[fic] Afternoon Delight
Title: Afternoon Delight
Author: badboy_fangirl
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV, Damon/Carol Lockwood
Category: romance, smut
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Damon takes Carol on that date she "won" with him.
Spoilers: Up through 1x15 "A Few Good Men"
Warnings: smutty pointless ficlet?
Show/Bookverse: Show
Author's Notes: So my newest TVD buddy crowandfog and I share many an opinion on various items with regard to Damon Salvatore. We have lamented to each other and the world at large the sadness we feel over us never getting to see Damon take Carol on the date that she so deservedly wonstole. So I ficced it. (Also, in writing this dedication, I suddenly realized that I do not know crowandfog's real name, which makes my insane love for her a little creepy. Ah well. Such is the life of a fangirl!)
Damon picks her up at the Lockwood mansion and has to endure Mayor Lockwood's faux threats about remembering she's a married lady. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. It's all for a good cause, you treat my wife good or I'll hunt you down, but don't you dare think about fucking her, asshole. It's all very familiar, so he just smirks and sticks his arm out so that Carol can rest her hand on the crook of his elbow as they walk down the steps to his waiting car.
Damon knows his way around married women. The bored, neglected, or oft times mistreated ones are the ones that liked him the best.
Carol Lockwood fucking loves him. So she's the dangerous combination of bored (married for 25 years already even though she's barely 45) and neglected (her husband is a busy man who sometimes seems to forget that he's got a wife).
Up until today, there hasn't been any overt wrong-doing. A little flirtation was the spice of life, was it not? Not that Damon cares about boundaries or niceties or any of it. Carol might though, when push comes to shove.
He takes her to the clearing near where he first attacked Vicki Donovan, only because it fits the bill of what he advertised to her when he talked her into rigging the Bachelor Auction. They sip champagne and eat strawberries, and he's very witty and she's very laughy, and the afternoon is very pleasant.
Once they've polished off some cheese and crackers, Carol wipes her mouth with a linen napkin and says quietly, "Thank you, Damon. This has been...the best date I've had...in a very long time."
He leans back on his elbows, watching her carefully as she puts the extra, unfinished food back into the picnic basket. "Me, too," he replies, which is completely honest, and surprises them both if her expression is any indication.
"I don't believe that," she scoffs. Nervously she sips from her champagne glass, tugging at the hem of the skirt that hits just above her knee as she sits beside him. She so wants him to touch her, he can read her like a poorly scripted B movie. "You must go out with lots of beautiful girls, all the time. I mean, I even heard you and Caroline Forbes--"
Damon reaches over and presses his finger to her lips. She stills under his hand, and he sees color fill her cheeks. She really likes him, if one little caress and no compulsion heats her up like that. "Girls, Carol, are not as interesting as women. As you should know, being a beautiful, intelligent woman yourself."
She nearly drops her wine glass, but his quick reflexes saves both her skirt and the blanket beneath them. She looks at him through her eyelashes. "You flatter me, Mr. Salvatore." Her sudden coquettishness makes her look years younger, but Damon's not blowing smoke up her ass. He genuinely finds the lines on her face intriguing, and the secret smile that sits in her eyes as she stares at him makes his belly tighten pleasurably.
Give him a break. He's almost 170 years old. Maturity, once in a while, is not something to be overlooked. Experience, and longing to feel something more than ordinary, and appreciative expressions of affection are far more valuable to people who have seen the flipside. Don't get him wrong, Damon loves girls, with their bouncy firm breasts and eagerly parted thighs, and alcohol-tainted blood. But grown, seasoned women are just as appealing, in a different way.
He sets Carol's glass aside and leans into her space until she lays down on the blanket, pliant and willing. He touches her through her clothes, pinching her pebble hard nipples through her bra and blouse until she arches up under his ministrations and gasps his name. Then he scoots down slightly, sliding his hand under her skirt, up her bare thigh (no stockings to interfere with his end goal), and she quivers beneath his touch in a way much more arousing than a young girl.
She knows what's coming, and she wants it with the desperation of someone who hasn't had it good in a long while. So first he teases her with his fingers, and when she's dripping, he works her skirt up to her hips and draws her lace panties down her fabulous legs. With his tongue, he works her into a frenzy, the panting, moaning breaths both happy and sad to his ears, and when she teeters on the brink, he soothes her by kissing and stroking the insides of her thighs until she trembles all over. Her hands alternately grip his shoulders and his hair and his name drifts up and down her throat as she begs and pleads, and then praises him, God, and nature when he finally makes her come.
Minutes dissolve as her breathing returns to normal and he tugs her skirt back down. Nobody is likely to stumble over them here, but the woman is too regal to lie spread open on a bright spring day, no matter how fucking beautiful she is just that way.
She reaches out to him, and asks quietly, "Don't you...want to...?"
He just smiles. "No, Carol. This was your date, remember?" He holds up her panties and her eyes dart to them, embarrassment apparent on her face. "I'll just keep the souvenir, alright?"
She nods, but says nothing. Sitting up, she tries to repair her hair somewhat and then they pick up the remains of their picnic and return to Damon's car. She's quiet on the drive back to the Mayor's Mansion, and Damon says nothing either. That's the other thing he likes about older women--not all of them have to talk him to death.
He offers to walk her to the door, but she shakes her head. "Thank you," she murmurs, leaning close to kiss his cheek. "I had a lovely time."
Damon smirks. "So did I," he replies, chucking her under the chin with his forefinger. "I'm glad you rigged the auction, Mrs. Lockwood."
She opens the car door and slides to the edge of the seat, all the while giving him that look through her lashes, the perfect Southern lady again. "I'll see you soon?" she asks.
Damon tips his non-existent hat to her. "Yes, ma'am."
Author: badboy_fangirl
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV, Damon/Carol Lockwood
Category: romance, smut
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Damon takes Carol on that date she "won" with him.
Spoilers: Up through 1x15 "A Few Good Men"
Warnings: smutty pointless ficlet?
Show/Bookverse: Show
Author's Notes: So my newest TVD buddy crowandfog and I share many an opinion on various items with regard to Damon Salvatore. We have lamented to each other and the world at large the sadness we feel over us never getting to see Damon take Carol on the date that she so deservedly wonstole. So I ficced it. (Also, in writing this dedication, I suddenly realized that I do not know crowandfog's real name, which makes my insane love for her a little creepy. Ah well. Such is the life of a fangirl!)
Damon picks her up at the Lockwood mansion and has to endure Mayor Lockwood's faux threats about remembering she's a married lady. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. It's all for a good cause, you treat my wife good or I'll hunt you down, but don't you dare think about fucking her, asshole. It's all very familiar, so he just smirks and sticks his arm out so that Carol can rest her hand on the crook of his elbow as they walk down the steps to his waiting car.
Damon knows his way around married women. The bored, neglected, or oft times mistreated ones are the ones that liked him the best.
Carol Lockwood fucking loves him. So she's the dangerous combination of bored (married for 25 years already even though she's barely 45) and neglected (her husband is a busy man who sometimes seems to forget that he's got a wife).
Up until today, there hasn't been any overt wrong-doing. A little flirtation was the spice of life, was it not? Not that Damon cares about boundaries or niceties or any of it. Carol might though, when push comes to shove.
He takes her to the clearing near where he first attacked Vicki Donovan, only because it fits the bill of what he advertised to her when he talked her into rigging the Bachelor Auction. They sip champagne and eat strawberries, and he's very witty and she's very laughy, and the afternoon is very pleasant.
Once they've polished off some cheese and crackers, Carol wipes her mouth with a linen napkin and says quietly, "Thank you, Damon. This has been...the best date I've had...in a very long time."
He leans back on his elbows, watching her carefully as she puts the extra, unfinished food back into the picnic basket. "Me, too," he replies, which is completely honest, and surprises them both if her expression is any indication.
"I don't believe that," she scoffs. Nervously she sips from her champagne glass, tugging at the hem of the skirt that hits just above her knee as she sits beside him. She so wants him to touch her, he can read her like a poorly scripted B movie. "You must go out with lots of beautiful girls, all the time. I mean, I even heard you and Caroline Forbes--"
Damon reaches over and presses his finger to her lips. She stills under his hand, and he sees color fill her cheeks. She really likes him, if one little caress and no compulsion heats her up like that. "Girls, Carol, are not as interesting as women. As you should know, being a beautiful, intelligent woman yourself."
She nearly drops her wine glass, but his quick reflexes saves both her skirt and the blanket beneath them. She looks at him through her eyelashes. "You flatter me, Mr. Salvatore." Her sudden coquettishness makes her look years younger, but Damon's not blowing smoke up her ass. He genuinely finds the lines on her face intriguing, and the secret smile that sits in her eyes as she stares at him makes his belly tighten pleasurably.
Give him a break. He's almost 170 years old. Maturity, once in a while, is not something to be overlooked. Experience, and longing to feel something more than ordinary, and appreciative expressions of affection are far more valuable to people who have seen the flipside. Don't get him wrong, Damon loves girls, with their bouncy firm breasts and eagerly parted thighs, and alcohol-tainted blood. But grown, seasoned women are just as appealing, in a different way.
He sets Carol's glass aside and leans into her space until she lays down on the blanket, pliant and willing. He touches her through her clothes, pinching her pebble hard nipples through her bra and blouse until she arches up under his ministrations and gasps his name. Then he scoots down slightly, sliding his hand under her skirt, up her bare thigh (no stockings to interfere with his end goal), and she quivers beneath his touch in a way much more arousing than a young girl.
She knows what's coming, and she wants it with the desperation of someone who hasn't had it good in a long while. So first he teases her with his fingers, and when she's dripping, he works her skirt up to her hips and draws her lace panties down her fabulous legs. With his tongue, he works her into a frenzy, the panting, moaning breaths both happy and sad to his ears, and when she teeters on the brink, he soothes her by kissing and stroking the insides of her thighs until she trembles all over. Her hands alternately grip his shoulders and his hair and his name drifts up and down her throat as she begs and pleads, and then praises him, God, and nature when he finally makes her come.
Minutes dissolve as her breathing returns to normal and he tugs her skirt back down. Nobody is likely to stumble over them here, but the woman is too regal to lie spread open on a bright spring day, no matter how fucking beautiful she is just that way.
She reaches out to him, and asks quietly, "Don't you...want to...?"
He just smiles. "No, Carol. This was your date, remember?" He holds up her panties and her eyes dart to them, embarrassment apparent on her face. "I'll just keep the souvenir, alright?"
She nods, but says nothing. Sitting up, she tries to repair her hair somewhat and then they pick up the remains of their picnic and return to Damon's car. She's quiet on the drive back to the Mayor's Mansion, and Damon says nothing either. That's the other thing he likes about older women--not all of them have to talk him to death.
He offers to walk her to the door, but she shakes her head. "Thank you," she murmurs, leaning close to kiss his cheek. "I had a lovely time."
Damon smirks. "So did I," he replies, chucking her under the chin with his forefinger. "I'm glad you rigged the auction, Mrs. Lockwood."
She opens the car door and slides to the edge of the seat, all the while giving him that look through her lashes, the perfect Southern lady again. "I'll see you soon?" she asks.
Damon tips his non-existent hat to her. "Yes, ma'am."