title: the blower's daughter
rating: hard r
excerpt: sometimes she says his name.
warnings: I hate the world rn, which as everyone knows is the best time to write d/e.
a/n: written for upupa_epops and petitebelette because they wanted d/e porn and you know, who am i to refuse? andcranmers, ofc I'll reply asap because barney stinson hath spoken ;)
disclaimer: disclaimed. image source
He touches the small mole on the skin over her hip-bone, and thinks it's odd that it's possibly always been there; just below the waistband of her jeans, just out of the line of his hungry sight. It intrigues him.
"Katherine," she says suddenly, or maybe she's been speaking all this while and he's been so caught up in his worship, he hasn't even been listening, "does she look like me...like this?" naked
He thinks for a while, tries to recreate Katherine's image in his head, which, when he's actually thinking again, he'll think is ridiculous, because, hello. But, in this moment, he can't seem to remember her face.
"No." he says definitively, after a few moments. Nobody can possibly look like her.
It starts like this:
(He tries to pin it down, he really does, but he loses count whenever it's her skin under his groping hands and every single time is just the first, and every single time can be the last.)
Sometimes she says his name, sometimes she says his brother's.
He doesn't mind either way, he realizes, because he's concentrating on the sound; the broken spaces between each letter of whoever's name it is this time, the hitched breath which makes the 'a' inaudible, the stifled cry in the second syllable of either name, the clenching of her teeth over the last 'n'.
there stefan, please. damon, that's so. don't stop. stay this way forever. i need to. stefan. damon. stefandamonstefdamohgod.
Days like these he’s sure he wants to sink his teeth in her, draw out all color, break her neck maybe, keep her with him forever. He settles for his tongue inside her. It feels just as good.
Okay, she says, okay.
They’re not symbolic or anything, he wants to shrug. She lets him shove his fingers inside her
every morning afternoon night, but give the girl some flowers and she freaks.
She’s still staring down, like she can’t believe them, and seriously, okay, so he’s pathetic, how is this a surprise?
They’re…nice, she says finally, and smiles up at him, and she’s lying and she thinks this is more than she’s willing to give and he thinks he fell in love over.
The twenty-fifth time he falls in love with her (he doesn’t actually keep count, he makes up numbers in his head each time because whatever, he may be pathetic, but he’s still not Stefan.) she’s not even doing anything, and it sort of goes against all laws of nature. And hey, he goes against all laws of nature, so it totally works out somehow.
She’s sitting on her window-sill and writing in her diary, and he doesn't snatch it, he doesn’t think he wants to rip her clothes off, he doesn’t say anything dirty (these days she doesn’t blush and pretend she didn't hear, these days she listens, sometimes does what he’s suggesting and it’s the hottest experience of his life), he thinks something like that green shirt brings out the color in her eyes.
He should probably go home and write in a diary now, because, oh fuck, he is Stefan.
“Leave them on” he says, and she stops, her fingers still splayed across the strap of those ridiculously high heels.
She leaves them on.
When he wakes up, she’s sitting there in those same heels and okay, so it’s not his dreams literally altering his reality, it’s just that he fell asleep after the Town Event from Hell (they’re all from hell, how does this town not get that), which she ran away from, he remembers and told him to stay away, Damon, okay.
He stayed away, she didn’t. If he was keeping score, this would be a point for him. (He is keeping score; it’s his three to her thirty thousand five hundred and forty seven).
“Leave them on,” he says, sometime later and she looks up startled; she’s different from his dream because her hair isn’t falling over her breasts just so. And man, his dreams so need a reality-check, because this is better, which is just sad.
“What,” she says, and she heard, he knows, so now he knows the answer.
“Leave them on”, he says again, because sometimes he does things he doesn’t have to do.
“It sounds…weirdly kinky,” she says, and scrunches her face in thought and he doesn’t want the heels anymore, he just wants her face scrunched up in thought. He always wants exactly who she is at whichever moment she is it. That’s the oddest sentence he’s ever made up in his head.
It ends like this:
This one he knows. She goes to college and realizes that sleeping with vampires isn’t a viable career option and has shockingly low market value.
She grows older, he doesn’t.
god, she says, and he memorizes the inflection in all her letters, the arch of her back on his sheets, the look in her eyes, the curve of her breast, the dip of her hand, the sound of her heartbeat, what is with the brooding, come back here, okay.
Every single time can be the last, he knows, and every single time is just the first.
It starts like this: