two vampire diaries ficlets (damon/alaric)
Title: a question of types
Pairing: Damon/Alaric
Rating: pg
Word count: 912
Summary: wherein Damon crashes Alaric's first date in ages and not just for the kick of it.
Spoilers: uhm, general for S1, set anytime post 1x21.
Warnings: none for this time.
A/N: originally written for gottalovev for the five acts exchange, with the prompt jealousy.
“Will you explain me what the hell is up with you?” Alaric hisses as he forces himself not to run out of the Grill. Damon just keeps Alaric’s pace and gives him a smirk, and it makes Alaric want to punch him even more.
“Nothing is up with me,” Damon replies with a certain nonchalance, and Alaric doesn’t even need to think about it twice.
“Yeah. And with everything you could do on Friday night, you need to ruin the first date I managed to score in months?”
Worst thing is, his date was the new maths teacher. He has to see her every day at least twice. He’s up for a very embarrassing last semester this year, that’s for sure. Or well, after Damon dropped at their table claiming that he just wanted to say hi and then proceeded to dump on her a bunch of information about what Alaric likes to do in his spare time that are absolutely not true, there’s a very low chance that it won’t be embarrassing.
“Why, does that surprise you?” Damon replies, and the worst thing is that Alaric knows the answer already.
“Damon, you can be pretty damn petty, but you never crashed a date since I’ve set foot here. Any date. Not even one where your brother was involved. I had assumed crashing dates was too low for your standards, and I’m still assuming that it is.”
For a second Damon looks impressed. It’s gone in the blink of an eye, but (and it’s quite sad that Alaric has even noticed) it’s enough; Alaric is right.
“I was more bored than usual,” Damon replies.
“You go rob blood banks when you’re more bored than usual.”
Damon doesn’t say whatever he was about to say.
Alaric can’t help making deductions here, but the more he goes on, the more he wishes he was drunker than he is. (Which is practically nothing: you don’t drink yourself to death if you want to make a good impression on your date. Not that it’s a problem now.)
“Wait. Christ, it can’t be possible that you wrecked this particular date just because I was involved.”
Which is the most rational conclusion.
“Come on, Ric, she’s not even your type!”
Alaric wishes he was a lot drunker, indeed.
“What the - what do you know about my type, anyway?”
“If Isobel was anywhere near it, then she wasn’t for sure.”
Which is also a pretty valid point. Which doesn’t mean that the core of the matter changes.
“Well then, you have no freaking right to interfere anyway! Now you’re telling me you did it for my own good?”
Damon shrugs and ohno. No. He has his hands on his elbows, he’s keeping a safe distance, his head is slightly tilting and his face is carefully blank, which means that Damon is going on the defensive; if that psychology class about body language Alaric took in college taught him something, that’s the pose of someone who knows that has done a wrong thing but isn’t about to take it back anytime soon.
“I highly doubt that you give a damn about her, do you?”
“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t even consider her for breakfast,” Damon hisses, and Alaric tries not to think about what breakfast means in this context.
Then his brain finally adds two and two.
“Are you seriously jealous?”
“Of course not!” Damon snaps back, but his position doesn’t change and he looks on his left rather than at Alaric.
Lying. Obviously lying.
Which means -
Alaric needs something along the line of three bottles of vodka for starters.
“I can’t believe this.”
“Can’t believe what?”
“That you fucked with my date because - I don’t even know what but obviously it has to do with me and I’m not exactly sure that I should even ask -”
He can’t even finish that sentence before he finds himself slammed against a wall, with Damon’s lips on his, Damon’s hands grabbing his hips so hard that Alaric couldn’t break out even if he wanted and a body that is way too warm to be dead almost melting against his.
Point is, instead of doing something sane, Alaric kisses Damon back.
Stupid body acting without his brain’s consent, except that maybe he has had his fantasies about this, but like hell he’d have acted on them.
And when the kiss is over, Damon doesn’t really move away. Neither he looks at Alaric in the eye and Alaric thinks that he will never understand how Damon’s head really works. He wouldn’t even in centuries.
“You know, you can look at me,” he says before this becomes ridiculous.
“What?”
“Does it seem to you that I’m the one freaking out here?”
“I’m not -”
“Shut the fuck up. You are. Listen, it might even be a good thing if you decide that you want to have feelings for a change, but you could own up to them, just so you -”
“I think,” Damon interrupts then, “that I have an idea of who’s your type. More than the lovely new maths teacher.”
“Really. Who would that be then?”
“Me,” Damon whispers in his ear in a way that would almost be charming, before kissing Alaric again, except that this time there’s tongue slipping into Alaric’s parted lips and fuck but Damon knows how to kiss.
Alaric just kisses back and decides that maybe the evening wasn’t so wasted after all.
End.
Title: scar tissue
Pairing: Damon/Alaric
Rating: pg13
Word count: 1000+
Summary: Damon has a thing for scars. Alaric fails to find it as disturbing as it could be.
Spoilers: general S1, but nothing specific.
Warnings: scar kink.
A/N: originally written for ozmissage for the five acts exchange; prompts were scars and kissing. Using for my kissbingo square experimental: hickey.
Alaric has a scar on the inside of his arm.
It’s a very long story, whose salient points are that he was eight, he was in school, something made of glass broke and he was careless. He can’t really remember most of how it actually went, but if he turns his wrist up, you can see a scarred, almost white gash that runs from the elbow almost to his wrist. It had been bad back then.
He never really thinks about that, really, but lately it’s brought up in a lot of conversations because apparently Damon is fond of it.
Trust Alaric to end up in a no-strings-attached thing with a psychotic vampire when his job is killing them, but then again, it’s another story, thought it’s not long. Damon had pushed him against the wall in the back alley behind the grill and kissed him stupid, then when Alaric had shouted at him Damon had calmly explained that:
1. Neither of them was in a relationship.
2. They spent half of the time calling each other (you call me, Alaric had stated. Semantics, Damon had answered.)
3. Alaric was the one person that was okay with sharing a drink or two with Damon, and the punching didn’t count.
2. Damon had to grow some respect for the only person he never managed to kill.
This stated, he had said, no point in not fucking. It was just going to make them feel better, right?
Alaric still isn’t sure about that, but whatever.
Point is, Damon is quite fond of that scar, or so it seems. Whenever Alaric has his guard half-down Damon always grabs his arm and spends an unhealthy amount of time tracing it with his fingers, and if they’re actually having sex he might lick along its length. Alaric has been afraid that he’d bite, a couple of times, but he never did and so well, everyone has their weird kinks, right?
Except that after this crazy thing lasts for a month he’d really like to know what’s going on here.
“What’s so fascinating about that?” he asks one day as Damon traces the scar with a nail. Alaric can’t help shivering.
“Nothing,” Damon answers, but he doesn’t even try to hide that he’s lying.
“Yeah, like you don’t think it’s my most fascinating trait.”
“It’s long,” Damon says then. “And deep.”
“So? I still don’t see the point.”
“We don’t have them,” Damon shrugs after giving Alaric his arm back.
“You what?”
“We don’t scar. It doesn’t work like with you. If you hurt me, it’ll just regenerate.”
Damon says it like it’s no big deal, but it’s obvious that it is some kind of big deal. Alaric would just like to get how it -
Right, he realizes then, of course. It’s because they leave traces. He’ll always remember that he did a stupid thing when he was eight because of that scar, like he’ll always remember the first time he killed a vampire because said vampire had tried to stake him in the hip and there’s another scar there, as well. Or one he has on his back when he was thrown against a tree and he had just a t-shirt that got ripped apart, or all the other small ones that he’s remembering right now. They’re memories burned on his body, they’re there to testify that he has lived to get them.
While yeah, right, now looking at Damon (who’s naked but then again they just fucked, it couldn’t be different), Alaric realizes that his skin is flawless. Pale, smooth, not a scratch, not a bruise. A clean slate, which will never get dirty, and damn but he hadn’t thought that Damon would care about that.
“You do miss living. Sometimes at least, I guess.”
Damon snorts, but he doesn’t question what he just said.
“I got one when I went to war.”
“What -”
“Someone shot me in the hip. Here,” Damon says, his hand covering a patch of skin that is definitely not scarred. “It was pretty ugly. It wasn’t even completely scarred when I got turned. Sometimes it hurt. I hated it back then.”
“And now?”
“It went away when I turned. Now I wish I still had it.”
Alaric moves closer and Damon shakes his head. “If you feel like you should make me feel better, fuck off.”
“I wasn’t planning on that,” Alaric says before moving in front of Damon and lowering his head until his lips are pressed against Damon’s skin. And at least while the guy is dead he most definitely isn’t cold, which is better because otherwise Alaric would have a lot of problems doing this.
He bites softly in the hollow between neck and shoulder, sucking a bit on the flesh between his teeth before running his tongue over the reddened skin and then biting it again. He isn’t aiming to draw blood, hell no, but he wants that bit of skin to be wrinkled and full pink against its surroundings, and he repeats the process for a while until he’s sure that he did his job to the letter. He can’t resist pressing mouth to the skin he was biting until a second ago before moving his head away though; he just uses his lips, no tongue or teeth, the kiss way too chaste in comparison to what they were doing half an hour ago, and then he leans back.
And he has to congratulate himself - that’s a hickey that is going to be hard to cover, but since it’s not exactly a wound he doubts that it’ll disappear more quickly than it would with another normal person.
“That shouldn’t go away for a couple of days. Maybe you’ll want to wear a scarf,” Alaric says before leaning back against his pillow, and Damon stares at him, his eyes carefully blank but wide enough to betray a hell of a reaction. Then Damon’s hand reaches up, tracing the hickey for a handful of seconds, and Alaric figures that it’d be pretty low if he tried to come out with something to lighten up the situation.
He’ll let Damon work through this crap. If he accepts that he obviously still has feelings, maybe Alaric will feel allowed to admit to himself that he likes Damon a lot more than he should.
End.
Pairing: Damon/Alaric
Rating: pg
Word count: 912
Summary: wherein Damon crashes Alaric's first date in ages and not just for the kick of it.
Spoilers: uhm, general for S1, set anytime post 1x21.
Warnings: none for this time.
A/N: originally written for gottalovev for the five acts exchange, with the prompt jealousy.
“Will you explain me what the hell is up with you?” Alaric hisses as he forces himself not to run out of the Grill. Damon just keeps Alaric’s pace and gives him a smirk, and it makes Alaric want to punch him even more.
“Nothing is up with me,” Damon replies with a certain nonchalance, and Alaric doesn’t even need to think about it twice.
“Yeah. And with everything you could do on Friday night, you need to ruin the first date I managed to score in months?”
Worst thing is, his date was the new maths teacher. He has to see her every day at least twice. He’s up for a very embarrassing last semester this year, that’s for sure. Or well, after Damon dropped at their table claiming that he just wanted to say hi and then proceeded to dump on her a bunch of information about what Alaric likes to do in his spare time that are absolutely not true, there’s a very low chance that it won’t be embarrassing.
“Why, does that surprise you?” Damon replies, and the worst thing is that Alaric knows the answer already.
“Damon, you can be pretty damn petty, but you never crashed a date since I’ve set foot here. Any date. Not even one where your brother was involved. I had assumed crashing dates was too low for your standards, and I’m still assuming that it is.”
For a second Damon looks impressed. It’s gone in the blink of an eye, but (and it’s quite sad that Alaric has even noticed) it’s enough; Alaric is right.
“I was more bored than usual,” Damon replies.
“You go rob blood banks when you’re more bored than usual.”
Damon doesn’t say whatever he was about to say.
Alaric can’t help making deductions here, but the more he goes on, the more he wishes he was drunker than he is. (Which is practically nothing: you don’t drink yourself to death if you want to make a good impression on your date. Not that it’s a problem now.)
“Wait. Christ, it can’t be possible that you wrecked this particular date just because I was involved.”
Which is the most rational conclusion.
“Come on, Ric, she’s not even your type!”
Alaric wishes he was a lot drunker, indeed.
“What the - what do you know about my type, anyway?”
“If Isobel was anywhere near it, then she wasn’t for sure.”
Which is also a pretty valid point. Which doesn’t mean that the core of the matter changes.
“Well then, you have no freaking right to interfere anyway! Now you’re telling me you did it for my own good?”
Damon shrugs and ohno. No. He has his hands on his elbows, he’s keeping a safe distance, his head is slightly tilting and his face is carefully blank, which means that Damon is going on the defensive; if that psychology class about body language Alaric took in college taught him something, that’s the pose of someone who knows that has done a wrong thing but isn’t about to take it back anytime soon.
“I highly doubt that you give a damn about her, do you?”
“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t even consider her for breakfast,” Damon hisses, and Alaric tries not to think about what breakfast means in this context.
Then his brain finally adds two and two.
“Are you seriously jealous?”
“Of course not!” Damon snaps back, but his position doesn’t change and he looks on his left rather than at Alaric.
Lying. Obviously lying.
Which means -
Alaric needs something along the line of three bottles of vodka for starters.
“I can’t believe this.”
“Can’t believe what?”
“That you fucked with my date because - I don’t even know what but obviously it has to do with me and I’m not exactly sure that I should even ask -”
He can’t even finish that sentence before he finds himself slammed against a wall, with Damon’s lips on his, Damon’s hands grabbing his hips so hard that Alaric couldn’t break out even if he wanted and a body that is way too warm to be dead almost melting against his.
Point is, instead of doing something sane, Alaric kisses Damon back.
Stupid body acting without his brain’s consent, except that maybe he has had his fantasies about this, but like hell he’d have acted on them.
And when the kiss is over, Damon doesn’t really move away. Neither he looks at Alaric in the eye and Alaric thinks that he will never understand how Damon’s head really works. He wouldn’t even in centuries.
“You know, you can look at me,” he says before this becomes ridiculous.
“What?”
“Does it seem to you that I’m the one freaking out here?”
“I’m not -”
“Shut the fuck up. You are. Listen, it might even be a good thing if you decide that you want to have feelings for a change, but you could own up to them, just so you -”
“I think,” Damon interrupts then, “that I have an idea of who’s your type. More than the lovely new maths teacher.”
“Really. Who would that be then?”
“Me,” Damon whispers in his ear in a way that would almost be charming, before kissing Alaric again, except that this time there’s tongue slipping into Alaric’s parted lips and fuck but Damon knows how to kiss.
Alaric just kisses back and decides that maybe the evening wasn’t so wasted after all.
End.
Title: scar tissue
Pairing: Damon/Alaric
Rating: pg13
Word count: 1000+
Summary: Damon has a thing for scars. Alaric fails to find it as disturbing as it could be.
Spoilers: general S1, but nothing specific.
Warnings: scar kink.
A/N: originally written for ozmissage for the five acts exchange; prompts were scars and kissing. Using for my kissbingo square experimental: hickey.
Alaric has a scar on the inside of his arm.
It’s a very long story, whose salient points are that he was eight, he was in school, something made of glass broke and he was careless. He can’t really remember most of how it actually went, but if he turns his wrist up, you can see a scarred, almost white gash that runs from the elbow almost to his wrist. It had been bad back then.
He never really thinks about that, really, but lately it’s brought up in a lot of conversations because apparently Damon is fond of it.
Trust Alaric to end up in a no-strings-attached thing with a psychotic vampire when his job is killing them, but then again, it’s another story, thought it’s not long. Damon had pushed him against the wall in the back alley behind the grill and kissed him stupid, then when Alaric had shouted at him Damon had calmly explained that:
1. Neither of them was in a relationship.
2. They spent half of the time calling each other (you call me, Alaric had stated. Semantics, Damon had answered.)
3. Alaric was the one person that was okay with sharing a drink or two with Damon, and the punching didn’t count.
2. Damon had to grow some respect for the only person he never managed to kill.
This stated, he had said, no point in not fucking. It was just going to make them feel better, right?
Alaric still isn’t sure about that, but whatever.
Point is, Damon is quite fond of that scar, or so it seems. Whenever Alaric has his guard half-down Damon always grabs his arm and spends an unhealthy amount of time tracing it with his fingers, and if they’re actually having sex he might lick along its length. Alaric has been afraid that he’d bite, a couple of times, but he never did and so well, everyone has their weird kinks, right?
Except that after this crazy thing lasts for a month he’d really like to know what’s going on here.
“What’s so fascinating about that?” he asks one day as Damon traces the scar with a nail. Alaric can’t help shivering.
“Nothing,” Damon answers, but he doesn’t even try to hide that he’s lying.
“Yeah, like you don’t think it’s my most fascinating trait.”
“It’s long,” Damon says then. “And deep.”
“So? I still don’t see the point.”
“We don’t have them,” Damon shrugs after giving Alaric his arm back.
“You what?”
“We don’t scar. It doesn’t work like with you. If you hurt me, it’ll just regenerate.”
Damon says it like it’s no big deal, but it’s obvious that it is some kind of big deal. Alaric would just like to get how it -
Right, he realizes then, of course. It’s because they leave traces. He’ll always remember that he did a stupid thing when he was eight because of that scar, like he’ll always remember the first time he killed a vampire because said vampire had tried to stake him in the hip and there’s another scar there, as well. Or one he has on his back when he was thrown against a tree and he had just a t-shirt that got ripped apart, or all the other small ones that he’s remembering right now. They’re memories burned on his body, they’re there to testify that he has lived to get them.
While yeah, right, now looking at Damon (who’s naked but then again they just fucked, it couldn’t be different), Alaric realizes that his skin is flawless. Pale, smooth, not a scratch, not a bruise. A clean slate, which will never get dirty, and damn but he hadn’t thought that Damon would care about that.
“You do miss living. Sometimes at least, I guess.”
Damon snorts, but he doesn’t question what he just said.
“I got one when I went to war.”
“What -”
“Someone shot me in the hip. Here,” Damon says, his hand covering a patch of skin that is definitely not scarred. “It was pretty ugly. It wasn’t even completely scarred when I got turned. Sometimes it hurt. I hated it back then.”
“And now?”
“It went away when I turned. Now I wish I still had it.”
Alaric moves closer and Damon shakes his head. “If you feel like you should make me feel better, fuck off.”
“I wasn’t planning on that,” Alaric says before moving in front of Damon and lowering his head until his lips are pressed against Damon’s skin. And at least while the guy is dead he most definitely isn’t cold, which is better because otherwise Alaric would have a lot of problems doing this.
He bites softly in the hollow between neck and shoulder, sucking a bit on the flesh between his teeth before running his tongue over the reddened skin and then biting it again. He isn’t aiming to draw blood, hell no, but he wants that bit of skin to be wrinkled and full pink against its surroundings, and he repeats the process for a while until he’s sure that he did his job to the letter. He can’t resist pressing mouth to the skin he was biting until a second ago before moving his head away though; he just uses his lips, no tongue or teeth, the kiss way too chaste in comparison to what they were doing half an hour ago, and then he leans back.
And he has to congratulate himself - that’s a hickey that is going to be hard to cover, but since it’s not exactly a wound he doubts that it’ll disappear more quickly than it would with another normal person.
“That shouldn’t go away for a couple of days. Maybe you’ll want to wear a scarf,” Alaric says before leaning back against his pillow, and Damon stares at him, his eyes carefully blank but wide enough to betray a hell of a reaction. Then Damon’s hand reaches up, tracing the hickey for a handful of seconds, and Alaric figures that it’d be pretty low if he tried to come out with something to lighten up the situation.
He’ll let Damon work through this crap. If he accepts that he obviously still has feelings, maybe Alaric will feel allowed to admit to himself that he likes Damon a lot more than he should.
End.