[the vampire diaries] fic | The End of the Story
Title | The End of the Story
Fandom | The Vampire Diaries
Characters/Pairings | Katherine/Damon [+ Katherine/Stefan]
Word Count | 250
Rating | MA
Summary | Circa 1864
Author's Note | Written for a prompt at the Katherine Pierce Ficathon, I just saw innocence spinning around, spinning around . Should I step in and blow it all down, blow it all away?
She’s got her hands hooked casually around his hips. She could press back, she thinks; snap his pelvis for something to do. His eyes are wide; unblinking and bright. Too bright.
She wants to laugh in his face but she won’t.
At least, not yet.
[Damon likes to pretend he has already made her his wife. That they sleep alone and in a house that he built for them himself, stone by stone by chiselled stone.]
He is more skilled as a lover than his brother, she notes. And the liquor he steals from his father’s cellar gives the taste of him a sharp twist as the thick slide of his blood coats the back of her throat.
Delicious.
Her fingertips dance across the bumps of his ribcage. His too-eager heartbeat, just beneath the surface; tantalising.
[Damon imagines children. Plural. Boys, brothers like he and Stefan, then a girl, younger than the other two. They’ll name her Josephine and he’ll hold her high above his head, feather-light, and spin.
Lose himself in the echo of her child’s laugh.]
If she is careful, if she drains no more than just enough to make him drowsy, she can slip away into the shadows as he sleeps, sated.
She can tug her nightdress back into place and erase his blood from her lips with her tongue.
She can run her fingers roughly through her hair and then she can giggle coyly as Stefan seeks to make a mess of it all over again.
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Fandom | The Vampire Diaries
Characters/Pairings | Katherine/Damon [+ Katherine/Stefan]
Word Count | 250
Rating | MA
Summary | Circa 1864
Author's Note | Written for a prompt at the Katherine Pierce Ficathon, I just saw innocence spinning around, spinning around . Should I step in and blow it all down, blow it all away?
She’s got her hands hooked casually around his hips. She could press back, she thinks; snap his pelvis for something to do. His eyes are wide; unblinking and bright. Too bright.
She wants to laugh in his face but she won’t.
At least, not yet.
[Damon likes to pretend he has already made her his wife. That they sleep alone and in a house that he built for them himself, stone by stone by chiselled stone.]
He is more skilled as a lover than his brother, she notes. And the liquor he steals from his father’s cellar gives the taste of him a sharp twist as the thick slide of his blood coats the back of her throat.
Delicious.
Her fingertips dance across the bumps of his ribcage. His too-eager heartbeat, just beneath the surface; tantalising.
[Damon imagines children. Plural. Boys, brothers like he and Stefan, then a girl, younger than the other two. They’ll name her Josephine and he’ll hold her high above his head, feather-light, and spin.
Lose himself in the echo of her child’s laugh.]
If she is careful, if she drains no more than just enough to make him drowsy, she can slip away into the shadows as he sleeps, sated.
She can tug her nightdress back into place and erase his blood from her lips with her tongue.
She can run her fingers roughly through her hair and then she can giggle coyly as Stefan seeks to make a mess of it all over again.
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