[fic] i'm not here for your entertainment
Title: i'm not here for your entertainment
Author: badboy_fangirl
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV; Damon[/Elena]
Word Count: ~1400 (yay, not 5k!)
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Spoilers: Everything through S3. Post episode fic for 3x19 specifically.
Summary: Damon's sad, lonely, and frustrated after the events of Denver.
Author's notes: This fic spawned from an inappropriate discussion with upupa_epops about self-love. You may want to read Elena's side of things here: Watch. The title and quote for this fic are lifted from P!nk's "U + Ur Hand." For obvious reasons.
I'm not here for your entertainment
You don't really want to mess with me tonight
I was fine before you walked into my life
'Cause you know it's over before it began
Keep your drink just give me the money
It's just you and your hand tonight
The tub fills with water while he clutches a bottle of bourbon in one hand. With the other, he pours bubble bath under the flow from the tap.
What? He likes a nice-smelling bath. It's not just for the ladies.
And he deserves a long, hot one after the mess of the last two days. Forever-or at least what felt like forever-in a silent car with Jeremy and Elena. Nobody had spoken because, well, what was there left to say?
Damon wished he'd had some flippant remark, but after all that, he was pretty much out of his usual snark. Getting beat with a baseball bat by an Original will do that to you. Not to mention getting beat by Elena's denial, her uncertainty, or her strange ability to hope that everything might magically go back to normal at the end of the half-hour. Yeah, that's what the bottle of bourbon's for.
Talking has never gotten him very far with Elena, and it seems, neither had practically fucking her against a concrete barrier at a Super 8. As deafening as the silence had been for the 20 plus hours on the drive home, it had been better than the stupid words tumbling from Elena's lips as she tried to justify what she's doing-what she's done-with him.
How she's somehow done with him before she even really gave it a go? Fuck her. Fuck them all.
Setting the whiskey bottle on the floor, he strips out of his clothes and climbs in the tub. He sinks into the warmth, a groan of pleasure escaping him. The temperature is undoubtedly too hot for a human, but just right for a vampire, and since he's on his own tonight, it hardly matters.
After he dropped the Gilberts off at their house, and was alone in the car, he'd cranked up the radio, just to fill the void. He wasn't much for Top 40, but the irony of a rocker chick's fuck you, go fuck yourself anthem filling the space around his ears hadn't been particularly unpleasant. He can't decide now which one he is, the 'fuck you' guy or the 'go fuck yourself' guy, because with Elena, it's never very clear cut.
Some days it's both.
He reaches for the bottle and with his head resting against the lip of the tub, he starts drinking. It stopped burning on the way down long ago but he knows if he were human he would have died of blood alcohol poisoning twelve times over. There is still the warm heady effect, and that's what he's after tonight. The way it coasts along his veins, the way it almost makes the need for blood recede, at least for a while, the way, with enough of it, he doesn't have to feel every goddamn thing he always feels.
The switch flipping might be a notion of the past, but he can remember what it's like to feel nothing, and there are reasons vampires choose it. There were definite reasons he had. Elena Gilbert would be one of them now, were it still an option.
It's not that he's not sympathetic to her. In all honesty, a girl like her would never be with a guy like him. But she had already been with a guy like him, and really he is just the Vampire Boyfriend Redux. He would give anything for it not to matter, for her assault at the motel to be nothing more than a momentary lapse of conscience, but the problem is, he knows Elena. He knows she doesn't do anything without thinking about it for a long time.
So she had thought about that, for a while.
He likes to tease her, be audacious and flirtatious because she just always rolls her eyes (or covered her eyes, as it were) in those loud moments, but the quiet ones, the ones where they were being real, where they got down to something, he wasn't looking for that, necessarily.
(His burgeoning erection would argue that's a lie.)
He shifts in the tub, his skin squeaking against the porcelain. Water flows over him, caressing him enough to make the thought grow into something more substantial. He drops the empty whiskey bottle over the edge, onto the bath mat, and reaches for his cock, his hand a little less sure than one might think.
(He doesn't do this; he doesn't have to. Women were easy enough to come by, even without compulsion.)
(Oh, who's he kidding? No one knows his own cock better than the owner. He was, after all, his own first sexual partner.)
He strokes himself idly, thinking of Elena, of all the pent up passion he'd felt from her as she opened her mouth over his, as her body rose up to meet his. Sure, he wants to fuck her, there's no way around that. But if it was only that, he wouldn't be here like this, now. His fantasy would involve her hands and her mouth wrapped around his dick; then her body would be atop his, bouncing breasts and wet pussy all for him. Her lips would be saying his name, and her eyes would be unable to look away from his. She'd tell him lies like I've wanted this so long and I've never had it this good, ever.
What really turned him on, though, is the idea of her thinking about it. Of her, imagining him. Had she thought of him when she had sex with Stefan? Had he slipped in, unbidden, not because of vampire mind tricks, but because at the moment when her pleasure peaked, she couldn't push the truth away? Had he just appeared in her mind, had she felt him inside her because she was raw and open and unguarded? Does she think about him while she does this? Do her fingers play over her sensitive flesh and does she feel him instead, does she close her eyes tightly and forget, for even a moment that she's alone? Does she lie in her bathtub, drunk and aching for something more than release, but settling, she takes it anyway, because it's all there is?
Does she just want to fuck him, or does she want everything that's supposed to go with it?
His own eyes squeeze shut as his hand moves up and down, back and forth, over the length of his shaft. He can see her, lying beside him, her eyes wide and luminous, her mouth soft, her voice softer. Wonder and something else rested over her as she asked him about Rose, as she lay there so trustingly, like having a vampire in her bed was an every day, ordinary occurrence.
His hand tightens at the thought, a moan escaping his throat. Maybe he whispers her name, maybe he curses Jeremy and Rose for their bad timing. When he'd been pressed against her, he'd been this hard, this ready, and she had canted her hips up to his, mewling into his mouth when his hand slid down to cup her ass and hold her just right as he ground against her.
Now, his hips buck up, the memory as potent as the whiskey he'd swallowed. He wants to forget, to black it out, to ignore the fact that she hadn't even needed to complete it, because if she had, she'd be here now. She doesn't want what comes with it, and she doesn't want this either, does she? He wants to obliterate the vision of her running to him like one more second apart was too much to bear, how with her hands on his face he'd felt like he might fly apart, how the only thing to do was find a firm surface to steady them against, to press into her possessively, so she could feel the unrealized hope he'd had the moment they got on the plane to Colorado.
(So much more than blood in his dick, but that was the only manifestation he'd been allowed.)
He can feel it gathering, the pressure, the tingle at the base of his spine, and he moves his hand faster, faster, arching up into nothingness, sending water over the sides of the tub until the sloshing splatters sprinkle his face. He relaxes his grip as he softens, his breath sharp in his own ears.
He is this exposed with her every time. He might as well whip it out and flog himself for everyone to see. He has to quit doing that.
(He will never quit doing that.)
Because, seriously. What does it look like he's doing there?
Author: badboy_fangirl
Characters/Pairings: Damon POV; Damon[/Elena]
Word Count: ~1400 (yay, not 5k!)
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Spoilers: Everything through S3. Post episode fic for 3x19 specifically.
Summary: Damon's sad, lonely, and frustrated after the events of Denver.
Author's notes: This fic spawned from an inappropriate discussion with upupa_epops about self-love. You may want to read Elena's side of things here: Watch. The title and quote for this fic are lifted from P!nk's "U + Ur Hand." For obvious reasons.
I'm not here for your entertainment
You don't really want to mess with me tonight
I was fine before you walked into my life
'Cause you know it's over before it began
Keep your drink just give me the money
It's just you and your hand tonight
The tub fills with water while he clutches a bottle of bourbon in one hand. With the other, he pours bubble bath under the flow from the tap.
What? He likes a nice-smelling bath. It's not just for the ladies.
And he deserves a long, hot one after the mess of the last two days. Forever-or at least what felt like forever-in a silent car with Jeremy and Elena. Nobody had spoken because, well, what was there left to say?
Damon wished he'd had some flippant remark, but after all that, he was pretty much out of his usual snark. Getting beat with a baseball bat by an Original will do that to you. Not to mention getting beat by Elena's denial, her uncertainty, or her strange ability to hope that everything might magically go back to normal at the end of the half-hour. Yeah, that's what the bottle of bourbon's for.
Talking has never gotten him very far with Elena, and it seems, neither had practically fucking her against a concrete barrier at a Super 8. As deafening as the silence had been for the 20 plus hours on the drive home, it had been better than the stupid words tumbling from Elena's lips as she tried to justify what she's doing-what she's done-with him.
How she's somehow done with him before she even really gave it a go? Fuck her. Fuck them all.
Setting the whiskey bottle on the floor, he strips out of his clothes and climbs in the tub. He sinks into the warmth, a groan of pleasure escaping him. The temperature is undoubtedly too hot for a human, but just right for a vampire, and since he's on his own tonight, it hardly matters.
After he dropped the Gilberts off at their house, and was alone in the car, he'd cranked up the radio, just to fill the void. He wasn't much for Top 40, but the irony of a rocker chick's fuck you, go fuck yourself anthem filling the space around his ears hadn't been particularly unpleasant. He can't decide now which one he is, the 'fuck you' guy or the 'go fuck yourself' guy, because with Elena, it's never very clear cut.
Some days it's both.
He reaches for the bottle and with his head resting against the lip of the tub, he starts drinking. It stopped burning on the way down long ago but he knows if he were human he would have died of blood alcohol poisoning twelve times over. There is still the warm heady effect, and that's what he's after tonight. The way it coasts along his veins, the way it almost makes the need for blood recede, at least for a while, the way, with enough of it, he doesn't have to feel every goddamn thing he always feels.
The switch flipping might be a notion of the past, but he can remember what it's like to feel nothing, and there are reasons vampires choose it. There were definite reasons he had. Elena Gilbert would be one of them now, were it still an option.
It's not that he's not sympathetic to her. In all honesty, a girl like her would never be with a guy like him. But she had already been with a guy like him, and really he is just the Vampire Boyfriend Redux. He would give anything for it not to matter, for her assault at the motel to be nothing more than a momentary lapse of conscience, but the problem is, he knows Elena. He knows she doesn't do anything without thinking about it for a long time.
So she had thought about that, for a while.
He likes to tease her, be audacious and flirtatious because she just always rolls her eyes (or covered her eyes, as it were) in those loud moments, but the quiet ones, the ones where they were being real, where they got down to something, he wasn't looking for that, necessarily.
(His burgeoning erection would argue that's a lie.)
He shifts in the tub, his skin squeaking against the porcelain. Water flows over him, caressing him enough to make the thought grow into something more substantial. He drops the empty whiskey bottle over the edge, onto the bath mat, and reaches for his cock, his hand a little less sure than one might think.
(He doesn't do this; he doesn't have to. Women were easy enough to come by, even without compulsion.)
(Oh, who's he kidding? No one knows his own cock better than the owner. He was, after all, his own first sexual partner.)
He strokes himself idly, thinking of Elena, of all the pent up passion he'd felt from her as she opened her mouth over his, as her body rose up to meet his. Sure, he wants to fuck her, there's no way around that. But if it was only that, he wouldn't be here like this, now. His fantasy would involve her hands and her mouth wrapped around his dick; then her body would be atop his, bouncing breasts and wet pussy all for him. Her lips would be saying his name, and her eyes would be unable to look away from his. She'd tell him lies like I've wanted this so long and I've never had it this good, ever.
What really turned him on, though, is the idea of her thinking about it. Of her, imagining him. Had she thought of him when she had sex with Stefan? Had he slipped in, unbidden, not because of vampire mind tricks, but because at the moment when her pleasure peaked, she couldn't push the truth away? Had he just appeared in her mind, had she felt him inside her because she was raw and open and unguarded? Does she think about him while she does this? Do her fingers play over her sensitive flesh and does she feel him instead, does she close her eyes tightly and forget, for even a moment that she's alone? Does she lie in her bathtub, drunk and aching for something more than release, but settling, she takes it anyway, because it's all there is?
Does she just want to fuck him, or does she want everything that's supposed to go with it?
His own eyes squeeze shut as his hand moves up and down, back and forth, over the length of his shaft. He can see her, lying beside him, her eyes wide and luminous, her mouth soft, her voice softer. Wonder and something else rested over her as she asked him about Rose, as she lay there so trustingly, like having a vampire in her bed was an every day, ordinary occurrence.
His hand tightens at the thought, a moan escaping his throat. Maybe he whispers her name, maybe he curses Jeremy and Rose for their bad timing. When he'd been pressed against her, he'd been this hard, this ready, and she had canted her hips up to his, mewling into his mouth when his hand slid down to cup her ass and hold her just right as he ground against her.
Now, his hips buck up, the memory as potent as the whiskey he'd swallowed. He wants to forget, to black it out, to ignore the fact that she hadn't even needed to complete it, because if she had, she'd be here now. She doesn't want what comes with it, and she doesn't want this either, does she? He wants to obliterate the vision of her running to him like one more second apart was too much to bear, how with her hands on his face he'd felt like he might fly apart, how the only thing to do was find a firm surface to steady them against, to press into her possessively, so she could feel the unrealized hope he'd had the moment they got on the plane to Colorado.
(So much more than blood in his dick, but that was the only manifestation he'd been allowed.)
He can feel it gathering, the pressure, the tingle at the base of his spine, and he moves his hand faster, faster, arching up into nothingness, sending water over the sides of the tub until the sloshing splatters sprinkle his face. He relaxes his grip as he softens, his breath sharp in his own ears.
He is this exposed with her every time. He might as well whip it out and flog himself for everyone to see. He has to quit doing that.
(He will never quit doing that.)
Because, seriously. What does it look like he's doing there?