on the rim. Rolls the ghost-like flavour around on her tongue before swallowing. Does it deliberately and with the eyes of the brooding stranger searing at her skin. She swings her hips a little more than is strictly necessary and strikes up a victory of sorts when his eyebrows twitch.
She doubts he even notices. Delights in the knowledge that she's getting under his skin at the same time they're working their way into hers.
She's lies later, laughs and says she can't for the life of her remember how it started. But that there were tongues and teeth and fingernails that scratched desperately at clothing that wouldn't quite come apart at the seams.
(In truth, she remembers every nuanced bump of skin on skin on skin...)
They're at a house in the suburbs. And crawling into the back of the cab with them while the brooding stranger slid himself into the front seat with the driver had been an equilibrium shifting experience.
She'd rolled her eyes sky-ward as fingers had fisted into the tangles at the nape of her neck.
Awake in a way that had failed her for centuries.
She considers feeding them. Feeding on them. Knows without needing to contemplate the notion that she won't in the end, no matter how much she may want to. After all, the night had dipped and swung in ways that she'd long since forgotten possible.
The brooding stranger watches from the shadows. A knowing look that hints at having seen it all before settled firmly into place, and she wonders, briefly, whether perhaps he has. His pulse pounds lazily in his chest. A slightly off-tempo rhythm that provides the haunting soundtrack to their macabre show.
Her fists are filled with brown-black curls that catch at her wrists like vines. She turns her back on him and presses her teeth against ivory skin that stretches taut but doesn't quite give.
The illusion of control is breathtaking.
She arches her spine in response to tongue-tips that trail lazily across the undulating curve of her hip. They laugh as they shift, sure in their task but equally aware of their audience.
An audience of one.
She hopes he enjoys the show.
It's messy, she notes. And raw. Unrestrained in a way that she hasn't managed in decades. Her voice catches on their exhalations, and she'd been expecting something, but she had not been expecting this.
If she had thought there was little she had left to learn, she had thought wrong.
They sleep then. The brooding stranger in a straight backed chair, perpetually on guard despite the slow rise and fall of his rib-cage. The women, loosely draped over one another on the patchy rug they'd spent the early hours of the morning defiling.
She runs a fingernail along an exposed shoulder blade and holds her breath as the morning arrives.
Beats back every demonic instinct she possesses and makes her escape. Leaves them whole.
This time.
Knows, beyond doubt, that there will be a next...
Fandom/s: The Vampire Diaries/Grey's Anatomy
Characters: Katherine(/Meredith/Cristina + Alex)
Word Count: 750
Rating: R (sex)
♥: For ovariesofsteel So, Alex wormed his way into this, too! I didn't think you'd mind. Also, oh my goodness, I'm not really sure where it came from, tbh! It's a little... left-field! I HOPE YOU LOVE IT!!
Summary: She watches her impromptu hosts share shots of tequila straight from the bottle as the night spins madly on around them.
She swirls heavily laced eggnog in a lazy counter clockwise motion in the base of her mug. Has never truly understood the appeal of the holiday drink, to be honest, but admits to enjoying the soft buzz that it brings nonetheless.
She's sipping at it slowly. Watching her impromptu hosts share shots of tequila straight from the bottle as the night spins madly on around them. Oblivious.
There's a brooding stranger at the bar who lifts his gaze every second beat to watch them. His stare, hollowed out and familiar in a way that rattles at her loosened bones, shares with it more secrets than she thinks he could ever guess he possesses. They know each other, the brooding stranger and the tequila sharing women, there is an easy energy that fills the otherwise empty spaces between them.
She longs, suddenly, to fill those spaces with herself. To be a part of something real, if only for a fleeting beat.
Blames the holidays for her dreary sentimentality and tips back her drink in defiant retaliation.
The bar had been slow to fill initially, before a crescendo of sorts had been reached that once again petered out when the clock struck its inevitable midnight. She gathers from the whispered winds that they're surgeons. That they spend their days saving lives.
And the irony is not lost on her.
She grins, wide. Accepts the bottle of liquor when it's offered and savours the taste of them that lingers on the rim. Rolls the ghost-like flavour around on her tongue before swallowing. Does it deliberately and with the eyes of the brooding stranger searing at her skin. She swings her hips a little more than is strictly necessary and strikes up a victory of sorts when his eyebrows twitch.
She doubts he even notices. Delights in the knowledge that she's getting under his skin at the same time they're working their way into hers.
She's lies later, laughs and says she can't for the life of her remember how it started. But that there were tongues and teeth and fingernails that scratched desperately at clothing that wouldn't quite come apart at the seams.
(In truth, she remembers every nuanced bump of skin on skin on skin...)
They're at a house in the suburbs. And crawling into the back of the cab with them while the brooding stranger slid himself into the front seat with the driver had been an equilibrium shifting experience.
She'd rolled her eyes sky-ward as fingers had fisted into the tangles at the nape of her neck.
Awake in a way that had failed her for centuries.
She considers feeding them. Feeding on them. Knows without needing to contemplate the notion that she won't in the end, no matter how much she may want to. After all, the night had dipped and swung in ways that she'd long since forgotten possible.
The brooding stranger watches from the shadows. A knowing look that hints at having seen it all before settled firmly into place, and she wonders, briefly, whether perhaps he has. His pulse pounds lazily in his chest. A slightly off-tempo rhythm that provides the haunting soundtrack to their macabre show.
Her fists are filled with brown-black curls that catch at her wrists like vines. She turns her back on him and presses her teeth against ivory skin that stretches taut but doesn't quite give.
The illusion of control is breathtaking.
She arches her spine in response to tongue-tips that trail lazily across the undulating curve of her hip. They laugh as they shift, sure in their task but equally aware of their audience.
An audience of one.
She hopes he enjoys the show.
It's messy, she notes. And raw. Unrestrained in a way that she hasn't managed in decades. Her voice catches on their exhalations, and she'd been expecting something, but she had not been expecting this.
If she had thought there was little she had left to learn, she had thought wrong.
They sleep then. The brooding stranger in a straight backed chair, perpetually on guard despite the slow rise and fall of his rib-cage. The women, loosely draped over one another on the patchy rug they'd spent the early hours of the morning defiling.
She runs a fingernail along an exposed shoulder blade and holds her breath as the morning arrives.
Beats back every demonic instinct she possesses and makes her escape. Leaves them whole.
This time.
Knows, beyond doubt, that there will be a next...