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sympathy (for the devil) in the form of you crawling into bed with me

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Damon Salvatore’s hands are well-bred things, a gentleman’s hands. Shaped so prettily; square palms and long fingers. Not like her brothers’, who were born not to gentry but to poverty, with stout hands made for farming and for ripping things apart.

... Well, Damon Salvatore can certainly rend flesh with his Sugar Baron hands , she amends to herself-- it's just that they look so anachronistic when he does.

If Nik knew , she thinks to herself and laughs when he gets her thighs wrapped around his face, stood up against the wall of the Salvatore Boarding House, it's not Stefan he needs to worry about this time.

Stefan Salvatore, with his propriety and his tortured eyes and her ever-looming memories of when he was her Ripper, when he held her close to him and led her effortlessly across dancefloors and cried out over and over (Bekah Bekah Bekah) when she would fuck him in some speakeasy’s back room against walls painted in the blood of some darling flapper girl or another. When they were always knee-deep in champagne and blood and the world was still on fire and all the young men in it were either dead or broken beyond repair or determined to die.

Damon is not his brother in any situation, but moreso in bed than anything else she can think of. He is out to devour , he is wholly present with her and not distracted by his morals or his thoughts or blood.

He kisses down her throat once he's let her down from the wall, nuzzles her there softly, and his fingers are slim but long and they curve expertly up inside of her, fluttering like a hummingbird’s heartbeat. He says you're gorgeous like this mumbled against her skin, watching avidly as she breathes deeply and lets her mouth do as it will, curving into a perfect oval to accommodate the noises escaping it.

Her thigh muscles jump and he runs his free hand over them soothingly, digging his fingertips into the muscles and tendons. When she finds her release, it is this big wide ocean of a thing and she can't stop grinning all through it, hairline damp with sweat and cheeks flushed. She feels human , except for how she never felt this good when she was yet alive and full of robust youth.

He grins wickedly into her kiss when she shoves her hand into his dark skinny jeans and twists her fist when she strokes him off. Darling, he calls her, and breathes damply into her hair as he comes down, heart thundering in his chest.

She kisses him once before she goes, satisfaction sweet like cinnamon in her mouth.

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Damon goes hard on him during training sessions. Elena is on the forefront of both of their minds, and Jeremy yearns for the days when things were simpler, when summers meant the lakehouse and the docks and not using blunted stakes to try and stab his sister-cousin’s vampire (ex?) boyfriend. He also wants a fucking joint. He wants to feel looser , less like he's a ticking time bomb.

Damon seems to read his mind, because once they're both drenched in sweat he goes over to the fireplace and brandishes a silver cigar tin at him, emblazoned with the Salvatore family crest. Fancy a jay, little J? he asks with a mischievous smile, and Jeremy smiles widely without holding back in response. Damon blinks at him, grin turning a touch more conspiratorial, and Jeremy once would've distrusted the look but now only scoffs and plucks the tin from his fingers, settling down on the couch to roll one up. Damon’s choice of pretentious flavored rolling papers makes him roll his eyes ( fuckin pomegranate, seriously?) but the weed is quality, sweet and smooth when he lights it up and takes the first drag.

Damon’s eyes are on his mouth when he passes the joint over to him; Jeremy hasn't been high in a while, but it comes back easily-- the cotton-cloudy disconnect of his body and his mind and his problems , and the heat that simmers low down in his stomach in Pavlovian response. He licks his lips and something in him sings vicious and victorious when Damon’s quicksilver blue eyes follow that move, too.

He strips to his socks and boxer briefs, a little showy, flexing enough to make Damon chuckle but also make his expression go sharper, hungrier. He hasn't done this in a while, either-- but it's like riding a bike when he goes to his knees and sucks a hickey into Damon’s Apollo’s belt, hands finding the buckle of his belt. Damon’s thighs are already spread wide-- he's always so fuckin cocky, sprawled and indecent. It makes Jeremy want to fuck him up.

He swallows around the cock in his mouth, takes it into his throat-- it's a little more unyielding than a human’s might be, and there's no alarming physiological differences like with a werewolf.

Werewolf . He grins around Damon and thinks about how Tyler Lockwood cries when he comes, how Jeremy only had to give him the eyes and one of his trademark barbs for him to open up his fancy designer jeans and stuff his hand in his own mouth to keep quiet. Anybody ever tell you you don't fuck like a nice guy, Gilbert? Tyler had asked him afterwards, shaky with eyes red-rimmed and cheeks flushed pink.

He remembers when he did, in fact, fuck like a nice guy . He remembers kissing gently over [Vicki’s/Anna’s/Bonnie’s] skin, breaths coming hard, feeling completely overcome . He remembers those things like they happened in some other life to some other person and he read about them once, a brief flicker of happiness, respite in a life otherwise filled to the brim with more horror than his fifteen year old stoner self could've ever comprehended.

Now, he gets off on shit like this -- making Damon Salvatore, once the scourge of Mystic Falls, say goddamn, Jer, you know what you're doing in golden, glowing tones of approval and no actual surprise, like this is just another training exercise, Damon having him do something he already knows he'll be great at just so he can praise him for it with crinkle-eyed smiles.

He puts all that out of his mind, slows his tangential weed-thoughts, shoves his hand down his own boxer briefs and swallows and swallows and swallows and comes when Damon does, mouth suddenly full of the sticky-sweet remnants of the pot smoke as well as the salty bitterness of ejaculate.

He rocks back on his heels, stands on unsteady legs, spits in the ancient ornamental spittoon across the room, and flops down next to Damon, mimicking his pose with an arm thrown over his eyes.

We're gonna get her back, Damon promises him quietly, and Jeremy just breathes, coming back down to earth.

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He was pliant for her, once. He wanted nothing more than to please-- he wrapped his hands around her corseted waist and pressed her into walls just to lean down and breathe in the scent of the jasmine oil she used to daub behind her ears, back then. He loved her, and she would slam him into those same walls with more force than he could’ve ever mustered himself, and in this way she staked her claim.

My filthy thing, she would call him, and his pupils would blow wide open and his mouth would part and he would breathe shakily and unsteadily and nod mindlessly when she'd say you only want to be used, hmm? All you're good for. My Damon.

She wanted both of them. She wanted Stefan because he was perfect, because he was handsome and good and he had this light shining in his chest that made her feel warmer just to be near. She wanted Damon because there was so much power in the way he would do anything for her. He was hers to command, something malleable, to be formed into whatever shape she desired-- hero, villain, lover, destroyer. All his morals flew right out the window when he was begging for her touch, for her to do anything.

The first time he begged for her teeth, she very nearly lost her composure in surprise.

She shouldn't have been surprised, that his wanting would extend to this, too, but somehow she was. He loved nothing better than to be under her teeth and then to yield himself to her slaps and her fingernails and her bruising grip. Hurt me more hurt me more please Katherine he'd beg her breathlessly, and she would be undone.

Now, in the 21st century, he is different. He hates her, which is in itself a heady thing. He hates her, and he wants to destroy her, and he thinks he could be happy making love to sweet, sweet Elena Gilbert for the rest of his eternity.

She proves him wrong in the shower, that first night. She hums a song she'd heard on the radio with her name in its opening line ( and speaking of, little miss Katherine, I feel swell… ) which had seemed auspicious to her. A good portent-- the singer sounded tortured, lashing out the way Damon was now.

He waited for her, all this time, and she giggles as he tries to bring himself to be rougher on her. He wants to want to hurt her-- but he doesn't . He fucks her and fucks her and fucks her, like he's trying to prove a point, and she writhes under his touch but laughs and laughs, and he doesn't come ( can't, she realizes on another giggle, with another desperately brutal thrust of his hips against hers) until she reaches up and clenches her fist harshly in his hair and backhands him.

He comes and says Kath, the word hoarse with tears and she licks them up kittenishly from his cheeks. The saltwater taffy taste is enough to have her done, too, and in the aftermath he breathes harshly through his nose like he's trying not to fall apart.

Oh Damon, she laughs, and doesn't care that her hair is a messy tangle on the back of her head, I have missed you.

She has. It's not a lie. She missed tearing him to pieces. She missed how eagerly he'd let her.

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He's up to no good, and she can see that from fifteen yards out, a cliche in a leather jacket. He gestures broadly, all bravado to hide the fact that he knows he has no jurisdiction here. He knows she's the Queen of New Orleans.

(And isn't that odd-- her, a Queen?)

He calls her Mama Bear and dances around the subject of what he wants and why he's there, but he buys her enough drinks that it doesn't actually matter.

She knows who he is on paper-- Damon Salvatore. One of the Mystic Falls lot, a monster made flesh and carved to look like something beautiful.

They have that in common, at least, and she does another shot of bourbon and waits him and his avoidance out.

Finally, finally, when she has him by the throat up against the brick of the alleyway outside, he confesses to needing some kind of magic whatever, and she takes him back to the compound and shoves him at Freya, interrupting her Gilmore Girls marathon.

( I was asleep a long time! Freya always laughs to defend her odd choices in Netflix binges and library books, I don't even know what I like!)

They pass Rebekah on the way in, and her honorary sister gives her an eyebrow waggle and murmurs he’s a show and a half, luv conspiratorially when they pass.

(It's been a long time since she got laid, Hayley realizes.)

Once Freya gets cooking on the magical (and ridiculous) talisman, it's just her and him in the downstairs kitchen. He rifles through drawers, restless and dark-eyed, and finally she reaches out from her perch on the countertop to reel him in by the surprisingly flamboyant belt buckle.

He doesn't lose any time when it comes to kissing her-- he's as smooth an operator as she's dealt with since she was getting drunk on yachts with coked-up rich boys in Chubbies, and just as desperate to please.

She lets the wolf out, just a little, to properly enjoy the way he smells, sexed-up and spicy. His tongue tastes like bourbon and it's a pleasant burn when she sucks it into her mouth.

The others can probably hear her but she doesn't actually care-- it's been too long for her to pretend to be anything but a wild animal. She's the Queen of New Orleans, after all, and it's not like either Freya or Rebekah will mind. The latter is probably curled up in bed with a glass of wine to properly enjoy the show, Hayley thinks with a savage kind of grin, and she throws her head back with a howling groan when Damon Salvatore’s clever lips find her favorite spot to be kissed, low on her sternum between her breasts.

He's a lost boy, she saw it from the start-- lost and alone, and in that way she feels kinship with him. She knows what he wants, and she gives it to him, wrapping him up in her limbs and murmuring you make me feel so good over and over in every way she can think of to phrase it until he shudders and twists his fingers sharply above where they're joined to make her follow him over the edge.

Freya knocks on the doorframe lightly and says if you're finished in a drier tone than even her hybrid brother could manage on his best day, lips quirking into half an amused smile I’m done with the spell.

Damon smiles and he looks abruptly very young, messy hair and with the stress that had earlier tightened his jaw relieved.

She can't keep him, but she's a mother and a lost girl herself, and she knows the look of a lonely child better than most.

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Witchy Witch does a spell, it has unforeseen side effects, and suddenly Richie Rich’s uncle is out of the ground and on two feet, not under six.

It's weird, but it's definitely not the weirdest thing to happen this year (this month, this week , even, if the thing with the lake kraken was real and not a figment of his bourbon-addled dreams) so Damon kind of just rolls with it, shrugs and goes on. They'd made their peace when Hot Werewolf Uncle was all Casper-fied, so he doesn't really think too much more about it, moves on with his life-- drinks, tortures Stefan for funsies now instead of any real malicious intent, kicks Jeremy’s ass all around the backyard and the living room.

It's a nonissue, until he's out in the woods one night with a bottle of Louisiana’s finest (courtesy of one of the Mikaelsons he'd fucked, which didn't really narrow it down any) amber-colored ambrosia, and there's Hot Werewolf Uncle, shirtless and sweaty and in the middle of a run.

Damon is half-drunk and it's enough to make him a little looser with his eye fucking, so he really can't be blamed for the low whistle he lets out or the way he licks his lips as he trails his eyes down the delightfully cut piece of flesh in front of him.

Hot Werewolf Uncle is keyed up, obviously, because he's running through the woods shirtless after midnight and it's two days until the moon is full. He's not aggressive, though- not angrily , anyways.

He grins with a few too many teeth, but Damon has fucked way scarier people ( the Originals, Katherine, Klaus’ terrifying baby mama, Katherine, Klaus’ terrifying pet teenage witch, Katherine, the list of his probably ill-advised indiscretions goes on and on and on) so he just cocks his hips and tilts his head, smiling coquettishly. There's no real discussion, no safewords gone over, but that's alright, because soon enough Damon is on all fours and howling -- pardon the pun-- with the force of the werewolf’s thrusts, fingers scrabbling for purchase in the leaf-strewn dirt.

Mason’s not mean , he's just built like a brick shithouse and on edge all the way to his core, and every move he makes jostles Damon and leaves blooming purple bruises that fade as quickly as they come. He stuffs his face into the join of Damon’s throat and shoulder and he purrs and mumbles oh oh oh like he’d forgotten what it felt like to have nerve endings that sang with so much pleasure. Damon wildly wonders if he's Mason’s first, since he was resurrected. If he's the first to make his mark on this new-old body.

Mason says fuck, can I? all slurred around a crowded mouthful of razor-sharp teeth, sounding drunker than Damon was before any of this started, and Damon has heard Jeremy talk enough about blowing Mystic Falls’ other Lockwood wolfman to know what he's asking.

Mentally he shrugs-- he'll try anything once. Twice if he's not sure he liked it.

Yeah, yes, c’mon, Lon Chaney, give it to me he pants back, and twists, writhing under the abrupt bone-deep pleasure of Mason’s hands smoothing firm and soothing down the coiled and achy muscles in his back where all his tension lies.

Mason groans like he's dying when he goes all were-dick, and it's a pretty enough sound that Damon would consider the whole venture a success even if he wasn't (figuratively) dying over how good the whole knot thing felt.

As it is, his eyes roll back into his skull and his brain goes completely offline and he lays still with his face in the dirt and is thankful that they didn't do this face to face, because he's sure he's fanging out and he wants to take a bite out of something hot and full of O Negative. Universal donor, and all that.

Mason pants into the space between his shoulder blades for a long time, shivering, until he can pull out. He runs his hands over every piece of Damon he can reach, eyes warm and hazy as he checks for damage, even though Damon is undamageable, a worse creature of the night than he is. It feels nice, anyway, his concern-- Elena would get the same way sometimes, eyes sharp but mouth soft as she made sure he was alright, like he deserved concern.

I killed you , he thinks to himself as Mason Lockwood helps him to his feet and does up his pants , hands big and firm and gentle. Damon’s a little unsteady on his feet but he pastes a smile on his face and says you go on, I'm gonna head back to the house. He bends and rifles around with his bourbon and waits until the werewolf’s out of hearing range before he takes another long swig of it and goes twenty feet further into the trees to where the family crypt sits. He lies down on the steps and his body is full of phantom aches. The worst of them all is what he imagines amputees feel like, the pain of an absent limb.

Elena, Elena, Elena , he murmurs softly, running his daylight-ringed hand over the marble as carefully as he'd run it over her skin. He takes another long swig. What am I gonna do with myself, huh? He asks, and closes his eyes to sleep.

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The baby Original is a smirky asshole , but he does know how to show a guy a good time, Damon grudgingly has to concede when he finds himself tied up with fancily-knotted rope, hanging upside from a surprisingly sturdy hotel shower curtain rod.

Klaus Junior has this art critic face on, stepping around him to view him from multiple angles, a little concentrated frown on his face. The rope is silk, and tied with enough thought to weight distribution that it's not going to bruise any of him.

Not your first rodeo, huh, cowboy? He kind of wheezes, a little asthmatic from how into this he is.

Kol’s smile is mischief and conspiracy and he says quite , all British and appallingly dapper . Charming , even. It's inconvenient. Damon looks down enough to glare at his traitorous dick. It always gets him into these situations.

Are you gonna watch or are you gonna do something , Red Room of Pain? he snips, feeling a little exposed and a lot on edge.

Say my name, Kol murmurs, looking all fascinated like Damon’s some science project, a bean sprout in a wet paper towel.

Damon rolls his eyes and seriously reconsiders his life choices, up until he feels light, nimble fingers curving over the head of his neglected cock. He bucks into them, but they're drawn back with supernatural speed, Kol laughing out an ah ah ah , leaning down to press a mean little kiss to the hinge of his jaw. What do we say? he breathes in Damon’s ear.

Damon isn't going to break, except for how he is, because Kol’s eyes are burning and his attention is completely focused , and Damon realizes that all he's got to do is follow Kol’s directions. He's not got to make any of his own decisions. He just has to be good.

He shivers and says Kol, please and shouts when there's suddenly a hand tight around him, twisting on the upstroke and thumb stroking on the down, and he comes with another shout, a garbled out version of the Original brat’s name.

After, when Kol has cut him down, too lazy to untie everything, Damon slumps on bloodless knees and lets the kid jerk off on his bare chest, eyes half-lidded and body completely boneless. Bekah was right, Kol laughs softly, afterwards, a little disbelieving, you are a treat.

Damon snorts and closes his eyes fully. I bet you say that to all the girls, he trills in a sickly-sweet half-falsetto. The barb costs him most of the rest of his energy, so he allows himself to be cleaned off with a washcloth and carried off to the big bed in the bedroom section of the suite. Kol wraps around him tight, and Damon throws an arm around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his bare shoulder.

He's no psychiatrist, but he can tell when someone is tired of always waking up alone. He goes to sleep, and resolves to blow the meerkat-looking motherfucker in the morning.

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Lexi doesn't want him to be nice to her, and she's sure not planning on being nice to him . She's not forgiven him for anything, and he may be trying to turn over half of a new leaf, but to her he's always going to be the villain.

(It's odd, sometimes, waking up and realizing how many people he's killed, how much awful shit he's done. Sometimes it doesn't feel real, and he wakes up and feels like the kid who went off to fight in a war he didn't sign up for, under a flag he didn't care about, for a cause he wanted no part in. He wakes up and is Damon Salvatore, and then looks in the mirror and is Damon Salvatore. )

She grunts as she wrestles him to the floor, older and stronger than him, and she says God why do you have to be so pretty ? with all the disgust she can muster, so he gives her his snidest grin and sets his teeth to her throat, purrs you're such a flatterer. At her sharply fired back and you're a murderer he laughs until his stomach aches, nicking the skin of her throat.

They fight for longer than they end up fucking, both of them keyed up by the time they get tab P into slot V , fanged out and growling loud enough to bring down the roof around their heads, if said roof wasn't painstakingly built by the finest craftsmen in the country that could be compelled a hundred and some years before.

You've got to take better care of your brother , she pants viciously as they roll around, fighting for who gets to be on top. He groans and says can we not talk about my brother when I'm naked? and tries to distract her with a kiss. She bites his tongue bloody and he hisses, pouting theatrically even as his hips keep flexing up and up and up, and when she comes she clamps her hand around the base of his dick and says promise me Damon and he groans and says okay okay fine just let me-- and she lets go, lets him come, and is gone before he's even caught his breath.

 

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You can be sweet when you want to be , she'd sighed once, human and soft and covered in the evidence of his wrongdoing, compelled into calmness. She'd murmured are you going to kill me? and instead of revulsion he'd felt amusement at her expense.

When he’d met her, Caroline Forbes was a performance, perfect hair and steadily-pickling liver, emptied out inside. Headed for a life of nerve pills and Botox and PTA meetings.

When they are both immortal, blood-thirsty beasts, when they have both lost everything they ever really cared about, he finds himself hanging out with her on a hot June afternoon in a beautiful cliche of a meadow, a field chock full of flowers in full bloom. He hates them; he'd like to pour gasoline over each petal and strike a match because the world shouldn't be this beautiful without Elena Gilbert awake and alive and infuriating him in it.

Caroline’s stripped off her sweater and her sundress and lies among the buds in a silk slip, and she's a goddess, sun glinting sharply off her daylight ring. He reaches out and takes hold of her slim wrist, tugs her hand to his face and examines the spelled thing. Thin, but still clunky on her skinny fingers. The lapis makes her skin look fairer in comparison.

She looks at him and he looks back at her, and she's tired around the eyes even if her face is as perfect as ever. Her hair looks soft like melted waves of golden butterscotch and caramel and it reminds him of a chocolatier in Italy he'd killed in the fifties. Abruptly, he wants to be sweet .

Caroline , he murmurs, and tugs almost too gently at her wrist to be noticeable. He lets her go right after, because this has to be her choice.

She comes closer, warm and sweet smelling, and he kisses the very corner of her mouth and strokes his hand over her side, thumbing over the swell of breast beneath her left nipple. He can feel her heart beating, slow and calm. The usual urgency of sex isn't there, and he's in no rush to do anything about the way he's idly swollen thick in his jeans. Caroline doesn't seem to be too concerned about her own arousal either, even if he can scent it on the air, sea-salty and thin from the gallons of water she still consumes daily, a neuroticism from her life still clinging on to her undeath.

They lay pressed together for a long time, stroking gently over each other’s skin, and it feels almost like forgiveness, even if Damon knows he never will be forgiven.

When the sun goes down they slow to a stop, tangled up and breathing each other’s air, and Damon thinks that even if he’s not forgiven, they're both content to pretend otherwise, at least for a while.

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The wonder twins are oddly hot in an abnormally intense way, and they reek of desperation and of self-destructive tendencies.

The boy witch presses against him in the half-dark of his dorm room, and it's all pleasingly novel, the scent of textbooks and magic and teenage boy. The girl witch sits in the corner with her arms crossed, pretending she's not turned on, pupils blown wide and thighs crossed tight. Like he can't smell her, even over the smell of her hot-for-it brother rocking away in his lap.

He opens the kid up slowly, makes him drip tears down those pretty cheeks. His eyes get red-rimmed, bloodshot and bluer for it, and the stubble on his cheeks is silky soft against Damon’s shoulder when he rubs his face there, needy and overwhelmed.

He catches the witch girl’s eye and flashes her a hint of fang over her twin’s shoulder. She rolls her eyes, but her fists tighten convulsively on her thighs and the room bursts a little brighter with the scent of her-- like wine, thick and vaguely alcoholic, like most of the liquids she consumes on a daily basis.

The witch boy is tight and hot inside but pliant and he mumbles unintelligibly, out of his mind, while he rocks and rolls his hips. He doesn't try anything too fancy, just a low and long grind, achy-good, slow enough to make the build to orgasm feel like a gradual burning instead of an avalanche.

Damon scrapes his blunt human teeth over the boy’s throat and mumbles something like good boy in his hair and that's when the girl lets out a high, reedy keen. It's an unwilling sort of sound, and her blush betrays her shame for it, but Damon is too far gone to tease her for it (for now.)

The boy sobs out a string of vowels when he comes and he shakes his way through it and Damon strokes a hand over his side and makes eye contact with the girl because they're young and in their prime and one of them is going to die by the other’s hand. They're a clock ticking down to zero, and (from the sick look always present in their eyes) they never forget it, not even in moments like this.

Damon falls back flat on the narrow twin bed with a huff and lets Luke twine their naked limbs together. A moment later, Liv crawls onto the bed fully clothed and they twine their fingers together on top of his chest. When they touch, the air crackles.

Damon stares at the ceiling after they fall asleep and wonders how he always ends up in the fringes of these situations.

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The witch girl reminds him of Katherine in the sense that he can tell she's a survivor, and that she wants to make him cry. She's eighteen , lush and tender like an expensive steak in a babydoll dress and knockoff Manolo heels.

She has a pouty sort of look, mean and bratty, and Damon’s always been not-so-secretly weak for just that.

You ever get exactly what you wanted, Sabrina the Teenage Witch? he asks her, once yet another ridiculous situation in New Orleans has died down and they're the only two left with nobody to go home with, everyone else paired off-- Blondie and Klaus, Mama Wolf and Elijah, Rebekah and Marcel. It's kinda seriously sad, he thinks to himself-- she can't even legally drink , and she's all coiled up anger like a caged python.

She looks at him through the corner of her eyes, and her eyelashes are long like a doll’s and remind him of Elena’s. Her brown eyes aren’t doelike and sweet, though-- they're like hot whiskey on a cool night, and an unhappy kind of smirk tugs at the corner of her plush mouth.

Why? she asks, blinking slow and faux-innocent, are you gonna give it to me? and it’s said with such dripping condescension that Damon has to laugh, imagining all the lines she's heard and who's she's heard them from. A girl like her probably gets the daddy types, the ones who want her to be a good little nymphomaniac, a blowup doll in frilly panties .

Damon’s kind of the opposite, at least for tonight. No, he replies back and quirks an eyebrow, knocking back the rest of his drink before he leans in and lets his lips brush her earlobe, I’m gonna let you take it from me .

When he pulls back her pupils are a little blown and she looks hungry like a just-turned little half-vampire wretch. He throws a hundred down on the bartop and strides out, walks confidently knowing she's behind him, stalking him. He follows her scent trails through the streets until he finds himself at a rather run-down cathedral that reeks of death.

It's kind of delightfully macabre, and he likes her style. He turns to let her know that, and she slams him up against the door by the throat without laying a single finger on him.

You're gonna be good for me , she tells him quietly, only a little uncertainly, and he smiles pertly at her as if in agreement. He likes garnering punishments in these sorts of games sometimes, but right now he wants to see what she's like, new and fresh and just starting out.

She doesn't disappoint-- her thighs flex and her slim waist clenches when she rises up over him and lets herself come back down, riding him with both of those soft little witch’s hands wrapped around his neck, hard enough that if he'd been human he'd probably be in a bit of trouble. He adjusts her grip with his hands and wheezes out an explanation-- squeeze the sides, not the trachea, especially if your partner isn't already dead.

It gives her some confidence, so he tries it again, grips her hips and shows her how to tilt them better on the upstroke so that she drags his cock against her g-spot, bringing a heightened flush to her cheekbones. His toes curl when she leans down and breathes magic onto his skin, a cool breeze of minty pleasure like gargling peppermint Schnapps buck naked on a balcony at a private Swiss ski resort.

It's good, it's so good, and when they're through she sits up against the headboard with her try-hard heels still on and her hair mussed and she smiles at him a little tremulously and it reminds him more of Elena than Katherine, makes his chest ache for her and for him and for the brown haired girl he should be in bed with at this very moment, if the universe weren't so hellbent on taking away all his chances at happiness.

It's never been like that before, she says quietly and doesn't expect a reply, so he doesn't give her one, just pants for a few moments and kisses her bare knee before he leaves. The next day, he goes to some high-end boutique in the nicer part of town and finds the sexiest, most badass pair of designer heels they have. He has them delivered to her creepy Barbie Nightmarehouse with no note, and then he goes the hell home.

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Big Sister Mikaelson has a rather unfortunate case of the crazy eye, but he decides to cut her some slack because of the whole trapped in a magical coma for a thousand years thing. She's improbably hot anyway, like all the Original psychopaths are, and Damon always stops to wonder how they all have such straight teeth and perfectly symmetrical features if they grew up in an age without prenatal vitamins and orthodontistry. The wondering always gets led astray by either mortal peril or sex, and this particular occasion turns into the latter pretty quickly, with only a few minutes’ introduction of the former.

Freya Mikaelson looked like what an Olsen twin would look like if they were cast on the History Channel’s delightfully historically inaccurate Vikings , and she gave him the most unsubtle thrice-over he'd ever seen in his entire life when he met her for the second (third? Maybe?) time at some hole in the wall jazz place three streets over from Klaus’ compound. Stefan was around somewhere, and Damon forgets all about his brother in favor of smiling and winking under the force of her Wicker Man stare.

Finally, after he'd just about given up hope that their predator-versus-predator National Geographic stare-off would lead to anything more enjoyable and had just begun to contemplate which upscale hotel he'd compel himself a room in for the night, Freya Mikaelson walked over with hips swinging beguilingly and two drinks in her hands. They were both rather alarmingly neon, and the one she sat down in front of him was bright pink with an umbrella in it.

Queening , she announced abruptly, forthright.

Come again? he said, staring and sure that he'd not heard her right.

Can I sit on your face? she clarified, taking a sip of her drink and furrowing her brows as if she couldn't decide if it was delicious or disgusting. She reached over and took a sip of his, too, cocking her head thoughtfully.

She noticed he was still gaping, and bit her lower lip a little self-consciously. It was an odd expression for a Mikaelson to make, but he supposed she'd not had as much practice at ravaging and pillaging as her siblings, so that probably made sense. I have a list , she told him, quieter and a bit more abashed. Of things I haven't tried. I've been alive for a long time, but…

He understood, then, abruptly. He thought of everything he'd missed, when he was spending his decades lonely and bitter and furious, ripping out throats and ruining all Stefan’s attempts to find peace and happiness, chasing after the ghost of Katherine Pierce. Running away from the ghost of the boy he'd been.

Yeah, okay, he said, and pulled out his wallet to pay for the drinks. She waved him off and stood. When she came around to lead him out of the bar she put her hand low down on his back and steered him out with a surprising amount of strength and surety for her sickly looking frame.

Her bedroom at the compound was light and airy and smelled like herbs and melted wax and Damon noticed the little details-- the arcane-looking leatherbound diary laid next to quills and glitter gel pens and fountain pens alike, the stacks of CDs and vinyls and cassette tapes of all genres and ages on a far table, the Netflix queue flashing on the flat screen TV, her list chock full of black and white musicals and horror movies and romcoms and Oscar winning dramas and Disney movies.

She took off her dress with delicate, nimble fingered hands and laid it over the back of the arm chair in the corner, slipping out of her French silk panties as she stepped out of her clunky ankle boots. Damon took off his shirt and preened only a little at the appreciative sound she made and the way she ran an appraising hand down the line of muscle in his chest and abdomen.

Lie down, she murmured, smiling just a little bit in the corners of her mouth.

Her bed was as soft as it looked and when she came over to kneel on the mattress next to him he noticed that she wasn't clean shaven like most of the women of this century-- the hair between her legs was cornsilk colored and wiry and made her protruding hipbones look less famine victim and more fine boned.

She was shier now than she'd been in the bar, and he curved a hand over her slim thigh. Hey, c’mon. Gotta cross another thing off your bucket list, huh? This is way better than watching Bridget Jones’ Diary.

That made her laugh, a little shakily, and she let him coax her into slinging that slim thigh over his head, straddling his shoulders.

He remembered the first time he'd ever done this. He'd barely just met Katherine, hadn't yet known what she was. They'd been in the garden in the low light of dusk, and her chaperone was nowhere to be found. She'd murmured in his ear and said I've heard about something… and he'd said anything Miss Pierce. I'll do anything. Her eyes had glowed with amusement he'd not yet understood and for a second she'd dropped the act and said you would, wouldn't you? laughing a little at his expense, and then he'd been underneath her hoopskirt and her petticoats, ruining the knees of his fine black church breeches, half-suffocating in the heat underneath all that stifling fabric. Stefan had come along at one point and Katherine had clamped her thighs dangerously tight around his head to warn him to keep still or else. He'd knelt with his face buried in her and listened to their conversation feeling like he was underwater, like his mind was far away and his propriety even further.

Freya is nothing like that-- she lowers herself to his mouth carefully, conscious of him even though he doesn't actually need to breathe. She twitched her fingers to start up the stereo, grinning sheepishly at his quirked brow. He went to work then, and she didn't grin much at all, just closed her eyes and furrowed her brows and dropped open her mouth in a perfect O that must've run in the family.

She squirmed and he wrapped his arms around her thighs to pull her flusher against him. He liked the taste best of all-- he always had. He considered himself a true connoisseur, a wine-taster of sorts. There was always that salty sea taste, but the undertones and consistencies and volumes all were different-- no two the same, like a box of multiflavored jelly beans.

She kept squirming, muscles winding tighter and lights flickering and sweat dripping, and finally she said stop, stop and he did, let her sit back and catch her breath. It's so good but-- she seemed frustrated at herself, eyes downcast and anger bringing a darker blush to her cheeks and chest.

Too soft? he asked, keeping all emotion and judgement out of his voice. She nodded, and he shrugged.

You don't have to like everything everybody else does, Queenie. It was matter of fact-- he never said shit like this to be deep, no matter what certain Bennett witches liked to speculate about his totally rational advice.

I'm just-- I want to-- she rolled to the side and tucked herself up under his arm. Her fingers snaked down and slipped between her thighs and set up a rhythm easily-- back to basics. He watched the show and appreciated the undulation of her lean stomach and hips, dragged his fingertips over her rosy pink-red nipples and wiped sweat from her forehead before it could drip into her eyelashes and sting.

When she came, it was a quiet shudder and her thighs quivered for a long time after. She kept her hand flat against herself as she shook through it, hips still jerking and seeking aftershocks of pleasure.

That, she mumbled to him quietly and half-asleep, is my favorite part of being awake.

Chapter Text

Klaus wanted to paint him.

Damon was pretty sure that was code for grind your bones to make my watercolors, but since Stefan had bartered with the Original Dickhead yet again without advising him, he found himself splayed naked except for a golden circlet on his head and the blood of some poor unfortunate soul (or blood bag) splattered all over his mouth, neck, and torso.

He'd arrived at the compound braced to do something terrible and instead been shown in courteously, undressed, and arranged artfully upon a big stately bed. It was actually more terrifying than any other scenario he'd conjured up in his mind, laying open and vulnerable under Klaus Mikaelson’s gaze.

Touch yourself, came a lazy command from behind the easel, and Damon jumped and stared in Klaus’ vague direction-- the lights set up around him were a little bright, a bit eye-searingly blinding.

Come again? he'd all but stuttered, and there came the impatient sound of palette knife upon pigment, scraping and waiting.

I want you to be wanton. Grasping. Debauched. Every word was drawn out in that damningly attractive accent; Damon looked down, not for the thousandth time in his life, and silently judged the impulses of his dick. And him self .

We’re waiting, Klaus all but snarled and Damon legitimately couldn't believe he was about to put on a one-man porn show for a thousand year old vampire werewolf original hybrid who used the fucking goddamn royal we , except for how he could.

He wrapped a hand around himself and resolved to go fast, make it so good it would be over quick and the humiliation would be kept to a minimum. He had just begun winding up to his release, sprinting towards the finish line, when Klaus spoke again. Enough, he said, impassive, and Damon froze and groaned aloud-- seriously?

Klaus gave no indication of having heard him, and instead there was the sound of horsehair on canvas for a long while. And then, again-- touch yourself. It went just the same as their first roundabout, Damon gong fast and Klaus stopping him all abrupt and Damon groaning, on edge until Klaus started him again.

Damon went slow, that time, catching onto the game. By the time Klaus stopped him, there was something different in his voice. Pleased, and their sire link may have been a bit underdeveloped but oh it felt. Good. It felt good to hear the smile in Klaus’ voice when he said stop, and even better to be rewarded by a shorter cool-down period. It gradually became less embarassing, less horrifically awkward to be splayed out as he was. He was into it, and he was into a lot of things but this was something different entirely. Klaus looked over him with impassive eyes, taking in parts of him at a time, and Damon thrilled when he could feel those eyes on his thigh, his shoulder, the heaving flex of his stomach just as he had to pause his self-ministrations.  

It went on for… hours? It went on for a long time, the sunlight changing but the lamps staying the same, and finally Klaus stepped back sharply from his canvas with a satisfied sort of sound. He had that mocking grin on, eyes alight with entertainment and head tipped just a bit to the side, a predator surveying his kill. It was both hot and deeply disturbing on many levels, and Damon spread his thighs a bit and fluttered his eyelashes. He licked a bit of half-dried-tacky blood from his lips and quirked enough of a smile to expose one of his fangs.

Thank you, Damon Salvatore, for your excellent… modeling skills, Klaus burred, deep and dark, and Damon’s eyes only rolled back in his head a little, okay, but it made Klaus chuckle sinisterly and then clap his hands together, sharp and perky. It reminded him a bit of soulless Caroline, actually. I trust you can see yourself out! Klaus sang out, and then left, stalking away smelling of humor and want.

Damon groaned again and allowed himself a moment to lay in bed and wallow before he got up and went searching for his pants.

Chapter Text

He didn’t find his pants.

Klaus’ twinky manservant (or whatever they were calling the baby vamp groupies that hung around the Mikaelson compound looking terrified and aroused and murderous at all hours of the day) had either burnt them or hidden them for some insidious reason, and so Damon found himself walking buck-ass nude through the chateau’s many long and dark corridors still decorated in blood and wearing a crown. It was like a new-age Taylor Swift music video, and Damon was really not amused. Everything that happened in the Crescent City was needlessly melodramatic, like they were all constantly putting on a regional gothic pantomime skit. Really Anne Rice, all of it.

Instead of finding his pants, Damon found the one living Mikaelson he hadn’t slept with.

Elijah Mikaelson ran bodily into him, and then looked down in mild distaste at the stains that resulted on his crisp gray suit. He blinked once, twice, and then looked up through his lashes in a seriously unfairly attractive way at the cause of said sanguine additions to his Saville Row special.

He quirked an eyebrow and Damon rolled his eyes, because yes, he was very aroused. He dared anybody to go through what he’d just been put through and not be. Except maybe Stefan. Stefan was a stubborn motherfucker, and his terror and hatred for Klaus seemed to be entirely platonic, which made him a minority. Possibly a sole exception. Even Elena had had that weirdly intense eye contact thing with Klaus, and she'd always curled her lip up in disgust at his antics in a way that suggested she wouldn’t be above having him lick her boots to beg for forgiveness.

He spaced out on that mental image and came back to Elijah’s half-laughed can I help you, Mr. Salvatore?

Pants, Damon blurted, manfully trying to ignore the chiseled curve of Elijah’s jaw and the broad expanse of his hands. Or, uh, he looked down at his own erection for the second time that afternoon (evening? night?) and then up at Elijah’s face, biting his lip a bit. Might as well try for the full set, he mentally shrugged, and abandoned caution to cock his hips and commit more fully to the teasing flutter of his lashes.

Well, I think that can be arranged, Elijah murmured, and before Damon could ask which request he referred to he was pressed up against the wallpapered corridor and Elijah’s hands were everywhere at once, manhandling him firmly but not cruelly so that his thighs were clamped around the eldest (living) Original vampire’s waist.

I’m not going to-- Damon gasped between kisses, drunk on the heady sensation of them. Elijah kissed with his entire body, like there was nothing else in the whole world he knew how to do except this. He was all lips and teeth and slick slashes of tongue and Damon gave up warning him of how keyed up he was already and just settled for moaning his head off, trembling. Distantly he realized that everyone in the building could most likely hear him, but he’d been in this same situation before with two of the Mikaelson clan in this very house and it didn’t matter then, so he really didn’t have enough spare brainpower to care about it now.

God, but he loved sex. It was easy to forget, between all the melancholy and neuroses and unhealthy coping mechanisms, but Damon genuinely did love it. He loved pretty much everything about it, how it sounded and tasted and smelled and felt, how every body was different and how every person’s style was different and how it was always the quiet ones, seriously -- he was reminded of that as Elijah Mikaelson brought him off in plain view of whoever might come along. When he came he threw his head back and shouted with it, vision whiting out and mind going black for a few long moments, the crown falling from his head and hitting the thick Persian rug by Elijah’s feet with a hollow thud.

He came back down as Elijah set him on his feet, cheeks flushed and smile oddly boyish-- he looked young, and happy, like Damon had taken away some of his stress. He ran the back of his knuckles over Damon’s cheek and gave him a firm nod and then was gone, too, so Damon leaned against the wall and regained his land legs and thought to himself goddamn Mikaelsons.

His clothes were around the next corner he came to, folded neatly on a velvet chaise lounge. He rolled his eyes and put them on and got the hell out of Dodge.

Chapter Text

Matt fucking Donovan.

Fucking Matt Donovan.

Damon was drunk. Damon was drunk and it was Elena’s birthday and he was drunk, sprawled messily on the steps of the Salvatore family crypt that she wasn’t even in, she was somewhere else and he didn’t know where but she was asleep and she’d be asleep for… well, until BonBon broke his heart in two and went off to become a benevolent witch ghost like this was an episode of Scooby Doo.

Damon was drunk-- shitfaced and working his way towards blackout, and he was trying to remember which song had played in the background, the first time he’d ever set eyes on Elena Gilbert. He was humming, probably loudly, and drinking, and had just begun maybe leaking a bit from the tear ducts, which of course was when their friendly neighborhood vampire-hating Deputy Donovan showed up on the scene.

Damon? Donovan asked him, so surprised that he forgot to sound disgusted or horrified or what have you, and Damon waved a hand at him, slumping down further and taking another long swig of… whatever he was drinking. He wasn’t exactly sure, because he’d brought a bunch of priceless crystal decanters out here and he was systematically drinking their entire contents and then smashing them on the crypt’s wall. Come to think of it, that was probably why Barney Fife had been called in.

Long story short, this was how he found himself in a fireman’s carry over Matt Donovan’s fucking shoulder. He tried to hiss at him menacingly but couldn’t find the coordination to bring his teeth together. His mouth felt kind of like warm rubber. He reached up to feel his gums and see if they were still full of teeth or if the teeth had fallen out of them, and then he was tipped back right-side-up and on his feet and he threw up all over Donovan’s shiny shoes, clutching weakly onto the side of his squad car.

He would’ve thought that this would’ve led to his immediate staking or disemboweling or at the very least the forced plucking of his immaculate eyebrows by the long arm of Mystic Falls’ law, but as it turned out, Matt Donovan had a lot of experience at taking care of hot drunk messes and instead just held his hair back and patted him between the shoulder blades until he was done. He even put Damon’s seat belt on him, and Damon was so surprised and mostly unconscious that he didn’t attempt to lunge for Donovan’s throat.

Donovan didn’t even take him back to the boarding house and leave him on its front steps, which was good, because Damon didn’t want to go inside and see everywhere that Elena had been-- the couches she’d curled up on and the kitchen table she’d almost bled out on and the bed he’d slept with her on and the coffee table she’d drunk-danced on, the list really was endless. She was all over his house. All over his life. All over his insides. All over everything, and he couldn’t stand it. Not today. Barely any other day, but definitely not today.

He found himself being gently dragged from the front seat of the squad car and taken inside a house that smelled like Donovan and no one else except the faintest whiffs of girlish, trashy sweet pea-based perfumes and cigarettes that must’ve been his mom and sister, both of them long gone now. Damon looked at him and thought to himself I killed your sister, once and then he just let his mind go blank, let himself be undressed and tucked up into bed. The sheets smelled like Donovan. It wasn’t unpleasant-- the sharp tang of Dial soap and dark coffee and the ghost of minty toothpaste.

He woke up in the late morning and it was still Elena’s birthday but he wasn’t still drunk, and Matt Donovan was passed out in the armchair next to the bed, still wearing his uniform. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his lower lip was split a bit from where he habitually gnawed on it. Damon looked at him for a long time until his eyes fluttered open.

They didn’t really speak, and Damon thought about saying thanks or maybe offering the guy a blowie for his trouble, to take his mind of things. He didn’t. He put his shirt back on and listened to Donovan rattle around and get dressed in a fresher (but still unwashed and unironed) uniform. He put some toast in the toaster and poured two glasses of nearly-expired orange juice. Donovan shoveled the bread down and gulped down the juice and didn’t meet his eyes, and only stopped to say lock up when you leave like this was some awkward morning-after an ill-advised night-before.

Damon wasn’t a nice guy, but he thought about what Elena would do if she saw the run down mess her high school sweetheart had been reduced to, and so he gathered up all the laundry and sorted it into piles, washed and dried towels and underwear and undershirts and called Caroline to get the name of the best dry-cleaner in town who could be persuaded to do pick-ups. There was apparently an app that he could order groceries from, and he was just putting them all neatly away in the fridge when he heard Donovan’s squad car rolling up the drive.

So as to avoid being shot, Damon winced and called out still here, Deputy Ken! as the screen door opened. Donovan audibly paused and sighed, and came in looking even more like hell than he had the night before. He took in the sight of Damon’s domestic machinations with a more mystified expression than Damon believed was strictly necessary, but he didn’t complain because that would probably drive Donovan over the edge.

Listen, don’t get all weird about this, Damon muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding eye contact. She would’ve-- he didn’t finish the sentence because he couldn’t bear to talk about her out loud (not today.)

Matt sighed again, gustily, and sat down heavily in a kitchen chair, elbows to knees. He was handsome, and Damon had never really noticed that before, the curve of his shoulders and the thickness of his biceps and waist. He looked cornfed and fallen on hard times, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. A farmer-turned-prince-turned-farmer out of some fairytale, left behind in the dust when the magic had used him up and spat him back out. Damon’s stomach ached, another phantom pain. I ruined your life, kid, he thought, and it was only partly true but partly was more than not. He rubbed at the back of his own neck, the go-to tic for out-of-their-depth males. Damon edged towards the door and was nearly out of it when he heard Matt murmur I love her too, Damon.

Love, not loved, because nobody ever fell out of love with Elena Gilbert. Damon knew that better than most.

Chapter Text

For Damon, there is no half-love.

Damon is a hungry creature of the night (of lust, blood- and otherwise) and when he loves, he loves fully-- in every way. His eyes darken and spark with appreciation, with intent , and Stefan goes hot and cold always, preening but ill, when those eyes turn on him with the sort of look inappropriate for blood ( ha) relations.

He'd always ( always ) been the greedy one, Damon the charismatic gentleman and then the charming monster, a walking Byron/Shelley crossover.

Damon lays Elena down as he’d once laid Katherine down-- gentility in his wide, soft palms and love on his tongue. He is all passion tempered by adoration, utter focus on the body he's taking apart with pleasure.

Stefan bites his lips bloody and wraps his hand around himself. For a long moment he's still, and can't decide whether he's trying to stave off his orgasm or bring it quickly.

He listens to Elena’s soft sighs of pleasure and can practically hear Damon’s smile as he says things like you're so beautiful and I could devour you, said so fondly it makes Stefan’s chest ache.

He closes his eyes to the darkness of his bedroom and unwillingly calls to mind the last time Damon had lain hands on him in tenderness, when he'd wrapped a hand around the back of Stefan’s neck and pulled him close to whisper brother with their foreheads pressed together. I love you I love you I love you Stefan mouths, all alone, and wonders what Damon would do if he knew about this.

Would it be another thing to use against him? To ridicule him with? Or would he understand? Would his eyes get soft like they sometimes still do in Stefan’s direction, even after all these years of feuding?

He imagines Damon running a hand over his flank and saying it's okay Stef it's okay with pride in his voice and he comes, shaking all over like a leaf barely attached to its branch in a hurricane.

He lies on his back and feels disgusted with himself. Down the hall, Elena whispers oh god and Damon says Elena .

Stefan closes his eyes and tries to breathe normally.