Title: Dark Haired Beauty
Chapter Title: #17 Blood
Author: CynicalAuthoress
Fandom: Vampire Diaries (book series)
Rating: M
Pairing(s): Damon/Meredith, slight Damon/Elena
Summary: He feels it. She knows.
Warning(s): Possible: Gore, Violence, Strong Language, Sexual Situations
Notes: 748 words. Just a drabble.
Spoilers for Shadow Souls.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the poorly written configuration in which these characters dance.
–
He doesn't bother to tell her how she tastes, or remind her how much trust one single act could develop into. He doesn't tell her that Bonnie stays within close distance of the door, listening in and sighing every few minutes, clearly fantasizing about what would go on behind closed doors with him, Damon Salvatore.
As weak as he is, he finds it amusing in the only way he can. He has to, because it's either find it amusing or horrifying and Damon is much too old - much too wise to what will occur after all of this is over, when the dust has settled. So, he finds it amusing. He can push past the cloud of hope and delusion, much like a hand wafts through smoke, unable to keep it in place.
He sees conflict past this small gesture. He sees it everywhere.
He doesn't tell her any of this. Partly, because he's Damon Salvatore and, as much as he's bled his heart onto the floor for Elena Gilbert, that means the others – no matter how relevant they prove themselves – aren't allowed inside his head. He also doesn't tell her this because, as he's seen, she already knows.
The moment his fangs sink into her neck, he feels it.
She knows.
Those dark eyes, so knowing and secretive, keep thoughts enticingly closed, a gargantuan wall filled with memories and speculation and it's much too tempting to scale it without permission. He barely resists. When he feels the mind of his victims, it's always the practical, sensible thoughts cornered by dark, guileless ones. In her mind, it isn't war between the two; they are the same, and it fills him.
The images in her mind become sharper, distinct when she tenses, appropriately, with shock. He can sense the alarm and marvel and automatic backpedal that human instinct demands for. It takes every nerve in her body to stay down and relax as much as she can, and he puts a supporting hand around her neck to help ease the tension of her muscles. The energy he sends to pacify her isn't a small measure, but she doesn't make him work long before she's composed herself - like always - and her mind is the same walled up palace that makes him both intrigued and dissatisfied.
He focuses, for the moment, on the way her blood flows down his throat, and he won't deny that it's some of the best he's ever tasted. It's nothing like Elena's heady elements of the supernatural – it's not as strong as hers, nor as sweet or as potent - but it's the very essence of human, and it's ambrosial with that sense of composure she lets slip, even if it's momentary.
The thought that pops into her head – the one she can't control her inner wit for – is that, years ago, if someone had told her she'd fight enchanted trees, travel to a hell dimension, and, at the end of it all, willingly offer her blood to a vampire, she would have checked that person into the nearest hospital because that...that was absolutely insane. And she'd seen a lot of insanity.
You volunteered for this, Meredith, he sends back flatly.
Oddly enough, he's tried to be as accommodating as possible. If she didn't want this, she shouldn't have offered.
That doesn't mean it's not crazy. She responds coolly. Meredith has the gist of this telepathic connection; she's calm enough to conceal most thoughts, but just barely enough at ease to send him the ones she wants him to hear. Or that it's enjoyable.
Are you asking for enjoyment? He leers or, at least, he would if his teeth weren't at her throat.
I think I've had my fill this evening, Meredith quips, but it's throwback in itself.
He doesn't respond quickly but he can feel her heart slowing just a fragment and, taking his time, pulls away.
He's not nearly full, but he's grateful, not letting a drop spill from his lips.
Meredith has her eyes closed and she's breathing steadily and, though he can see she wants to, she resists putting her hand to the wound. He can hear her pulse just as steady as her breathing. It doesn't surprise him when she looks straight into his eyes and nods, practical and sensible.
And, all of the sudden, he's torn between ripping her throat out and kissing her.
His lips meet hers without resistance.
He feels it.
She knows.