[fic] A Beautiful Lie
Title: A Beautiful Lie
Author: badboy_fangirl
Fandom: TVD
Pairings: Damon/Elena
Word Count: ~1800
Rating | Warnings: R | sexy times
Author's notes: Okay, this was written because I became obsessed yesterday with an the idea of Elena pretending to be Katherine to seduce Damon. But the other thing is this: I did decide at the first of the year that I wouldn't write fanfic anymore, but the post I made about that was friends-only. So, this is a last hurrah, since I didn't make that post public. To all of you who have read and enjoyed my fic, particularly my Damon/Elena stuff, 2012 is the year where I'm devoting my writing time to original characters. I may come back to write fanfic occasionally, but it won't be often. Thanks for all your support. All those comments you left me really made it possible for me to get the courage to do this.
Spoilers: This isn't based on spoiler reading; it's just an idea that came to me after the scenes in 3x13 where you can tell Damon is rethinking his whole existence. This fic is based on the idea that he has distanced himself from Elena, and so what's a girl to do?
She walks into his bedroom, that swing to her hips, the thunk, thunk of her boots rhythmic in the most basic of ways.
(Seduction is something at which he's a pro, so he can see it coming from about ten miles away. Vampire, remember?)
She pauses, thumb hooked into the belt-loop of her jeans, and she tips her head at him, the dark curls falling around her face like the most ornate of frames. She sure is something to look at, he certainly can't deny it. (Not that he'd try.)
"Damon," she murmurs, her greeting vaguely husky, her throat choking on the lie. She's better than he'd expect, but still, he knows. He'd know her dead in his sleep, staked by Papa Original himself. She's the only one he's wanted for months; she's the one he pushed away when he could no longer deny the truth.
(He'll just get her killed, or worse, he'll kill her, so she can live forever.)
He plays along, just to see how far she'll take it. "Katherine," he says, lifting his glass of bourbon to her. "Long time, no see."
She smirks, and it's a fairly impressive imitation of him if he's paying close enough attention. (Which he totally is.)
"I heard you were 'over' Elena. That you'd moved on. I had to come see for myself, considering the last one took a hundred and forty five years. Nine months hardly seems like you tried." She moves closer, her eyes flicking over his face, dropping to his mouth, which has gone surprisingly dry.
(See, this is how he knows for sure. Katherine does nothing for him, not when she's trying, not when she's got her tongue down his throat and her hand at his crotch.)
He shrugs, figurative games of chess have ever been his hobby, and this isn't any different. (So different, he's about to, you know, fucking die, but whatever.) "Well, you know what they say...life's a bitch, and then you die. I got tired of wondering what thing would finally kill Elena, werewolves, fiery car crashes, my brother, so I figured I'd better get my head out of the clouds and get it back in the game." He sips his drink, then gestures towards her again. "Learned from the best, didn't I?"
She smiles, her face brightening too much, the calculated look vanishing for just a second. Then she closes the distance between them, still moving slowly since she can't do the super-speedy vampire move. She stops in front of him, tips her head back just slightly, since her thigh-high boots put her nearly nose to nose with him. She takes his drink from him and tosses what's left of it down her throat. Her eyes water just a touch, but she doesn't hiss, or cough, or flinch at all.
(Damn Alaric. He obviously had a new drinking buddy.)
"After all these years, why would you suddenly adopt my code of conduct? After years of loving blindly, you just couldn't do it anymore?" She pouts a little, her eyes moving downward, and one of her knuckles plays at the edge of his button-down, flicking the throat open and scraping her fingernail over his collarbone. That's all it takes. Spring has sprung, birds are somewhere singing. She hands him back the tumbler, but it doesn't catch in his fingers, instead it falls to the floor and rolls away from them.
Elena Gilbert is pretending to be Katherine Pierce because every time she approaches him, he gives her the brush off. She's clever, he'll give her that. And he's the dumbest creature breathing to let it go on for one second longer.
But what's that cliche about a moth and a flame? And true love never dying? And men thinking with their dicks?
"You know I'm not interested in this, Katherine," he tries, the valiance of his effort probably the only good thing he's ever done in his whole miserable existence. "You don't do it for me anymore, remember?" He smirks at her, but now he feels like the impersonator, like he's pretending to be Damon Salvatore, when really he's the stupid schmuck that didn't call her out the minute she sashayed over the threshold.
(Who the fuck is he kidding? He would never have stopped her, under any circumstance. All her efforts at talking to him were easy to worm his way out of. This? This is like Christmas morning, birthdays when they meant something, and the. best. day. ever. all combined.)
She drapes her hand over him through his jeans (it's another giveaway, Katherine just grabbed, never caressed) and murmurs, "That's a lie," and she's the sexiest fucking thing he's ever seen. Disappointment briefly flickers in her eyes at the same moment proving she's that naive--that young--that she doesn't understand that whatever he once felt for Katherine didn't even scrape the surface on what he feels for Elena, every minute of every day.
Every second since he'd made up his mind to not go there had only amplified the feeling. Because when Damon can't have something he wants, it only makes him want it more. Especially if he can't have it.
"Elena's an idiot," she breathes, and this time when she tips her head back, she's all Katherine, so much so it should turn him off; but like the day she daggered Rebekah, it's this part, this tiny little thing that makes her a Petrova, that makes his blood sing for her. Even more than the ordinary moments when she's just Elena, the kindest, most compassionate, somehow ageless-in-a-way-that-makes-him-feel-like-a-boy woman-child, even more than when he realized she wanted him return.
But now? Now that she's saying something that means something? His brain almost stops working at all.
"She's stupid, and childish," she continues, her voice dropping low, and then her eyes flick up to his, "and she should have told you what she really felt, but she was too afraid."
Damon blinks, because she's still got her hand over the front of his pants, but she's transforming right in front of him, not letting the big hair, or the leather jacket, or the sinful boots tell the story she wants him to believe tonight. He clears his throat, going for levity by saying, "Well, one vampire boyfriend is probably enough for anyone. I know I had my fill on one vampire girlfriend."
Her face softens, so unlike Katherine that if he wasn't already certain, this is the moment that would get him there. She drags her hand up his body until both of her palms rest against his cheeks. "Just once, for old times' sake?" she asks, dropping her eyes to his lips.
He kisses her, because he's incapable of not kissing her, and it's so much different than that night on her porch, because her response is ratcheted up by about a million. Elena Gilbert in all her glory is something he can't even quantify, so he actually becomes the victim, and he just lets her do whatever she wants.
And she wants him, and she shows him, with her hands, and her lips, and her body. As they lay in the midst of down comforters and linen sheets so silky the thread count must be more than 1500, Damon doesn't feel anything except her softness, her gentleness, her love. And he can't remember anything except the beauty of her face as she leans over him, brushing kisses against his eyelashes.
She takes him inside her, rides him as though she thinks this is the way Katherine would do it, but again, Damon is not fooled. This is all Elena, even if she wants to pretend it's Katherine, and he loves her so much, he can give her that. He can let her have one moment of fantasy that doesn't have to be crushed by vampires and werewolves and hybrids. He can give her the only thing left to give: his complete compliance.
He does eventually roll her beneath him, but that's because he needs to explore her every crevice, mark her with kisses and half-bites, suck her skin up against his teeth to bruise her body the way she has his heart. He runs his tongue over every hidden place and tucks away every gasp of pleasure that escapes her mouth. Her hands tangle in his hair, her voice calls his name, her body trembles for him, because of him; though he knows this is an act that can be so meaningless, seek no end other than release, it's suddenly the most sacred experience he's ever had, and he thinks, more than anything, what Elena hoped to accomplish with this little game is that he'd never settle ever again.
He'll never wake up with someone beside him who doesn't matter. He'll never wake up with anyone, ever again, not after this, unless it's her. Because she takes everything from him as her body spasms around his; and he'd resent her for it if he could.
But he doesn't. It's all hers--has been hers--all along. Even when he tried to make himself believe he could do without.
She climbs from his bed, hours later, her fingers lingering across his chest as she presses a final kiss to his sternum. Even in nakedness, she still walks like Katherine, toes pointed, legs crossing, and he finds he has to look away, that her beauty might steal his ability to pretend long enough for her to leave.
She dresses quietly, and he wonders if Stefan's in the house. He focuses, but he can't hear anything. He rolls to his stomach, buries his face in the pillow she'd lain on and suspects he'll never wash these sheets again.
She clears her throat from across the room, and he finally turns his head towards her. She's got her costume back on, but her hair is destroyed; there's no way anyone could look at her and not know what she'd been up to. She smiles as their eyes meet, and Katherine has left the building. There's nothing there except the sweet girl who eased under his skin from the beginning and will never leave.
"Goodnight, Damon," she says, the smile in her voice too reminiscent for him to question it.
She knows he knows.
Of course, she does.
"Goodnight, Elena," he murmurs back.
She saunters from the room differently than she sauntered in. Not at all Katherine, just Petrova.
(If possible, Damon loves her even more.)
Author: badboy_fangirl
Fandom: TVD
Pairings: Damon/Elena
Word Count: ~1800
Rating | Warnings: R | sexy times
Author's notes: Okay, this was written because I became obsessed yesterday with an the idea of Elena pretending to be Katherine to seduce Damon. But the other thing is this: I did decide at the first of the year that I wouldn't write fanfic anymore, but the post I made about that was friends-only. So, this is a last hurrah, since I didn't make that post public. To all of you who have read and enjoyed my fic, particularly my Damon/Elena stuff, 2012 is the year where I'm devoting my writing time to original characters. I may come back to write fanfic occasionally, but it won't be often. Thanks for all your support. All those comments you left me really made it possible for me to get the courage to do this.
Spoilers: This isn't based on spoiler reading; it's just an idea that came to me after the scenes in 3x13 where you can tell Damon is rethinking his whole existence. This fic is based on the idea that he has distanced himself from Elena, and so what's a girl to do?
She walks into his bedroom, that swing to her hips, the thunk, thunk of her boots rhythmic in the most basic of ways.
(Seduction is something at which he's a pro, so he can see it coming from about ten miles away. Vampire, remember?)
She pauses, thumb hooked into the belt-loop of her jeans, and she tips her head at him, the dark curls falling around her face like the most ornate of frames. She sure is something to look at, he certainly can't deny it. (Not that he'd try.)
"Damon," she murmurs, her greeting vaguely husky, her throat choking on the lie. She's better than he'd expect, but still, he knows. He'd know her dead in his sleep, staked by Papa Original himself. She's the only one he's wanted for months; she's the one he pushed away when he could no longer deny the truth.
(He'll just get her killed, or worse, he'll kill her, so she can live forever.)
He plays along, just to see how far she'll take it. "Katherine," he says, lifting his glass of bourbon to her. "Long time, no see."
She smirks, and it's a fairly impressive imitation of him if he's paying close enough attention. (Which he totally is.)
"I heard you were 'over' Elena. That you'd moved on. I had to come see for myself, considering the last one took a hundred and forty five years. Nine months hardly seems like you tried." She moves closer, her eyes flicking over his face, dropping to his mouth, which has gone surprisingly dry.
(See, this is how he knows for sure. Katherine does nothing for him, not when she's trying, not when she's got her tongue down his throat and her hand at his crotch.)
He shrugs, figurative games of chess have ever been his hobby, and this isn't any different. (So different, he's about to, you know, fucking die, but whatever.) "Well, you know what they say...life's a bitch, and then you die. I got tired of wondering what thing would finally kill Elena, werewolves, fiery car crashes, my brother, so I figured I'd better get my head out of the clouds and get it back in the game." He sips his drink, then gestures towards her again. "Learned from the best, didn't I?"
She smiles, her face brightening too much, the calculated look vanishing for just a second. Then she closes the distance between them, still moving slowly since she can't do the super-speedy vampire move. She stops in front of him, tips her head back just slightly, since her thigh-high boots put her nearly nose to nose with him. She takes his drink from him and tosses what's left of it down her throat. Her eyes water just a touch, but she doesn't hiss, or cough, or flinch at all.
(Damn Alaric. He obviously had a new drinking buddy.)
"After all these years, why would you suddenly adopt my code of conduct? After years of loving blindly, you just couldn't do it anymore?" She pouts a little, her eyes moving downward, and one of her knuckles plays at the edge of his button-down, flicking the throat open and scraping her fingernail over his collarbone. That's all it takes. Spring has sprung, birds are somewhere singing. She hands him back the tumbler, but it doesn't catch in his fingers, instead it falls to the floor and rolls away from them.
Elena Gilbert is pretending to be Katherine Pierce because every time she approaches him, he gives her the brush off. She's clever, he'll give her that. And he's the dumbest creature breathing to let it go on for one second longer.
But what's that cliche about a moth and a flame? And true love never dying? And men thinking with their dicks?
"You know I'm not interested in this, Katherine," he tries, the valiance of his effort probably the only good thing he's ever done in his whole miserable existence. "You don't do it for me anymore, remember?" He smirks at her, but now he feels like the impersonator, like he's pretending to be Damon Salvatore, when really he's the stupid schmuck that didn't call her out the minute she sashayed over the threshold.
(Who the fuck is he kidding? He would never have stopped her, under any circumstance. All her efforts at talking to him were easy to worm his way out of. This? This is like Christmas morning, birthdays when they meant something, and the. best. day. ever. all combined.)
She drapes her hand over him through his jeans (it's another giveaway, Katherine just grabbed, never caressed) and murmurs, "That's a lie," and she's the sexiest fucking thing he's ever seen. Disappointment briefly flickers in her eyes at the same moment proving she's that naive--that young--that she doesn't understand that whatever he once felt for Katherine didn't even scrape the surface on what he feels for Elena, every minute of every day.
Every second since he'd made up his mind to not go there had only amplified the feeling. Because when Damon can't have something he wants, it only makes him want it more. Especially if he can't have it.
"Elena's an idiot," she breathes, and this time when she tips her head back, she's all Katherine, so much so it should turn him off; but like the day she daggered Rebekah, it's this part, this tiny little thing that makes her a Petrova, that makes his blood sing for her. Even more than the ordinary moments when she's just Elena, the kindest, most compassionate, somehow ageless-in-a-way-that-makes-him-feel-like-a-boy woman-child, even more than when he realized she wanted him return.
But now? Now that she's saying something that means something? His brain almost stops working at all.
"She's stupid, and childish," she continues, her voice dropping low, and then her eyes flick up to his, "and she should have told you what she really felt, but she was too afraid."
Damon blinks, because she's still got her hand over the front of his pants, but she's transforming right in front of him, not letting the big hair, or the leather jacket, or the sinful boots tell the story she wants him to believe tonight. He clears his throat, going for levity by saying, "Well, one vampire boyfriend is probably enough for anyone. I know I had my fill on one vampire girlfriend."
Her face softens, so unlike Katherine that if he wasn't already certain, this is the moment that would get him there. She drags her hand up his body until both of her palms rest against his cheeks. "Just once, for old times' sake?" she asks, dropping her eyes to his lips.
He kisses her, because he's incapable of not kissing her, and it's so much different than that night on her porch, because her response is ratcheted up by about a million. Elena Gilbert in all her glory is something he can't even quantify, so he actually becomes the victim, and he just lets her do whatever she wants.
And she wants him, and she shows him, with her hands, and her lips, and her body. As they lay in the midst of down comforters and linen sheets so silky the thread count must be more than 1500, Damon doesn't feel anything except her softness, her gentleness, her love. And he can't remember anything except the beauty of her face as she leans over him, brushing kisses against his eyelashes.
She takes him inside her, rides him as though she thinks this is the way Katherine would do it, but again, Damon is not fooled. This is all Elena, even if she wants to pretend it's Katherine, and he loves her so much, he can give her that. He can let her have one moment of fantasy that doesn't have to be crushed by vampires and werewolves and hybrids. He can give her the only thing left to give: his complete compliance.
He does eventually roll her beneath him, but that's because he needs to explore her every crevice, mark her with kisses and half-bites, suck her skin up against his teeth to bruise her body the way she has his heart. He runs his tongue over every hidden place and tucks away every gasp of pleasure that escapes her mouth. Her hands tangle in his hair, her voice calls his name, her body trembles for him, because of him; though he knows this is an act that can be so meaningless, seek no end other than release, it's suddenly the most sacred experience he's ever had, and he thinks, more than anything, what Elena hoped to accomplish with this little game is that he'd never settle ever again.
He'll never wake up with someone beside him who doesn't matter. He'll never wake up with anyone, ever again, not after this, unless it's her. Because she takes everything from him as her body spasms around his; and he'd resent her for it if he could.
But he doesn't. It's all hers--has been hers--all along. Even when he tried to make himself believe he could do without.
She climbs from his bed, hours later, her fingers lingering across his chest as she presses a final kiss to his sternum. Even in nakedness, she still walks like Katherine, toes pointed, legs crossing, and he finds he has to look away, that her beauty might steal his ability to pretend long enough for her to leave.
She dresses quietly, and he wonders if Stefan's in the house. He focuses, but he can't hear anything. He rolls to his stomach, buries his face in the pillow she'd lain on and suspects he'll never wash these sheets again.
She clears her throat from across the room, and he finally turns his head towards her. She's got her costume back on, but her hair is destroyed; there's no way anyone could look at her and not know what she'd been up to. She smiles as their eyes meet, and Katherine has left the building. There's nothing there except the sweet girl who eased under his skin from the beginning and will never leave.
"Goodnight, Damon," she says, the smile in her voice too reminiscent for him to question it.
She knows he knows.
Of course, she does.
"Goodnight, Elena," he murmurs back.
She saunters from the room differently than she sauntered in. Not at all Katherine, just Petrova.
(If possible, Damon loves her even more.)