The Carpe Diem of it All
This was written for possibly the best ficathon in the history of creation: upupa_epops' Trolling Comment!Ficathon. Seriously, please go there and write fic and prompt fic. I'm gonna need someone to prompt me some Elijah hairography shenanigans because there's a scene in my head where he legitimately is found dancing wildly to Willow Smith's Whip My Hair, and it's amazing.
Posting it here for reasons of archiving but also because the original post has this grammatical error that's driving me to drink (literally) and I wanted to fix it. Original story here.
Prompt: TVD, Klaus keeps cock-blocking Damon/Elena. Damon is not amused. Lots of walking out of rooms in a dramatic fashion.
Characters: Klaus, Damon, Elena, Damon/Elena
Rating: T-ish
Summary: see the prompt.
Notes: Only those with a sense of humor about these kids and how ridiculously cracktastic they all are need apply. Honestly, everyone on this show was BORN. TO. CRACK. (It's a Lana del Ray song waiting to happen).
The Carpe Diem of it All
Damon staggers clumsily in the dark, stumbling up the stairs; stopping every few minutes to shove her into a door or a wall and moan into her mouth. He snatches at her jacket, tears it off, and then his, tosses them both at their feet (he doesn’t even stop to pick them up); tripping over stairs, into banisters, and that antique table that rests in the hallway-he’s been meaning to move that thing for at least two decades. And when he bangs his knee into it and the pain zings up the side of his leg, he wishes he could burn the over-priced piece of shit right then and there.
But he has Elena in his arms and Elena’s tongue in his mouth and this isn’t a thing that happens to him every day (or, like, ever)-he’s going to need to take what he can get now. Because with coffins and Stefan and coffins and pesky originals and even peskier witches and his guilt and her guilt-he feels like everyone and everything’s been getting in the way of this. It was inevitable that they’d find themselves here. Really, it was always only a matter of finding the right moment. And if there’s anything he knows how to do and do well, it’s how to carpe diem.
So.
Fuck the table. Fuck the whiskey currently staining his Louis XV liquor cabinet. And fuck the smear of dirt he just put on the hallway wall to the left of the staircase just above that picture of his great-niece Sarah when he threw one of Elena’s boots into it five seconds ago.
When he makes it to his room, and throws the door open, and his bed literally seems to glow and sing like a beacon in the night and he imagines her naked and flushed all over it and his tongue and teeth and lips all over her-
“SURPRISE!”
A lone voice screeches, and the shock of it is enough to make Damon lose his grip and drop Elena on the floor with a thud. She yelps and glares and he looks up to find what might be the most horrifying thing he’s ever seen.
Klaus, smiling. A bright pink, orange, and green-splattered cone-hat strapped to his head with the word, ‘surprise’ strewn redundantly across it in neon-yellow. A large, monstrous cake, smothered in snow-white frosting and the words ‘Happy, Birthday, D-bag!’ lettered in blue and red, covered in a mass of precariously-lit candles; a brightly-wrapped gift in hand.
“Um, what?” There are probably better things he could’ve come up with than that. But the sheer insanity of this scene has struck even him dumb.
Klaus keeps smiling. “What do you mean, ‘what’, buddy?” Damon’s brow climbs up his forehead at this. Was the guy that desperate for friends?
“How can you ask me that when it’s the most important day of the year?” He’s still grinning and Damon wonders if the whole smarmy routine makes his cheeks cramp-for a bad guy, Klaus smiles way too much.
He searches his brain. Nope, he’s pretty sure the big deadline for Klaus’ latest doom-and-gloom threat was Friday the 13th in March (he’d said something about the poetry when he issued it, no one had paid much attention), not today.
Elena’s the one that speaks out, “What-what are you talking about?” She’s clambered to her feet by now and is rubbing at her ass. Damon’s not sure whether he should feel bad or admire said ass, maybe offer to give her a kiss to make it all better but Klaus’ response puts a halt to those thoughts.
“Tsk, tsk, es tu, Elena?” He looks profoundly disappointed like someone just ran over his favorite hybrid. “I mean, at least this one,” he says, gesturing at Damon with the cake, “has the excuse of having lived over a century for his forgetfulness. But you’d think his very own friends would care about something like this.”
Now everyone’s confused. Except for the dude who keeps smiling in the corner.
When his ‘hint’ appears to ring no bells, Klaus lets out a heavy sigh. Walking towards them, he puts the cake down on the bed (Damon has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling). “I should think it’s obvious-today’s your birthday, my friend.” Friend? “And, I’m a big believer in birthdays and even more for vampire birthdays. A great man once said, ‘The only thing in which a person can truly trust is the power of a birthday.’”
Damon is reasonably sure that no great man has ever said any such thing but he lets it slide. “It’s not my birthday.”
Klaus looks offended and reaches into his back pocket to pull out a small, black notebook. He flicks through it quickly; shoves an open page with mostly illegible scribbles in front of them, and says, “You can’t lie to me, see-there’s your birthday, right there next to Dolores Whittaker’s. February 17th!”
Elena squints at the page, “That says ‘Dolores’? I think you spelled it wrong-there’s no ‘u’-.”
He snatches his book back before she can finish. “The point is, it’s clear that no one in this little town has the right priorities, not even your brother. It’s all very sad. However, I’m here for you-to celebrate the day you came into this world. No one should have to do it alone. I’ve had many… many lonesome birthdays, myself.” His eyes are suspiciously shiny by the end of this monologue, he’s clearly haunted by the memories of a millennium of birthdays, and he draws in a deep breath.
Damon repeats, slowly to ensure the man understands, “It’s. Not. My. Birthday.”
Klaus’ ever-present smirk shrivels like a popped balloon, and he says, spluttering in what looks like growing rage, “But-but-that’s impossible!”
“No, I’m pretty sure I’d know-it’s possible.” Damon is also pretty sure he’ll never want to see that look on the original’s face again, not for as long as he lives.
The cake, formerly on his bed smashes into the wall above the fireplace with a splat (Damon whimpers) and Klaus rips the cone-hat off his head, pinches his mouth into a straight line. “Tell me, what’s the point of compelling the town registrar if she can’t even give me the right dates for every one’s birthdays?”
Now would not be the time to wonder out loud why Klaus is recording people’s birthdays-by hand, no less.
With a roar (an actual roar), he disappears, leaving a splotch of icing dripping off the wall in red, white and blue streaks, and a few scorch-marks from the candles.
Damon looks at Elena with a grimace and she starts laughing. Really loudly.
He shrugs. “I’m sorry?”
She quiets, smiles, and tilts her head. He can practically see the guilt creeping back into the corners of her eyes, “Maybe… it’s for the best, Damon.” She puts a hand on his arm, squeezes lightly (firmly friend-zone), and leans in to kiss his cheek where she lingers for a second, two (not friend-zone). “I’m gonna head home.”
She leaves.
He stands there, staring at the mass of gooey frosting on his wall, and listens to the rustle of her slipping on her jacket and the click of her heels, the careful thud of the door.
Great. Moment: officially ruined by one psycho-case original who clearly had an unhealthy fixation with birthdays-what a loser.
If Damon were a lesser man, he’d probably cry.
At the fact that he isn’t naked and sweaty with an equally naked and sweaty Elena in his lap. And at all the red, blue and white shit he’s going to have to scrape off his wall and probably paint over in the morning. And, as if his life couldn't get any worse, it’s going to be hell finding that exact same shade of Hazy Dawn Ivory.
Fuck.
fin
Posting it here for reasons of archiving but also because the original post has this grammatical error that's driving me to drink (literally) and I wanted to fix it. Original story here.
Prompt: TVD, Klaus keeps cock-blocking Damon/Elena. Damon is not amused. Lots of walking out of rooms in a dramatic fashion.
Characters: Klaus, Damon, Elena, Damon/Elena
Rating: T-ish
Summary: see the prompt.
Notes: Only those with a sense of humor about these kids and how ridiculously cracktastic they all are need apply. Honestly, everyone on this show was BORN. TO. CRACK. (It's a Lana del Ray song waiting to happen).
The Carpe Diem of it All
Damon staggers clumsily in the dark, stumbling up the stairs; stopping every few minutes to shove her into a door or a wall and moan into her mouth. He snatches at her jacket, tears it off, and then his, tosses them both at their feet (he doesn’t even stop to pick them up); tripping over stairs, into banisters, and that antique table that rests in the hallway-he’s been meaning to move that thing for at least two decades. And when he bangs his knee into it and the pain zings up the side of his leg, he wishes he could burn the over-priced piece of shit right then and there.
But he has Elena in his arms and Elena’s tongue in his mouth and this isn’t a thing that happens to him every day (or, like, ever)-he’s going to need to take what he can get now. Because with coffins and Stefan and coffins and pesky originals and even peskier witches and his guilt and her guilt-he feels like everyone and everything’s been getting in the way of this. It was inevitable that they’d find themselves here. Really, it was always only a matter of finding the right moment. And if there’s anything he knows how to do and do well, it’s how to carpe diem.
So.
Fuck the table. Fuck the whiskey currently staining his Louis XV liquor cabinet. And fuck the smear of dirt he just put on the hallway wall to the left of the staircase just above that picture of his great-niece Sarah when he threw one of Elena’s boots into it five seconds ago.
When he makes it to his room, and throws the door open, and his bed literally seems to glow and sing like a beacon in the night and he imagines her naked and flushed all over it and his tongue and teeth and lips all over her-
“SURPRISE!”
A lone voice screeches, and the shock of it is enough to make Damon lose his grip and drop Elena on the floor with a thud. She yelps and glares and he looks up to find what might be the most horrifying thing he’s ever seen.
Klaus, smiling. A bright pink, orange, and green-splattered cone-hat strapped to his head with the word, ‘surprise’ strewn redundantly across it in neon-yellow. A large, monstrous cake, smothered in snow-white frosting and the words ‘Happy, Birthday, D-bag!’ lettered in blue and red, covered in a mass of precariously-lit candles; a brightly-wrapped gift in hand.
“Um, what?” There are probably better things he could’ve come up with than that. But the sheer insanity of this scene has struck even him dumb.
Klaus keeps smiling. “What do you mean, ‘what’, buddy?” Damon’s brow climbs up his forehead at this. Was the guy that desperate for friends?
“How can you ask me that when it’s the most important day of the year?” He’s still grinning and Damon wonders if the whole smarmy routine makes his cheeks cramp-for a bad guy, Klaus smiles way too much.
He searches his brain. Nope, he’s pretty sure the big deadline for Klaus’ latest doom-and-gloom threat was Friday the 13th in March (he’d said something about the poetry when he issued it, no one had paid much attention), not today.
Elena’s the one that speaks out, “What-what are you talking about?” She’s clambered to her feet by now and is rubbing at her ass. Damon’s not sure whether he should feel bad or admire said ass, maybe offer to give her a kiss to make it all better but Klaus’ response puts a halt to those thoughts.
“Tsk, tsk, es tu, Elena?” He looks profoundly disappointed like someone just ran over his favorite hybrid. “I mean, at least this one,” he says, gesturing at Damon with the cake, “has the excuse of having lived over a century for his forgetfulness. But you’d think his very own friends would care about something like this.”
Now everyone’s confused. Except for the dude who keeps smiling in the corner.
When his ‘hint’ appears to ring no bells, Klaus lets out a heavy sigh. Walking towards them, he puts the cake down on the bed (Damon has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling). “I should think it’s obvious-today’s your birthday, my friend.” Friend? “And, I’m a big believer in birthdays and even more for vampire birthdays. A great man once said, ‘The only thing in which a person can truly trust is the power of a birthday.’”
Damon is reasonably sure that no great man has ever said any such thing but he lets it slide. “It’s not my birthday.”
Klaus looks offended and reaches into his back pocket to pull out a small, black notebook. He flicks through it quickly; shoves an open page with mostly illegible scribbles in front of them, and says, “You can’t lie to me, see-there’s your birthday, right there next to Dolores Whittaker’s. February 17th!”
Elena squints at the page, “That says ‘Dolores’? I think you spelled it wrong-there’s no ‘u’-.”
He snatches his book back before she can finish. “The point is, it’s clear that no one in this little town has the right priorities, not even your brother. It’s all very sad. However, I’m here for you-to celebrate the day you came into this world. No one should have to do it alone. I’ve had many… many lonesome birthdays, myself.” His eyes are suspiciously shiny by the end of this monologue, he’s clearly haunted by the memories of a millennium of birthdays, and he draws in a deep breath.
Damon repeats, slowly to ensure the man understands, “It’s. Not. My. Birthday.”
Klaus’ ever-present smirk shrivels like a popped balloon, and he says, spluttering in what looks like growing rage, “But-but-that’s impossible!”
“No, I’m pretty sure I’d know-it’s possible.” Damon is also pretty sure he’ll never want to see that look on the original’s face again, not for as long as he lives.
The cake, formerly on his bed smashes into the wall above the fireplace with a splat (Damon whimpers) and Klaus rips the cone-hat off his head, pinches his mouth into a straight line. “Tell me, what’s the point of compelling the town registrar if she can’t even give me the right dates for every one’s birthdays?”
Now would not be the time to wonder out loud why Klaus is recording people’s birthdays-by hand, no less.
With a roar (an actual roar), he disappears, leaving a splotch of icing dripping off the wall in red, white and blue streaks, and a few scorch-marks from the candles.
Damon looks at Elena with a grimace and she starts laughing. Really loudly.
He shrugs. “I’m sorry?”
She quiets, smiles, and tilts her head. He can practically see the guilt creeping back into the corners of her eyes, “Maybe… it’s for the best, Damon.” She puts a hand on his arm, squeezes lightly (firmly friend-zone), and leans in to kiss his cheek where she lingers for a second, two (not friend-zone). “I’m gonna head home.”
She leaves.
He stands there, staring at the mass of gooey frosting on his wall, and listens to the rustle of her slipping on her jacket and the click of her heels, the careful thud of the door.
Great. Moment: officially ruined by one psycho-case original who clearly had an unhealthy fixation with birthdays-what a loser.
If Damon were a lesser man, he’d probably cry.
At the fact that he isn’t naked and sweaty with an equally naked and sweaty Elena in his lap. And at all the red, blue and white shit he’s going to have to scrape off his wall and probably paint over in the morning. And, as if his life couldn't get any worse, it’s going to be hell finding that exact same shade of Hazy Dawn Ivory.
Fuck.
fin