tvdfic: taste
Title: Taste
Author: Seperis
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries (television)
Codes: Damon/Stefan (Damon/Katherine, Stefan/Katherine)
Spoilers: 1.06 - Lost Girls
Rating: NC-17
Summary: There are always rules; there's no other way to break them.
Author Notes: Thank you for a fandom that lets me indulge my heat kink. I didn't know I had one, but let's face it, I have a tag for this. I mean, it's obviously there. Blame svmadelyn and transtempts; I was just fine until the pimping. God, I almost hate myself. Almost.
Warning: Incest and bloodplay.
Damon spent two years in New York before the war, watching the city grow slower as summer crept by, amused by the girls clutching smelling salts while complaining of the endless hours of daylight.
He could have told them about summers in the south; the slow, sticky heat that soaked into his skin for the length of every day; the hot, bald glare of the sun even as afternoon slid to evening, killing his appetite until he forgot how hunger felt; the endless nights twisted in sweat-soaked sheets until exhaustion finally drowned him in fitful slumber.
Katherine never sweats out the heat; he wonders if she misses it.
Dazedly, he gets to his feet, grabbing for the post of the bed as the room swims, searching out that faint brush of imagined air. The wide open windows boast curtains as still as the furniture, but there must be air somewhere. Anywhere.
The heat clings to his neck, thick and heavy from (blood) sweat, and holy God, there has to be somewhere cooler than this.
Stumbling into the dark hallway, Damon hesitates, waking up enough to wonder what he's doing; looking back at the mess of the bed (torn sheets), damp (bloody), and missing Katherine like an ache that pulses with the slow rhythm of his heart. He doesn't know why she left (he does). And he doesn't know where she went.
(He knows; he heard them. He hears her leave, her and her sharp-eyed maid clothed in only her shift and a thousand secrets. He watches her leave Stefan's room, tumbled hair over skin like milk and eyes filled with laughter. She looks at him for a moment, red-lipped mouth curved in a mocking smile: No rules.)
There are always rules; there's no other way to break them.
For a moment, he thinks he'll walk down the stairs; the gardens are cool this time of night. Wander among the chrysanthemums and his mother's daisies, fall asleep in the gazebo as he had as child, listening to the sounds of the river far below its banks; it's been too long since there's been rain.
Katherine's door is closed; there's no reason he should still hear her voice, breathless and cool against his ear, urging him farther down the hall.
He slips between rugs, the polished hardwood as slick as glass. Fingers brush the rough brocade wall, stubby and interesting against his fingers. Then he's leaning against his brother's door, and Stefan is stretched out in yards of stained summer cotton, exhausted and blank-eyed and sticky (bloody) from the heat.
Rules are for other people, she tells him, cool little hand on his back. Such scruples from one who fights in wars and walks from battlefields stained in the blood of other men.
Too slowly, Stefan's head turns; for a second, Damon finds himself staring at the bloody mess she's made of his neck. Don't you want to? You and I, and he and I, and all three together, all forever.
Stefan shakes his head; her voice drifts away, and Damon wonders again what he's doing here. "Damon?"
Damon lets the door take his weight. "It's too hot."
Stefan shifts languorously, pushing himself up on an elbow, eyes going to the window. The curtain shifts, almost as if by will, and Damon finds himself following the brush of chill air, like a New York winter when he wrapped himself in a dozen layers and watched the fainting girls of summer throw snowballs at each other in cold-dead gardens before they remembered they had grown up.
He finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed, and for an endless moment, the fantasy of a breeze is enough to make him believe that's all he's going to do. They can't talk about this we will go on as we always have but she never said they couldn't do.
You can do whatever you want, she says against his ear, and he thinks that now he believes her.
"Damon?"
The brush of fingers against his throat are shockingly good; Damon hisses, the pads of Stefan's fingers scraping against the still-open wound before pulling away, surprised.
"What--" Stefan lets it trail off, licking his lips, eyes wide and knowing. Lazily, Damon reaches for the retreating hand, wrapping his fingers around Stefan's narrow wrist you're not afraid, and while that's a lie, right now, it can be true. Stefan watches him when Damon draws the wet fingers into his mouth, tasting his own blood, wondering how this must taste to Katherine.
"Oh," Stefan whispers, and Damon turns, pulling until Stefan is close enough to kiss.
He tastes like Katherine, sweet-salty, the heat between her legs where she'd been wet, wetter still when she left Damon's bed. She came to Stefan like that, thighs still slick with him, and Damon chases her in Stefan's mouth, wondering if Stefan had tasted him in her body.
Too-long before Stefan pulls away, pink swollen mouth in a shocked O; Damon watches him long enough to know it's not rejection, then eases him back into the body-hot sheets, licking his mouth open while pressing a thumb against the open wound from Katherine's teeth.
Stefan moans, pushing helplessly against his thigh, breathing please against his lips before Damon draws away, pulling his thumb from the wound to lick away the taste, curious. It's different from his own, sweet-edged and slick against his tongue.
"You're not afraid," Stefan breathes; Damon shakes his head dreamily as Stefan's fingers slide into his hair and says, "No."
Such a mess she left behind, and not only here; he can smell it on the sheets mixed with sweat, and farther down as well. Easing onto his knees, Damon looks at the debauched sprawl of his brother and licks his lips clean.
"Where else?"
In answer, Stefan spreads his thighs, golden-skinned and muscled from years of riding, and Damon eases a hand beneath his knee, finding her teeth in the soft, pale skin of his inner thigh, dripping red-black into the sheets.
Her scent is stronger here, and Damon licks it away, damp to the join of hip and thigh, nosing the brown hair until he finds the third, buried in the soft crease of flesh, still fresh enough to suck. Stefan shivers, hips jerking, but Damon gentles him with a palm to the flat belly, skin slick with sweat.
"Please," Stefan breathes as Damon lifts his head. Long fingers bury themselves in his hair, drawing him back up miles of golden skin, and when he kisses Stefan this time, he tastes of himself, copper-edged and honey-sweet. Damon pulls back with a gasp, scraping the wound on his own neck until the blood runs sluggish and thick, dripping through fingers that he feeds to Stefan until he tastes like Damon and no one else.
Thrusting into the hollow of Stefan's hip, Damon shudders at the stuttered scrape of fingernails down his back, the slick slide of their bodies together, Stefan's broken gasps whenever Damon permits him a breath. He comes with his tongue buried in Stefan's mouth and Katherine's breathless laugh in his ear.
You will not tell anyone. Even themselves.
The morning is as heat-soaked as the night before. When Damon sits down for breakfast with an aching head like he'd drank the night away instead of merely suffered it, he's hungrier than he can ever remember being, and everything tastes of copper.
Author: Seperis
Fandom: The Vampire Diaries (television)
Codes: Damon/Stefan (Damon/Katherine, Stefan/Katherine)
Spoilers: 1.06 - Lost Girls
Rating: NC-17
Summary: There are always rules; there's no other way to break them.
Author Notes: Thank you for a fandom that lets me indulge my heat kink. I didn't know I had one, but let's face it, I have a tag for this. I mean, it's obviously there. Blame svmadelyn and transtempts; I was just fine until the pimping. God, I almost hate myself. Almost.
Warning: Incest and bloodplay.
Damon spent two years in New York before the war, watching the city grow slower as summer crept by, amused by the girls clutching smelling salts while complaining of the endless hours of daylight.
He could have told them about summers in the south; the slow, sticky heat that soaked into his skin for the length of every day; the hot, bald glare of the sun even as afternoon slid to evening, killing his appetite until he forgot how hunger felt; the endless nights twisted in sweat-soaked sheets until exhaustion finally drowned him in fitful slumber.
Katherine never sweats out the heat; he wonders if she misses it.
Dazedly, he gets to his feet, grabbing for the post of the bed as the room swims, searching out that faint brush of imagined air. The wide open windows boast curtains as still as the furniture, but there must be air somewhere. Anywhere.
The heat clings to his neck, thick and heavy from (blood) sweat, and holy God, there has to be somewhere cooler than this.
Stumbling into the dark hallway, Damon hesitates, waking up enough to wonder what he's doing; looking back at the mess of the bed (torn sheets), damp (bloody), and missing Katherine like an ache that pulses with the slow rhythm of his heart. He doesn't know why she left (he does). And he doesn't know where she went.
(He knows; he heard them. He hears her leave, her and her sharp-eyed maid clothed in only her shift and a thousand secrets. He watches her leave Stefan's room, tumbled hair over skin like milk and eyes filled with laughter. She looks at him for a moment, red-lipped mouth curved in a mocking smile: No rules.)
There are always rules; there's no other way to break them.
For a moment, he thinks he'll walk down the stairs; the gardens are cool this time of night. Wander among the chrysanthemums and his mother's daisies, fall asleep in the gazebo as he had as child, listening to the sounds of the river far below its banks; it's been too long since there's been rain.
Katherine's door is closed; there's no reason he should still hear her voice, breathless and cool against his ear, urging him farther down the hall.
He slips between rugs, the polished hardwood as slick as glass. Fingers brush the rough brocade wall, stubby and interesting against his fingers. Then he's leaning against his brother's door, and Stefan is stretched out in yards of stained summer cotton, exhausted and blank-eyed and sticky (bloody) from the heat.
Rules are for other people, she tells him, cool little hand on his back. Such scruples from one who fights in wars and walks from battlefields stained in the blood of other men.
Too slowly, Stefan's head turns; for a second, Damon finds himself staring at the bloody mess she's made of his neck. Don't you want to? You and I, and he and I, and all three together, all forever.
Stefan shakes his head; her voice drifts away, and Damon wonders again what he's doing here. "Damon?"
Damon lets the door take his weight. "It's too hot."
Stefan shifts languorously, pushing himself up on an elbow, eyes going to the window. The curtain shifts, almost as if by will, and Damon finds himself following the brush of chill air, like a New York winter when he wrapped himself in a dozen layers and watched the fainting girls of summer throw snowballs at each other in cold-dead gardens before they remembered they had grown up.
He finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed, and for an endless moment, the fantasy of a breeze is enough to make him believe that's all he's going to do. They can't talk about this we will go on as we always have but she never said they couldn't do.
You can do whatever you want, she says against his ear, and he thinks that now he believes her.
"Damon?"
The brush of fingers against his throat are shockingly good; Damon hisses, the pads of Stefan's fingers scraping against the still-open wound before pulling away, surprised.
"What--" Stefan lets it trail off, licking his lips, eyes wide and knowing. Lazily, Damon reaches for the retreating hand, wrapping his fingers around Stefan's narrow wrist you're not afraid, and while that's a lie, right now, it can be true. Stefan watches him when Damon draws the wet fingers into his mouth, tasting his own blood, wondering how this must taste to Katherine.
"Oh," Stefan whispers, and Damon turns, pulling until Stefan is close enough to kiss.
He tastes like Katherine, sweet-salty, the heat between her legs where she'd been wet, wetter still when she left Damon's bed. She came to Stefan like that, thighs still slick with him, and Damon chases her in Stefan's mouth, wondering if Stefan had tasted him in her body.
Too-long before Stefan pulls away, pink swollen mouth in a shocked O; Damon watches him long enough to know it's not rejection, then eases him back into the body-hot sheets, licking his mouth open while pressing a thumb against the open wound from Katherine's teeth.
Stefan moans, pushing helplessly against his thigh, breathing please against his lips before Damon draws away, pulling his thumb from the wound to lick away the taste, curious. It's different from his own, sweet-edged and slick against his tongue.
"You're not afraid," Stefan breathes; Damon shakes his head dreamily as Stefan's fingers slide into his hair and says, "No."
Such a mess she left behind, and not only here; he can smell it on the sheets mixed with sweat, and farther down as well. Easing onto his knees, Damon looks at the debauched sprawl of his brother and licks his lips clean.
"Where else?"
In answer, Stefan spreads his thighs, golden-skinned and muscled from years of riding, and Damon eases a hand beneath his knee, finding her teeth in the soft, pale skin of his inner thigh, dripping red-black into the sheets.
Her scent is stronger here, and Damon licks it away, damp to the join of hip and thigh, nosing the brown hair until he finds the third, buried in the soft crease of flesh, still fresh enough to suck. Stefan shivers, hips jerking, but Damon gentles him with a palm to the flat belly, skin slick with sweat.
"Please," Stefan breathes as Damon lifts his head. Long fingers bury themselves in his hair, drawing him back up miles of golden skin, and when he kisses Stefan this time, he tastes of himself, copper-edged and honey-sweet. Damon pulls back with a gasp, scraping the wound on his own neck until the blood runs sluggish and thick, dripping through fingers that he feeds to Stefan until he tastes like Damon and no one else.
Thrusting into the hollow of Stefan's hip, Damon shudders at the stuttered scrape of fingernails down his back, the slick slide of their bodies together, Stefan's broken gasps whenever Damon permits him a breath. He comes with his tongue buried in Stefan's mouth and Katherine's breathless laugh in his ear.
You will not tell anyone. Even themselves.
The morning is as heat-soaked as the night before. When Damon sits down for breakfast with an aching head like he'd drank the night away instead of merely suffered it, he's hungrier than he can ever remember being, and everything tastes of copper.