Damon hates him sometimes, this child with the eyes like mother’s. He stole her eyes. Shut hers by opening his.
“Will you tell me a story tonight, Damon? Please?”
(“Will you tell me a story tonight, mother? Please”)
He refuses. Tells it anyway.
“Did she die?” his brother asks later, eyes wide, lower lip caught on a tremble, innocence at the tips of his clasped hands, “that lady in your story. Did she die, Damon?”
“No,” he says, looks at his brother, looks into his mother’s eyes, “she lived.”
“I think Miss Clarissa likes you,” Stefan says confidentially, standing a little taller at the thought of being able to talk about girls with his older brother, “she keeps looking over at our table.”
He glances at her; the marks of his lips might be hidden behind cloth this morning, but she’s still dirty, used.
"Good morning, Miss Lockwood, fine day we're having," he tips off his hat as he passes her by, watch her face fall.
He doesn’t make the same mistake over.
“Never fall in love,” he tells Stefan, turns away from her gaze, which speaks of the fatal mistake he shall never make, “there is only one rule in this world, brother; never fall in love.”
Traitor, his father will say. You are no son of mine, his father will say.
He bows down before the body of a man he ate with once, tries to remember the words of the prayers he used to know by heart. Leaves them incomplete.
Walks away from the blood.
Her dark hair spills over her breasts, laughing eyes staring straight into his. He could paint her like this, he thinks sometimes. We don’t worship idols, his father would say.
“Are you afraid, Mr. Salvatore?” she asks, naked skin covering his. Maybe it’s easier in the dark when she doesn’t have to see his face, when his name could be his brother’s.
“Are you,” he breathes, “are you afraid, Miss Pierce?”
She smiles widely, moonlight bathing the veins under her eyes, “sometimes. When I think of your brother.”
He stops, still inside her, “and when you think of me?”
She bends down, catches the blood dripping down the side of his neck at the tip of her tongue, “then I am not afraid anymore.”
He thrusts his hips upward then, satisfied. Stefan has everything, but this is something he shall never have.
days weeks years decades a century later he’ll understand what she means).
He bites her sometimes, teeth drawing blood, tongue recoiling at the taste.
“Damon,” she whispers, eyes glazed over with lust, open, inviting, “my sweet, innocent Damon.”
My, he thinks, hers.
(The scars on her body fade away as soon as he leaves them. His stay).
This is how it ends.
(he loses his innocence with his brother watching and the blood of a girl no one shall ever remember sliding down his throat.)
“You can wait for Stefan here, if you want.”
She smiles up at him; it’s all wrong, not provocative enough, not Katherine enough, “if you don’t mind.”
“Mind time alone with a pretty girl,” he shrugs, sitting beside her, “are you crazy?”
She laughs again, self-consciously tucks her hair behind her ears (no he wants to say, leave them loose). The smell of her arousal hits him then. He hasn’t touched her. Doesn’t need to. Won't. Not this copy with the wrong smile, hair, smell.
“I’m sorry, I’m staring.”
She almost stole the sound of her laughter from someone else. Almost, not quite, “you aren’t,” she says, amends, “okay, maybe just a little.”
"You're beautiful," lowers his voice, turns on the charm, "and I'm an artist. It's a given, really."
can't doesn't look up at him again. He fills the silence with her racing heartbeat.
‘You remind me of someone I used to know’, he’ll tell her later when she's leaving with Stefan. Flirt outrageously, make her lower her eyes. Bite her lip. Look back once.
Mock his brother silently for breaking it, for forgetting.
There is only one rule, brother.
(He doesn’t make the same mistake over)
[Ugh, stupid writer's block, I just can't seem to be able to write anything these days D: I so want to do the holiday fic requests thing but I know myself well enough to know I'll never actually do it on the dates. /sigh]