[fic] don't wanna rule the world
Title: don't wanna rule the world
Author: badboy_fangirl
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV; Damon/Elena
Word Count: ~2400
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 (sexy_tiems & biting)
Spoilers: Everything through S3.
Summary: As close as I come to PWP, I guess.
Author's notes: This is me stalking a conversation between shipperjunkie and upupa_epops and stealing their thoughts. (Also trying to surprise them and please them some little bit. They know why. *is evil*) Title lifted from Janet Jackson's "Control."
Damon likes to pretend that he's in control. Like, yeah, he loves Elena, and whatever, but it doesn't control him.
She doesn't control him.
(He's a fantastic liar, come to think of it.)
In the weeks after she turns, when she is at a loss for control, he secretly revels in it. It's sort of nice, you know, not to be the only pussy in the room. And he doesn't mean him and Stefan, because they are two totally different types of pussy. Pussies? Whatever, that's a bad word, a non-sufficient word.
What he means is weak. He's weak where Elena's concerned, and he knows it, even if he tries to pretend that he's not. But he's not weak like Stefan. He isn't controlled by blood or his vampirism. He figured out how to navigate that a long time ago, mostly. But Elena? Losing her shit over every little thing? Yeah, there is some poetic justice in that, he's got to admit.
He can't help it if it makes him a little happy, either. He didn't give her vampire blood (this time) and he didn't let her drown. This one isn't on him in anyway, and you know what? That's a good feeling. He can leave town, as per their agreement, and finally, truly, not be controlled by what he feels for her anymore.
It will be great.
(It will suck, big time, but remember the part where he's a fantastic liar? Yeah, that.)
But he doesn't leave. He keeps telling himself he hasn't left yet, and that he totally will, just as soon as...something happens. He doesn't know what he's waiting for. Elena to bite Jeremy or Bonnie or Matt, or Stefan to get superior when Elena yells that she wants human blood, warm and flowing, not cold and stored in the freezer downstairs. Maybe he's just waiting to see if she turns into Katherine 2.0.
(He knows that will never happen, because no matter what, Elena can't be more concerned about herself than anyone else, even when the thirst for blood is making her climb the walls.)
When it happens, though, it's not what he's expecting, but he realizes, in the aftermath, it was the only thing that could happen. It's the ultimate loss of control for Elena.
(Not eating a friend or family member, something much, much worse.)
(It's Denver 2.0. It's Denver, if Elena had been a vampire. Or if Jeremy hadn't interrupted them. Or, you know, if Denver had been all in his head like that hallucination Rebekah gave him when he was bear-trapped in her ballroom.)
Elena comes into his room, finds him lounging on his bed, drinking bourbon and reading Gone With the Wind. This is all perfectly normal, and what lets him know it isn't a dream. She sits on the edge, by his feet, biting her bottom lip pensively before announcing, "Stefan told me about Mikael drinking vampire blood to survive." She pauses. "I wondered what you think of that?"
Damon puts his bookmark in the crease of Margaret Mitchell's masterpiece and sets the novel down on his spare pillow. He looks at her, tries to deciper where this train of thought might lead, and decides it can't be anything more than conversation. So he answers honestly, "I suppose it could be done, but it still won't taste as good as human blood."
"What about strength?" she asks, watching him carefully. "Do you think, like animal blood, it would make you less strong?"
Damon considers that, and then remembers Mikael's hand around his heart, inside his chest cavity. "No. Definitely not less strong. Why, Elena?" he asks, his curiosity broadening. "Thinking of running for Ultimate Vampire Hunter?"
She shakes her head, almost giving him a smile, but not quite. "No, I just want to find some way to survive that I can...live with."
Damon scoffs. "You mean that Stefan can live with. Fuck him, Elena. You can eat people if you want to. It's who you are now. You made this choice, and to repress yourself is only-"
Her finger against his lips not only shuts him up, it steals his breath a little, too, as he's not used to her moving that quickly yet. (From his feet to his head in a blink.) "Damon, no. Really, this is about me. For me. It's not about Stefan."
They haven't touched. Not since she turned, not since she chose his brother over him, not since she died and he'd spent an hour and a half frantically driving back to Mystic Falls, unable to accept it for all the wrong reasons.
There had been one small confrontation where she yelled at him for compelling her, but Stefan had interrupted that, and besides, if she'd touched him then, it would have been to smack him. So yeah, this takes him by surprise, makes his chest tighten, and there's that other moment, the one of self-flagellation, the one where he remembers he doesn't want to be controlled by his feelings for her. So he reaches up and grabs her wrist, twisting her hand away from his face.
She gasps his name and looks at him with hurt leaking across her features and he just can't help himself, he gives her one good backwards shove, forcing her to her feet. "I don't believe you," he growls, and her expression changes so quickly that he's not sure what emotion she's operating from when she folds her arms over her chest and proclaims, "I came here to ask you about it, because he doesn't want to talk about that possibility. Does that prove anything?"
Damon swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. "You don't need to prove anything to me. I'm not a part of this equation, am I?"
God, he's a bitter bastard, isn't he? He should have left town a long time ago. "Damon-" She reaches out to him as he slams his glass down on the bedside table, but he evades her, sliding around her without letting her get a hand on him.
"Just-leave me out of it, okay? That was the plan, before death, right? I was out of the circle. Nothing's changed just because you're gonna live for-fucking-ever."
He walks towards the bathroom, not for any particular reason, just to put space between them and when he glances back over his shoulder, she's not even looking at him. She's staring at his bed, her eyes tracing over the dent in the duvet where he'd been sitting. "No," she says, her voice very soft. "Nothing's changed." Then she laughs, this sound that breaks his heart with its actual lack of mirth. Her eyes come to his then, and she just glares at him. "Of course it's different, Damon! It's all different. I'm different. I'm a vampire. How can anything stay the same. How can anything be like it was before? It can't, it won't." She shakes her head, and her gaze drifts to his lips, a sure sign of the apocalypse. "Well, one thing's the same," she mutters. "We can still argue about the dumbest things and accomplish absolutely nothing."
"We're not arguing," he argues, just to be an ass, just to perform his part, and she rolls her eyes accordingly. "You asked me a question, I answered. Now, off you go," he says, flicking his hand towards the door.
He's not sure if it's his dismissiveness or the hand wave, but something in her snaps. He can see her move from mildly irritated to flat out pissed almost as quickly as she moved from one end of his bed to the other, but this time, she comes at him full throttle. Not just a finger pressed gently to his lips, but a hand wrapped around his throat accompanied by a speedy, twisty turn, and she pins him against the wall.
It's not like she can best him, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been looking forward to a little violence thrown his way, but this isn't so she can hold him down and punch his face. And Damon's always had a fetish for women who like to dominate, so the erection in his pants is of little surprise to him.
What freaks him the fuck out is that Elena doesn't back down. The thought is there, it's across her face, and then she's leaning in, pressing against him, and he doesn't have to move them so there's a hard surface behind one of them for support, because she already did that.
(Denver 2.0: The New and Improved Version.)
So, she kisses him. And kisses him, and kisses him. And he kisses her back, his hands cupping her ass, holding her tight against him as her arms slip behind his head, and her tongue slides over his. If he could think, he would remember how in Denver 1.0, he'd tried to hold her hand and this had been the result, but this time he can't figure out what he did, how it escalated, how he was not being romantic or foolish or anything, and yet. And yet.
She lifts her head for a good breath, only to plow right back into it, and then he can feel her fingers, under his collar, traveling from the back of his neck to the throat of his shirt, pulling the buttons apart so that they'd ping every which way across the room, except that they are too close together for any such pinging to occur.
When she draws back for another breath, her hands coast over his stomach, right to the front of his jeans, and she yanks on the fly hard enough that that button does spring across the room, hitting the opposite wall with a resounding thunk. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says wildly, his hands reaching out and grabbing at her upper arms. But then she sinks to her knees in front of him, and he loses his grip (on her arms, on his mind) as she tugs his jeans and underwear down with her. Then he can't say anything because, that's right, she's got her mouth around his cock and her fingers are teasing their way down the backs of his thighs, so that all he's conscious of is the weight of denim on his feet and pleasure radiating from one intense spot.
She licks and sucks, blows and hums. Her nails go up his legs and down them again, and all he can do is brace himself, hands planted on the wall behind him, because when he goes, it's possible he will just fucking explode, like a meteor. Not just his cock, but his entire body. Poof. Gone like a fireworks show.
He must strangle out her name at some point-maybe he's warning her, trying to let her know where this is going, in case somehow she doesn't know what happens when you deep throat a guy who is already such a headcase for you that he didn't leave town when you basically told him to fuck off and die-okay, that's probably not how it happened, but...oh, god. Elena. Elena. Elena.
"Elena!"
Her hands find his, and as he comes, she laces her fingers through his, swallowing and tonguing him clean so that the orgasm doesn't feel like it's subsiding. He loses all sense of time and awareness and the next thing he knows, he's on his back on the bed, and she's crouched over him. He sees the flash of her eyes, the blood rushing into her face as her fangs descend and then she totally bites him. He's still somewhere between heaven and earth, but when her teeth sink into his thigh, and she draws a mouthful of his blood, he might as well buy land on Mars, because he's not sure he will ever touchdown again.
When things calm, and he can think again, her cheek is resting against his leg, and his hand is palming the back of her head.
What the fuck just happened? is what hangs on the edge of his tongue. But then he hears the door open downstairs, and for the first time in what feels like a century he remembers, Stefan. "Um-" he starts, but her head jerks up, and he realizes she must have heard it, too.
Of the two of them, she's still fully dressed; his pants are in a puddle against the wall and his shirt is destroyed, the lapels wide open, the buttons gone and the button-holes torn. Damon's sure she can just walk from the room, and not give anything away; that is until he looks down at her and the blood all over her face.
Baby vampires are such messy eaters.
He doesn't know what to do, so he plays it like they aren't about to get caught. "How was it?" His thumb rubs through the residue on her cheek.
Her eyes sparkle, and he realizes it's the light catching on the tears pooling there, but then she smiles. She's not sad, and he can't explain that. "Delicious," she whispers, and she pushes herself up, jumping from the bed with cat-like grace. Then it hits her-what just happened beyond blood consumption, and she stumbles back just a little, but instantly rights herself and heads for the door.
Damon listens hard, makes out the sound of Stefan pouring himself a drink downstairs in the library, and realizes they're in the clear. Or at the very least, they aren't getting caught today.
(That's not to say there won't be other days. Like Denver 3.0.)
He stretches his neck to watch her go and at the door she turns back. "Damon-"
He waves her off, because really? Are they going to hash this out with Stefan brooding downstairs? Hell to the no. "Go clean up," he says, his tone soft. "Babies need bibs," he mutters, gesturing at his face before pointing at her.
Looking grateful, she lingers in the doorway just a moment longer, and then she finally goes. He stays where he is on the bed, mostly because he doesn't think he can move yet anyway.
(Control, by the way, is totally overrated.)
Author: badboy_fangirl
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV; Damon/Elena
Word Count: ~2400
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 (sexy_tiems & biting)
Spoilers: Everything through S3.
Summary: As close as I come to PWP, I guess.
Author's notes: This is me stalking a conversation between shipperjunkie and upupa_epops and stealing their thoughts. (Also trying to surprise them and please them some little bit. They know why. *is evil*) Title lifted from Janet Jackson's "Control."
Damon likes to pretend that he's in control. Like, yeah, he loves Elena, and whatever, but it doesn't control him.
She doesn't control him.
(He's a fantastic liar, come to think of it.)
In the weeks after she turns, when she is at a loss for control, he secretly revels in it. It's sort of nice, you know, not to be the only pussy in the room. And he doesn't mean him and Stefan, because they are two totally different types of pussy. Pussies? Whatever, that's a bad word, a non-sufficient word.
What he means is weak. He's weak where Elena's concerned, and he knows it, even if he tries to pretend that he's not. But he's not weak like Stefan. He isn't controlled by blood or his vampirism. He figured out how to navigate that a long time ago, mostly. But Elena? Losing her shit over every little thing? Yeah, there is some poetic justice in that, he's got to admit.
He can't help it if it makes him a little happy, either. He didn't give her vampire blood (this time) and he didn't let her drown. This one isn't on him in anyway, and you know what? That's a good feeling. He can leave town, as per their agreement, and finally, truly, not be controlled by what he feels for her anymore.
It will be great.
(It will suck, big time, but remember the part where he's a fantastic liar? Yeah, that.)
But he doesn't leave. He keeps telling himself he hasn't left yet, and that he totally will, just as soon as...something happens. He doesn't know what he's waiting for. Elena to bite Jeremy or Bonnie or Matt, or Stefan to get superior when Elena yells that she wants human blood, warm and flowing, not cold and stored in the freezer downstairs. Maybe he's just waiting to see if she turns into Katherine 2.0.
(He knows that will never happen, because no matter what, Elena can't be more concerned about herself than anyone else, even when the thirst for blood is making her climb the walls.)
When it happens, though, it's not what he's expecting, but he realizes, in the aftermath, it was the only thing that could happen. It's the ultimate loss of control for Elena.
(Not eating a friend or family member, something much, much worse.)
(It's Denver 2.0. It's Denver, if Elena had been a vampire. Or if Jeremy hadn't interrupted them. Or, you know, if Denver had been all in his head like that hallucination Rebekah gave him when he was bear-trapped in her ballroom.)
Elena comes into his room, finds him lounging on his bed, drinking bourbon and reading Gone With the Wind. This is all perfectly normal, and what lets him know it isn't a dream. She sits on the edge, by his feet, biting her bottom lip pensively before announcing, "Stefan told me about Mikael drinking vampire blood to survive." She pauses. "I wondered what you think of that?"
Damon puts his bookmark in the crease of Margaret Mitchell's masterpiece and sets the novel down on his spare pillow. He looks at her, tries to deciper where this train of thought might lead, and decides it can't be anything more than conversation. So he answers honestly, "I suppose it could be done, but it still won't taste as good as human blood."
"What about strength?" she asks, watching him carefully. "Do you think, like animal blood, it would make you less strong?"
Damon considers that, and then remembers Mikael's hand around his heart, inside his chest cavity. "No. Definitely not less strong. Why, Elena?" he asks, his curiosity broadening. "Thinking of running for Ultimate Vampire Hunter?"
She shakes her head, almost giving him a smile, but not quite. "No, I just want to find some way to survive that I can...live with."
Damon scoffs. "You mean that Stefan can live with. Fuck him, Elena. You can eat people if you want to. It's who you are now. You made this choice, and to repress yourself is only-"
Her finger against his lips not only shuts him up, it steals his breath a little, too, as he's not used to her moving that quickly yet. (From his feet to his head in a blink.) "Damon, no. Really, this is about me. For me. It's not about Stefan."
They haven't touched. Not since she turned, not since she chose his brother over him, not since she died and he'd spent an hour and a half frantically driving back to Mystic Falls, unable to accept it for all the wrong reasons.
There had been one small confrontation where she yelled at him for compelling her, but Stefan had interrupted that, and besides, if she'd touched him then, it would have been to smack him. So yeah, this takes him by surprise, makes his chest tighten, and there's that other moment, the one of self-flagellation, the one where he remembers he doesn't want to be controlled by his feelings for her. So he reaches up and grabs her wrist, twisting her hand away from his face.
She gasps his name and looks at him with hurt leaking across her features and he just can't help himself, he gives her one good backwards shove, forcing her to her feet. "I don't believe you," he growls, and her expression changes so quickly that he's not sure what emotion she's operating from when she folds her arms over her chest and proclaims, "I came here to ask you about it, because he doesn't want to talk about that possibility. Does that prove anything?"
Damon swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up. "You don't need to prove anything to me. I'm not a part of this equation, am I?"
God, he's a bitter bastard, isn't he? He should have left town a long time ago. "Damon-" She reaches out to him as he slams his glass down on the bedside table, but he evades her, sliding around her without letting her get a hand on him.
"Just-leave me out of it, okay? That was the plan, before death, right? I was out of the circle. Nothing's changed just because you're gonna live for-fucking-ever."
He walks towards the bathroom, not for any particular reason, just to put space between them and when he glances back over his shoulder, she's not even looking at him. She's staring at his bed, her eyes tracing over the dent in the duvet where he'd been sitting. "No," she says, her voice very soft. "Nothing's changed." Then she laughs, this sound that breaks his heart with its actual lack of mirth. Her eyes come to his then, and she just glares at him. "Of course it's different, Damon! It's all different. I'm different. I'm a vampire. How can anything stay the same. How can anything be like it was before? It can't, it won't." She shakes her head, and her gaze drifts to his lips, a sure sign of the apocalypse. "Well, one thing's the same," she mutters. "We can still argue about the dumbest things and accomplish absolutely nothing."
"We're not arguing," he argues, just to be an ass, just to perform his part, and she rolls her eyes accordingly. "You asked me a question, I answered. Now, off you go," he says, flicking his hand towards the door.
He's not sure if it's his dismissiveness or the hand wave, but something in her snaps. He can see her move from mildly irritated to flat out pissed almost as quickly as she moved from one end of his bed to the other, but this time, she comes at him full throttle. Not just a finger pressed gently to his lips, but a hand wrapped around his throat accompanied by a speedy, twisty turn, and she pins him against the wall.
It's not like she can best him, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been looking forward to a little violence thrown his way, but this isn't so she can hold him down and punch his face. And Damon's always had a fetish for women who like to dominate, so the erection in his pants is of little surprise to him.
What freaks him the fuck out is that Elena doesn't back down. The thought is there, it's across her face, and then she's leaning in, pressing against him, and he doesn't have to move them so there's a hard surface behind one of them for support, because she already did that.
(Denver 2.0: The New and Improved Version.)
So, she kisses him. And kisses him, and kisses him. And he kisses her back, his hands cupping her ass, holding her tight against him as her arms slip behind his head, and her tongue slides over his. If he could think, he would remember how in Denver 1.0, he'd tried to hold her hand and this had been the result, but this time he can't figure out what he did, how it escalated, how he was not being romantic or foolish or anything, and yet. And yet.
She lifts her head for a good breath, only to plow right back into it, and then he can feel her fingers, under his collar, traveling from the back of his neck to the throat of his shirt, pulling the buttons apart so that they'd ping every which way across the room, except that they are too close together for any such pinging to occur.
When she draws back for another breath, her hands coast over his stomach, right to the front of his jeans, and she yanks on the fly hard enough that that button does spring across the room, hitting the opposite wall with a resounding thunk. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says wildly, his hands reaching out and grabbing at her upper arms. But then she sinks to her knees in front of him, and he loses his grip (on her arms, on his mind) as she tugs his jeans and underwear down with her. Then he can't say anything because, that's right, she's got her mouth around his cock and her fingers are teasing their way down the backs of his thighs, so that all he's conscious of is the weight of denim on his feet and pleasure radiating from one intense spot.
She licks and sucks, blows and hums. Her nails go up his legs and down them again, and all he can do is brace himself, hands planted on the wall behind him, because when he goes, it's possible he will just fucking explode, like a meteor. Not just his cock, but his entire body. Poof. Gone like a fireworks show.
He must strangle out her name at some point-maybe he's warning her, trying to let her know where this is going, in case somehow she doesn't know what happens when you deep throat a guy who is already such a headcase for you that he didn't leave town when you basically told him to fuck off and die-okay, that's probably not how it happened, but...oh, god. Elena. Elena. Elena.
"Elena!"
Her hands find his, and as he comes, she laces her fingers through his, swallowing and tonguing him clean so that the orgasm doesn't feel like it's subsiding. He loses all sense of time and awareness and the next thing he knows, he's on his back on the bed, and she's crouched over him. He sees the flash of her eyes, the blood rushing into her face as her fangs descend and then she totally bites him. He's still somewhere between heaven and earth, but when her teeth sink into his thigh, and she draws a mouthful of his blood, he might as well buy land on Mars, because he's not sure he will ever touchdown again.
When things calm, and he can think again, her cheek is resting against his leg, and his hand is palming the back of her head.
What the fuck just happened? is what hangs on the edge of his tongue. But then he hears the door open downstairs, and for the first time in what feels like a century he remembers, Stefan. "Um-" he starts, but her head jerks up, and he realizes she must have heard it, too.
Of the two of them, she's still fully dressed; his pants are in a puddle against the wall and his shirt is destroyed, the lapels wide open, the buttons gone and the button-holes torn. Damon's sure she can just walk from the room, and not give anything away; that is until he looks down at her and the blood all over her face.
Baby vampires are such messy eaters.
He doesn't know what to do, so he plays it like they aren't about to get caught. "How was it?" His thumb rubs through the residue on her cheek.
Her eyes sparkle, and he realizes it's the light catching on the tears pooling there, but then she smiles. She's not sad, and he can't explain that. "Delicious," she whispers, and she pushes herself up, jumping from the bed with cat-like grace. Then it hits her-what just happened beyond blood consumption, and she stumbles back just a little, but instantly rights herself and heads for the door.
Damon listens hard, makes out the sound of Stefan pouring himself a drink downstairs in the library, and realizes they're in the clear. Or at the very least, they aren't getting caught today.
(That's not to say there won't be other days. Like Denver 3.0.)
He stretches his neck to watch her go and at the door she turns back. "Damon-"
He waves her off, because really? Are they going to hash this out with Stefan brooding downstairs? Hell to the no. "Go clean up," he says, his tone soft. "Babies need bibs," he mutters, gesturing at his face before pointing at her.
Looking grateful, she lingers in the doorway just a moment longer, and then she finally goes. He stays where he is on the bed, mostly because he doesn't think he can move yet anyway.
(Control, by the way, is totally overrated.)