Vampire Diaries Fic: throw your soul through every open door (Damon/Elena, PG)
Title: throw your soul through every open door (1/1)
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries (tv show, not book)
Characters: Damon Salvatore, Elena Gilbert
Rating: K or PG
Words: 309
Spoilers: Through 2x11: By the Light of the Moon.
Prompt: Damon/Elena, All I need is a little more of you to go on
Disclaimer: The Vampire Diaries and its characters belong to the CW, not me. This story is purely meant to entertain. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: The past week and half has sucked. I wrote this in response to a prompt at a comment ficathon for TVD, just to hear myself think for a few minutes. If you've left me a comment recently, I'm sorry that it's going to take me a little while to get back to you. Free time is not in great supply right now.
Con crit is always welcome. To lurkers and commenters alike, thank you. Feel free to friend for updates. If you'd like me to add you back, please say something; I don't bite. :) Plus I have very few TVD-watching friends here, so I would love to have more.
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Note: Assume that Klaus has already blown through town, and Elena’s survived.
throw your soul through every open door (Damon/Elena, PG)
Mystic Falls: a sad small town of suffocating secrets and full-moon magic. Nothing it holds in its poisonous breast will be enough to keep her there; not forever. Daughter of Isobel and great-great-great (he eventually stops counting the “greats”), granddaughter of Katherine has their wanderlust buried in her veins, a pulsing backbeat her delicate ears will eventually detect -- and obey. Blood, Damon knows, will always out.
Too soon, he and his brother are going to lose the girl they love. (To college; to Spring Break; to road trips; to adventures that don’t include undead bloodsuckers wearing flashy mood rings. To all the things that the living want, take, and do.)
Never a question of if; always a matter of when. This knowledge is just one more thing he and his dear brother share. They never speak of it; that would make it too real. A tilt of his head, a quirk of Stefan’s eyebrow. These gestures telegraph more than words could ever capture. He teases Stefan about his penchant for brooding, but more than the occasional quiet night finds them sitting side-by-side, silent and still at the old boarding house, the fire hissing and crackling dire portents as it casts strange shadows on the walls and on their young-old faces.
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The half-life he leads holds many things: burning hungers never fully sated, the whisperfallcrunch of a solitary autumn leaf in the depths of the forest, the sweet quickening of Elena’s pulse as he makes her space his own, and she pretends not to notice. But peace? No. Not that. Pathetic romantic that he is, he thinks he might taste that if she would kiss him just once -- and see him. Only him.
“It’s always going to be Stefan.”
He’d have better luck wishing he was human again.