[fic] Truth and Consequences
Title: Truth and Consequences
Author: badboy_fangirl
Fandom: TVD
Pairings: Damon/Carol
Word Count: 1952
Rating | Warnings: NC-17 | sexytimes
Prompt Giver | Prompt: crowandfog | Carol Lockwood used to drink socially, but, now, all her tea is of the Long Island variety.
Author's notes: This is an authorized sequel to Afternoon Delight, and, unlike that fic, I went to great lengths to figure a time when this could have actually happened in canon. I was torn between a couple places, but decided that thematically having this take place after the end of 2x03 when Damon was pissed that Elena "tricked him" was best. And, with no surprise to crowandfog this is the prompt I was most looking forward to writing! Merry Christmas!
Carol Lockwood used to drink socially, but, now, all her tea is of the Long Island variety. (It's stressful being interim Mayor.)
It's late in the evening and she's nursing a tall glass while she goes over some budget numbers, and all she can think is that it's good that things are calm now and the vampire situation is under control because they don't have any extra money to call in back-up, not with all the town events that are already scheduled for this year.
Since Richard's death, she's considered several times just going behind Liz's back and calling Bill herself. He would be much more forceful in his handling of the vampire situation, but she consoles herself that there is no longer a vampire situation to worry about. Richard would have willingly given his life for that, so it comforts her to think of it that way.
A knock comes on the study door and Damon Salvatore pokes his head in. "Sorry to startle you, Carol, but nobody answered the front door when I knocked."
"Oh," Carol says in surprise, instantly getting to her feet. She wasn't expecting Damon to come by for any Council business, but he might have information that she needs so she sets her budget materials aside. "Please, come in."
She circles around to the front of her desk, tugging at the hem of her skirt self-consciously. Regardless of their professional relationship, Carol is never in Damon's presence that she doesn't remember that afternoon they'd spent together a few months earlier, or the indiscretion that she'd shared with him. She had felt somewhat guilty about it then (though she liked to think the way Damon had handled it had almost been keeping her faithful), but now that her husband is dead, she lets herself feel the attraction in its entirety.
He walks into her study, gives her a curt little smile, some sort of anger flashing in his crystalline eyes, and all she can focus on is that she has the most inappropriate reaction to this man who is somewhere around twenty years her junior. But it doesn't matter to her body; whenever he's near, she feels a heat low in her belly and her thighs all but quiver in remembrance of his mouth between them.
"Sorry to bother you so late, Carol," he says, coming to a stop in front of her. He kisses her cheek, his perfect manners never disrupted even though she can feel energy coming off him that indicates he's perturbed about something.
"It's no bother, Damon," she says. She gestures at the pitcher of tea sitting on the edge of her desk. "Would you like a drink? This isn't just Sweet Tea, and you look like you could use something that has four types of alcohol in it." She gives him an understanding smile; though unaware of what's caused his agitation, she knows what it's like to be stressed beyond one's limits.
He stares at her face for a moment, and by great effort schools his emotions so that he doesn't look quite as livid. "That would be perfect," he says, his gaze dropping to the desk and the tea. She pours him a glass, their fingers brushing as she hands it to him, and he takes a big gulp of it before finally settling down enough to get to business. "I came by..." he pauses and then looks around sharply, his body tightly coiled. "Well, first, you are alone tonight? I thought your brother-in-law was still in town?"
Carol waves a hand. "Oh, Mason had somewhere to be tonight, and Tyler's out with some friends, too. That's why I was doing some work now, I had the time. Is something wrong?" she asks.
Damon takes another swallow from his glass and squints at her a bit. "No, nothing's wrong," he says, and he twitches just a little. "I just want to be able to speak freely."
"Of course," Carol nods. She would invite him to sit down, but he's too wound up for that, she can just tell.
"I wondered...have you, in all your years here, and with all the history about vampires in Mystic Falls, ever heard anything said about werewolves?"
Carol can't help the laugh that bubbles up in her throat. "Werewolves? Oh, heaven's no, Damon. I think you're letting your imagination get the best of you."
The hardness in his gaze sharpens a touch. "It seems foolish to me to believe in vampires, but not assume there are other supernatural creatures out there. And as head of the Council, I think we need to be prepared for the possibility."
Carol automatically puts her hand on his arm, trying to soothe him. She spent twenty-five years married to a man much like Damon, and she suddenly understands her attraction to him. He's not just wonderful to look at, he's very like Richard, always sure he's the smartest guy in the room, confident that whatever thought he's got in his head everyone ought to entertain.
He's not necessarily wrong, and Carol sees the wisdom in considering the probability, but she still gets the impression that whatever has distressed Damon is not the mere idea of werewolves. "Well, of course. You know, I can look through the Lockwood family journals and see if there's anything about werewolves." She placates very well; it's a quality that the wife of man in power has to have, especially when the ego of that man has been injured in some way. She slides her hand up over the soft hair on his forearm, until her fingers graze the rolled up sleeve of his button-down shirt. "Or would you like to look at the journals yourself?" she offers.
Damon nods his head and his eyes stop flashing quite so dangerously. The thrill of it quells in her stomach slightly, and Carol realizes just how much his energy affects her. She's probably had too much to drink as well, but her desire to lean into him and touch her tongue to the pulse in his throat nearly overwhelms her. "Follow me to the library," she says, turning away from him before she does something to embarrass herself.
He does as she commands, his steps right behind hers, and she has another flash, this time of his hands on her hips and her pencil skirt pushed up like it had been that day with him in the woods. Her cheeks flush when she realizes she's wearing the same article of clothing as she had then, and she's grateful as they step into the library that the low lighting makes her red cheeks hard to see.
She finds George Lockwood's diaries on a shelf on the far right, next to a large overstuffed chair. "He was the most prolific of the Lockwood's from the time of the founding of Mystic Falls," she says as she hands the leather-bound books to Damon. Their fingers brush again, and Carol knows she should get him out of the house as quickly as possible.
It's just because she misses her husband, she tells herself.
(It's just because the memory of Damon's tongue against her clitoris is enough to make her wet right this minute.)
"Thanks, Carol," he murmurs and she turns back to leave the library, but Damon isn't moving. His eyes are downcast on the books in his hands, and she accidentally collides with him.
"Whoops!" he says, and she starts to giggle nervously when the books fall to the floor and his hands grip her upper arms to steady her. Their eyes meet, and Carol has the space of a split second to remember that she has no poker face, and Damon, for all that she knows he would never cross improper boundaries without an invitation has already had one invitation from her before.
So, maybe it's the Iced Tea, or the fact that it's been a week and a half since her husband died, or it's just because Carol Lockwood has wanted Damon Salvatore since she first laid eyes on him and it's always bothered her that he didn't take his own pleasure that afternoon in the forest, but she reaches out and squeezes him through the front of his jeans.
His eyes flare, and she feels his cock harden beneath her fingers, and she practically whimpers in delight. The world shifts suddenly, and she's facing the bookshelf she'd just turned away from; Damon's hands shove her skirt up faster than she can register it, his fingers sliding over her buttocks to catch in the lace of her panties to drag them downward.
She's vaguely aware of the sound of his belt coming undone, but then his fingers are testing between her legs and she moans when he unleashes several erotic swear words upon finding her already turned on. His other hand is suddenly against the back of her neck and he's pushing her forward so that the large overstuffed chair right there supports her body. She braces her hands on the edge, and then cries his name when he enters her.
He grunts, no audible words erupting from his lips at first, but it doesn't matter for Carol. She's never, in her entire life, had such dirty sex. She'd read books, heard things about people who'd had their brains fucked out metaphorically speaking, of course, but as a lady, she'd not put her own eyes upon such things very often. But right now, she knows that's what's happening to her. His hand grips the hair covering her nape roughly, keeping her bent over the arm of the chair, and his hips slam into her ass in a harsh, wonderful rhythm that makes her entire body feel like it's on fire. He begins to say things, things Richard certainly never said to her, not in all their married years, nor in those hot, wonderful days before they were married when it was forbidden and wrong to do it.
They aren't words that include her in the event, strangely, but things that let her know just how alone he is in the moment, how her body is a haven, but nothing real to him, how he's about to lose it, but no, no, no, not yet, not yet, he breathes, and then his hand, the one that parted her legs so he could get inside her to begin with finds her clitoris, and he pinches her so that pleasure explodes so closely behind pain that they blend together and Carol makes a sound she never knew she was capable of.
Even though her own rapture is mind-blowing, she feels his when it hits, and it satisfies something within her she can't identify. He swears filthily, tells her he'll give it to her like that again and again if she wants it, and then he groans as it ends for him, and she understands why the French call it the little death.
He kisses her cheek as he stands behind her, helping her right her skirt again. He apologizes for his roughness, tells her that he's had a difficult day, that he appreciates her kindness to him.
He snags her panties from the floor, but doesn't offer them back to her. As she sees him to the front door, she wants to kiss his mouth, but isn't bold enough to do so. Whatever is between them excludes that sort of intimacy, and while it stings a bit, she accepts it as a consequence of their connection. He says goodnight, promises to return the diaries, and leaves with her underwear in his pocket.
They aren't in love, and they never will be, but that doesn't mean this won't happen again.
(She hopes.)
Author: badboy_fangirl
Fandom: TVD
Pairings: Damon/Carol
Word Count: 1952
Rating | Warnings: NC-17 | sexytimes
Prompt Giver | Prompt: crowandfog | Carol Lockwood used to drink socially, but, now, all her tea is of the Long Island variety.
Author's notes: This is an authorized sequel to Afternoon Delight, and, unlike that fic, I went to great lengths to figure a time when this could have actually happened in canon. I was torn between a couple places, but decided that thematically having this take place after the end of 2x03 when Damon was pissed that Elena "tricked him" was best. And, with no surprise to crowandfog this is the prompt I was most looking forward to writing! Merry Christmas!
Carol Lockwood used to drink socially, but, now, all her tea is of the Long Island variety. (It's stressful being interim Mayor.)
It's late in the evening and she's nursing a tall glass while she goes over some budget numbers, and all she can think is that it's good that things are calm now and the vampire situation is under control because they don't have any extra money to call in back-up, not with all the town events that are already scheduled for this year.
Since Richard's death, she's considered several times just going behind Liz's back and calling Bill herself. He would be much more forceful in his handling of the vampire situation, but she consoles herself that there is no longer a vampire situation to worry about. Richard would have willingly given his life for that, so it comforts her to think of it that way.
A knock comes on the study door and Damon Salvatore pokes his head in. "Sorry to startle you, Carol, but nobody answered the front door when I knocked."
"Oh," Carol says in surprise, instantly getting to her feet. She wasn't expecting Damon to come by for any Council business, but he might have information that she needs so she sets her budget materials aside. "Please, come in."
She circles around to the front of her desk, tugging at the hem of her skirt self-consciously. Regardless of their professional relationship, Carol is never in Damon's presence that she doesn't remember that afternoon they'd spent together a few months earlier, or the indiscretion that she'd shared with him. She had felt somewhat guilty about it then (though she liked to think the way Damon had handled it had almost been keeping her faithful), but now that her husband is dead, she lets herself feel the attraction in its entirety.
He walks into her study, gives her a curt little smile, some sort of anger flashing in his crystalline eyes, and all she can focus on is that she has the most inappropriate reaction to this man who is somewhere around twenty years her junior. But it doesn't matter to her body; whenever he's near, she feels a heat low in her belly and her thighs all but quiver in remembrance of his mouth between them.
"Sorry to bother you so late, Carol," he says, coming to a stop in front of her. He kisses her cheek, his perfect manners never disrupted even though she can feel energy coming off him that indicates he's perturbed about something.
"It's no bother, Damon," she says. She gestures at the pitcher of tea sitting on the edge of her desk. "Would you like a drink? This isn't just Sweet Tea, and you look like you could use something that has four types of alcohol in it." She gives him an understanding smile; though unaware of what's caused his agitation, she knows what it's like to be stressed beyond one's limits.
He stares at her face for a moment, and by great effort schools his emotions so that he doesn't look quite as livid. "That would be perfect," he says, his gaze dropping to the desk and the tea. She pours him a glass, their fingers brushing as she hands it to him, and he takes a big gulp of it before finally settling down enough to get to business. "I came by..." he pauses and then looks around sharply, his body tightly coiled. "Well, first, you are alone tonight? I thought your brother-in-law was still in town?"
Carol waves a hand. "Oh, Mason had somewhere to be tonight, and Tyler's out with some friends, too. That's why I was doing some work now, I had the time. Is something wrong?" she asks.
Damon takes another swallow from his glass and squints at her a bit. "No, nothing's wrong," he says, and he twitches just a little. "I just want to be able to speak freely."
"Of course," Carol nods. She would invite him to sit down, but he's too wound up for that, she can just tell.
"I wondered...have you, in all your years here, and with all the history about vampires in Mystic Falls, ever heard anything said about werewolves?"
Carol can't help the laugh that bubbles up in her throat. "Werewolves? Oh, heaven's no, Damon. I think you're letting your imagination get the best of you."
The hardness in his gaze sharpens a touch. "It seems foolish to me to believe in vampires, but not assume there are other supernatural creatures out there. And as head of the Council, I think we need to be prepared for the possibility."
Carol automatically puts her hand on his arm, trying to soothe him. She spent twenty-five years married to a man much like Damon, and she suddenly understands her attraction to him. He's not just wonderful to look at, he's very like Richard, always sure he's the smartest guy in the room, confident that whatever thought he's got in his head everyone ought to entertain.
He's not necessarily wrong, and Carol sees the wisdom in considering the probability, but she still gets the impression that whatever has distressed Damon is not the mere idea of werewolves. "Well, of course. You know, I can look through the Lockwood family journals and see if there's anything about werewolves." She placates very well; it's a quality that the wife of man in power has to have, especially when the ego of that man has been injured in some way. She slides her hand up over the soft hair on his forearm, until her fingers graze the rolled up sleeve of his button-down shirt. "Or would you like to look at the journals yourself?" she offers.
Damon nods his head and his eyes stop flashing quite so dangerously. The thrill of it quells in her stomach slightly, and Carol realizes just how much his energy affects her. She's probably had too much to drink as well, but her desire to lean into him and touch her tongue to the pulse in his throat nearly overwhelms her. "Follow me to the library," she says, turning away from him before she does something to embarrass herself.
He does as she commands, his steps right behind hers, and she has another flash, this time of his hands on her hips and her pencil skirt pushed up like it had been that day with him in the woods. Her cheeks flush when she realizes she's wearing the same article of clothing as she had then, and she's grateful as they step into the library that the low lighting makes her red cheeks hard to see.
She finds George Lockwood's diaries on a shelf on the far right, next to a large overstuffed chair. "He was the most prolific of the Lockwood's from the time of the founding of Mystic Falls," she says as she hands the leather-bound books to Damon. Their fingers brush again, and Carol knows she should get him out of the house as quickly as possible.
It's just because she misses her husband, she tells herself.
(It's just because the memory of Damon's tongue against her clitoris is enough to make her wet right this minute.)
"Thanks, Carol," he murmurs and she turns back to leave the library, but Damon isn't moving. His eyes are downcast on the books in his hands, and she accidentally collides with him.
"Whoops!" he says, and she starts to giggle nervously when the books fall to the floor and his hands grip her upper arms to steady her. Their eyes meet, and Carol has the space of a split second to remember that she has no poker face, and Damon, for all that she knows he would never cross improper boundaries without an invitation has already had one invitation from her before.
So, maybe it's the Iced Tea, or the fact that it's been a week and a half since her husband died, or it's just because Carol Lockwood has wanted Damon Salvatore since she first laid eyes on him and it's always bothered her that he didn't take his own pleasure that afternoon in the forest, but she reaches out and squeezes him through the front of his jeans.
His eyes flare, and she feels his cock harden beneath her fingers, and she practically whimpers in delight. The world shifts suddenly, and she's facing the bookshelf she'd just turned away from; Damon's hands shove her skirt up faster than she can register it, his fingers sliding over her buttocks to catch in the lace of her panties to drag them downward.
She's vaguely aware of the sound of his belt coming undone, but then his fingers are testing between her legs and she moans when he unleashes several erotic swear words upon finding her already turned on. His other hand is suddenly against the back of her neck and he's pushing her forward so that the large overstuffed chair right there supports her body. She braces her hands on the edge, and then cries his name when he enters her.
He grunts, no audible words erupting from his lips at first, but it doesn't matter for Carol. She's never, in her entire life, had such dirty sex. She'd read books, heard things about people who'd had their brains fucked out metaphorically speaking, of course, but as a lady, she'd not put her own eyes upon such things very often. But right now, she knows that's what's happening to her. His hand grips the hair covering her nape roughly, keeping her bent over the arm of the chair, and his hips slam into her ass in a harsh, wonderful rhythm that makes her entire body feel like it's on fire. He begins to say things, things Richard certainly never said to her, not in all their married years, nor in those hot, wonderful days before they were married when it was forbidden and wrong to do it.
They aren't words that include her in the event, strangely, but things that let her know just how alone he is in the moment, how her body is a haven, but nothing real to him, how he's about to lose it, but no, no, no, not yet, not yet, he breathes, and then his hand, the one that parted her legs so he could get inside her to begin with finds her clitoris, and he pinches her so that pleasure explodes so closely behind pain that they blend together and Carol makes a sound she never knew she was capable of.
Even though her own rapture is mind-blowing, she feels his when it hits, and it satisfies something within her she can't identify. He swears filthily, tells her he'll give it to her like that again and again if she wants it, and then he groans as it ends for him, and she understands why the French call it the little death.
He kisses her cheek as he stands behind her, helping her right her skirt again. He apologizes for his roughness, tells her that he's had a difficult day, that he appreciates her kindness to him.
He snags her panties from the floor, but doesn't offer them back to her. As she sees him to the front door, she wants to kiss his mouth, but isn't bold enough to do so. Whatever is between them excludes that sort of intimacy, and while it stings a bit, she accepts it as a consequence of their connection. He says goodnight, promises to return the diaries, and leaves with her underwear in his pocket.
They aren't in love, and they never will be, but that doesn't mean this won't happen again.
(She hopes.)